Reynevan, who was almost hanging from the knotted rope, stopped.

“I’m in no danger now,” he assured him. “But you take heed. People are burned at the stake for what you were reading.”

The goliard drew closer, so the slit with moonlight shining through it lit up his face. “There are things worth risking your life for. You are well aware of that, Master Reynevan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, you know well enough.”

“I know you,” gasped Reynevan. “I’ve seen you before—”

“You have, m’lord, at your brother’s home in Powojowice. But better not talk about it. Garrulousness is a perilous foible nowadays. ‘Many a man has cut his own throat with his own flapping tongue,’ as—”

“Urban Horn says,” Reynevan completed the sentence, surprising himself with his own shrewdness.

“Ssh,” hissed the goliard. “Careful with that name, m’lord.”

The Sterczas had indeed fled the settlement in a strange panic, as though the Devil were on their heels. That sight improved Reynevan’s mood a great deal. But when he saw who they were running from, it all made sense.

A man with a square jaw and shoulders as wide as a cathedral door, dressed in a sumptuous and richly gilded suit of Milanese armour, rode at the head of a troop of knights and mounted bowmen. The knight’s horse, huge and black, was also armoured, its face protected by a chanfron, its neck by a criniere made of lames.

Reynevan mingled among the Kromolin Raubritters, who meanwhile had swarmed out into the yard. No one apart from Samson noticed him or paid him any attention. Scharley was nowhere to be seen. The Raubritters were buzzing around like a swarm of wasps.

Two men flanked the knight in Milanese armour: a helmetless youngster as pretty as a maiden, and a swarthy beanpole with sunken cheeks. They were both wearing full plate armour and riding fully armoured mounts.

“Hayn of Czirne,” said Otto of Glaubitz in admiration. “Do you see that Milanese armour he’s wearing? By the Devil, it’s easily worth forty grzywna.”

“The youngster on the left is Fryczko of Nostitz,” panted Wencel of Hartha. “And the one on the right is Vitelozzo Gaetani, an Italian…”

Reynevan gasped slightly. All around, similar gasps, puffs and soft oaths could be heard, testifying that not only he had been shocked by the appearance of one of the most famous and feared Silesian Raubritters. Hayn of Czirne, Lord of Nimmersatt Castle, enjoyed the worst possible reputation, and his name not only aroused terror in merchants and peaceful folk, but also begrudging respect in his fellow bandits.

Meanwhile, Hayn of Czirne had stopped his horse before the senior knights. He dismounted and walked over, spurs jingling and armour clanking.

“Lord Stolberg,” he said in a deep bass. “Lord Barnhelm.”

“Lord Czirne.”