Reynevan swallowed. It was definitely a day for renewing old friendships. For the man who called was the goliard he had met in the Raubritter’s Kromolin hideout, the same one who had read the Hussite manifesto and later hidden in the cheese store with Reynevan; middle-aged, wearing a jerkin with a serrated edge and a red long-tailed cowl with curly locks of grizzled hair peeping out from under it.

“I know this youngster very well,” he said, riding over. “He’s from a noble family. His name is… Reinmar of Hagenau.”

“Perhaps a descendant of the famous poet?” asked the tax collector, his features softening somewhat.

“No.”

“But why is he pursuing us? Is he tracking us? Eh?”

“Tracking us?” The goliard snorted. “Are you blind? Why, he rode out of the forest! Were he pursuing us, he would have been riding along the track, following our trail.”

“That makes sense. And you know each other, you say?”

“As sure as eggs is eggs,” the goliard confirmed cheerfully. “After all, I know his name, and he mine. He knows I’m called Tybald Raabe. Go on, m’Lord Reinmar, what’s my name?”

“Tybald Raabe.”

“See?”

In the face of such irrefutable proof, the tax collector cleared his throat, adjusted his beaver calpac and ordered the soldiers to stand down.

“Forgive me, sir, I was overly cautious—but I must be vigilant!

I can’t say more than that. Well, Lord Hagenau, you may—”

“Ride with us,” the goliard finished cheerfully after sending Reynevan a slight wink. “We’re going to Bardo. Together. The more the merrier… and the safer.”

The procession moved slowly, the bumpy forest track limiting the wagon’s speed to one that the pedestrians—four pilgrims with staves and four Franciscans pulling a handcart—could easily match. All the pilgrims, to a man, had purple noses, empirically testifying to a love of strong drink and other sins of youth. The Franciscans were young.

“The pilgrims and Friars Minor are also headed for Bardo,” explained the goliard. “To the holy Figure on the Mount, you know, Our Lady of Bardo—”

“I know,” interrupted Reynevan, checking if anyone was listening, especially the tax collector, who was riding beside the black wagon. “I know, Master… Tybald Raabe. If, however, there’s something I don’t know—”

“Then that’s how it must be,” the goliard interjected. “Don’t ask unnecessary questions, m’Lord Reinmar. And be Hagenau, not Bielawa. That’ll be safer.”

“You were in Ziębice,” guessed Reynevan.

“I was. And I heard this and that… Enough to be amazed to see you here, in the Goleniowskie Forests, m’lord, because rumour had it you were imprisoned in the tower. Oh, what peccadilloes they attributed to you… How they gossiped… If I didn’t know you, m’lord—”

“But you do.”