Tristram of Rachenau immediately understood the allusion and gave Reynevan a powerful punch to the back of the neck as Henryk of Baruth weighed in from the other side. Seeing that Duke Jan wasn’t reacting, that he was looking elsewhere stony-faced, others leaped forward, including a Seidlitz or Kurzbach with fishes on a red field. Reynevan was punched in the eye socket and the world vanished in a great flash. He cowered beneath a hail of blows. Someone else joined in and Reynevan fell to his knees, struck on the arm with a club. He shielded his head and the club whacked him painfully over the fingers. He was hit hard in the kidneys and fell to the ground. As the kicks began to rain down, he curled up in a ball, protecting his head and stomach.

“Stop! Enough! Stop that at once!”

The kicks and blows ceased. Reynevan opened one eye.

Salvation came from the least expected quarter. His tormentors had been restrained by the menacing, dry, harsh voice and orders of a bony, elderly woman in a black dress and white wimple under a stiffly starched pillbox hat. Reynevan knew who it was. Euphemia, Duke Jan’s older sister, the widow of Friedrich, Count of Oettingen, who had returned to her native Ziębice after her husband’s death.

“In the Europe I know,” said Countess Euphemia, “a man is not kicked when he is down. None of the European dukes I know would permit that, my noble brother.”

“He is culpable,” began Duke Jan. “Wherefore—”

“I know of what he is culpable,” the countess interrupted him dryly. “I hereby take him under my protection. Mercy des dames. For, I flatter myself, my knowledge of European tournament customs is no worse than that of the spouse of Lord Stercza present here.”

The last words were spoken with such emphasis and so scathingly that Duke Jan lowered his eyes and blushed all the way up his shaved nape. Adèle didn’t lower her gaze, revealing not a trace of embarrassment, while the hatred emanating from her eyes was terrifying. But not to Countess Euphemia. Euphemia, rumour had it, had coped quickly and adroitly with Count Friedrich’s lovers in Swabia. She didn’t fear others; others feared her.

“M’Lord Marshal of the Court Borschnitz,” she said, beckoning imperiously. “Please take Reinmar of Bielawa into custody. You will answer for him to me. With your head.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Don’t be hasty, noble sister,” said Jan of Ziębice. “I know what mercy des dames means, but this is too important an accusation. The charges against this young man are too grave. Murder, black magic—”

“He will be held under arrest,” Euphemia cut him off. “In the tower. Under the guard of Master Borschnitz. He will appear in court if anybody accuses him. I mean of anything serious.”