Schoenfeld put his hands on his hips, glared at Wolfher and mumbled something indistinctly through his bandages.

“Eh?” Stercza leaned over from the saddle. “What did he say?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Samson calmly, “but I think it was something about fucking Judases.”

“I believe so, too,” confirmed Kuno of Wittram. “By the barrel of Saint Willibrord! We don’t like Judases here in Kromolin.”

Wolfher flushed and then paled, clenching his fist around the handle of a whip. Wittich moved his horse and Morold reached for his sword.

“I wouldn’t,” said Notker of Weyrach from the doorway of the tavern, flanked by Tassilo of Tresckow and Woldan of Osiny, with Rymbaba and Bożywoj of Lossow behind him. “I advise you not to start, gentlemen. For I swear by God that what you start, we shall finish.”

“They murdered my brother,” panted Reynevan, his eye still pressed to the hole in the wall of the cheese store. “Let’s hope they’ll start quarrelling. The Raubritters will cut them to pieces and Peterlin will be avenged.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

He turned around. The goliard’s eyes shone in the dark. What is he suggesting? wondered Reynevan. That I shouldn’t count on a quarrel or on revenge?

“I don’t want to fight,” said Wolfher of Stercza, softening his tone, “and I’m not looking for trouble. See how courteously I ask. The fellow I seek killed my brother and dishonoured my sister-in-law. It’s my right to seek justice—”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said Markwart of Stolberg, after the laughter had stopped. “It was a poor choice bringing your grievance to Kromolin. I advise you to seek justice elsewhere. In the courts, for example.”

Weyrach snorted and Bożywoj of Lossow roared with laughter. Wolfher paled, aware that they were mocking him, and Morold and Wittich gnashed their teeth in frustration. Wolfher opened and closed his mouth several times, but before he managed to say anything, Eagle Owl of Knobelsdorf galloped into the courtyard.

“Bastards.” Reynevan ground his teeth. “Why aren’t they being punished? Why won’t God flog them, send down an angel for them with a whip?”

“Who knows?” The goliard sighed in the cheesy darkness. “Who knows?”

Eagle Owl, angry and red in the face, rode over to Wolfher, said something quickly, then pointed towards the mill and the bridge. Few words were needed. The Stercza brothers spurred their mounts and galloped across the courtyard in the opposite direction, between the shacks, towards a ford across the river. Behind them raced Eagle Owl, Haxt and the sneezing Rotkirch, eyes fixed ahead.

“Good riddance!” Paszko Rymbaba spat after them.

“They smelled a rat!” said Woldan of Osiny, laughing dryly.

“A tiger.” Markwart of Stolberg corrected him knowingly. He had been standing closer and heard what Eagle Owl had said to Wolfher.

“I wouldn’t be going out just yet,” said the goliard from the darkness.