“I simply say it’s not elegant,” replied Markwart of Stolberg. “Everybody knows you, m’lord. You and your sword.”

“What then?” snorted the brigand. “Am I to dress as a wench, like Lancelot of the Lake did, so as not to be recognised? I said I know my rights. And they know them, this gang of shitheads with shaking calves.”

The Raubritters murmured. Reynevan saw fury drain the blood from Kottwitz’s face and heard Wencel of Hartha gnashing his teeth. Otto of Glaubitz seized his sword hilt and made a movement as though he were about to step forward, but Jaśko of Łubnia grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “No one has ever crossed swords with him and lived.”

Hayn of Czirne brandished his great sword again and paraded back and forth, spurs clanking.

“Well, fart-churners?” he thundered. “Will no one step forward? Do you know what I think you are? I think you’re wankers! Will anyone challenge me? Will anyone dare to call me a liar? What, no one? Then all of you, to the last man, are twats and fuck-faces. And a general shame to the knighthood!”

The knight-robbers murmured louder and louder, but Hayn appeared not to notice it.

“I see only one man among you,” he continued, pointing, “Bożywoj of Lossow over there. Indeed, I cannot comprehend what he is doing among a gathering of such cunts. He must have gone to the dogs himself, urgh, shame and disgrace.”

Lossow straightened up, crossed his arms over the lynx emblazoned on his chest and stared back fearlessly with a steady gaze. His calm clearly infuriated Hayn of Czirne. The brigand flushed and stood with arms spread wide.

“Goat shaggers!” he roared. “Arseholes! I’m challenging you. Can you hear me, shitty-britches? Who will face me? On foot or mounted, right now, right here, on this field! With sword or battleaxe, choose your weapons! Perhaps you, Hugo of Kottwitz? Or you, Rymbaba, you shit?”

Paszko Rymbaba leaned over and seized his sword, baring his teeth under his moustaches. Woldan of Osiny grabbed his shoulder and sat him back down with a powerful hand.

“Don’t be a fool,” he hissed. “Do you have a death wish? No one can match him.”

Hayn of Czirne chuckled as though he had heard. “Will no one come forward? Is no one brave enough? As I thought! Cowards, the lot of you.”

“Well, fuck you!” yelled Ekkehard of Sulz, suddenly stepping forward. “Big mouth! Dickhead! Fart-face! Step onto the field!”

“I’m standing on it,” Hayn of Czirne replied calmly. “What arms will we choose?”

“This!” said Sulz, raising a handgonne. “You’re proud, Czirne, for you’re a decent swordsman and worthy axeman. But the new is coming—this is the modern world! Equal chances! Let’s shoot at each other!”