“Aye. And I’m kindly disposed to you. Which is why I say: ride with us. To Bardo… For God’s sake—don’t stare at her like that, m’lord! Isn’t it enough that you chased her around the forest?”

When the maid riding at the head of the party looked back for the first time, Reynevan gasped. In amazement. And astonishment. At mistaking such plainness for Nicolette. For Katarzyna of Biberstein.

Her hair was, true enough, almost identical in colour, as fair as straw, the frequent result in Silesia of mixing the blood of a fair-haired father from Germany and a fair-haired mother from Poland. But there the similarities ended. Nicolette had skin like alabaster, while the girl’s forehead and chin were dotted with pimples. Nicolette had eyes of cornflower blue, while the pimply girl’s were dull, watery and still goggling like a frog’s in terror. Her nose was too small and her lips too thin and pale. She had heard something about fashion and plucked her eyebrows, but with poor results; rather than looking fashionable, she looked idiotic. The impression was augmented by her costume—she was wearing a crude rabbit-fur cap and beneath her mantle a worn, grey gown of simple design made of poor, worn-out wool. Katarzyna of Biberstein probably dressed her serving girls better.

A plain Jane, thought Reynevan, a poor plain Jane. All she lacks is pockmarks. But she has that to look forward to.

The knight riding alongside the girl had already had the pox, the scars from which his short, grizzled beard couldn’t hide. The trappings of the bay he was riding were very frayed and his mail shirt dated back to the Battle of Legnica. A poor knight, thought Reynevan, like so many others. An impoverished vassus vassallorum. Delivering his daughter to a convent. Where else? Who would want a girl like her? Only the Poor Clares or Cistercians.

“Stop gaping at her, m’lord,” hissed the goliard. “It’s indecorous.”

It was indeed. Reynevan sighed and looked away, devoting all his attention to the oaks and hornbeams growing at the side of the road. But it was already too late.

The goliard swore softly as the knight in the Legnica mail shirt reined in his horse and waited for them to catch up. His expression was very serious and very grim. His head was raised proudly and he was resting his fist on his hip, right beside his sword hilt. Which was just as old-fashioned as his mail shirt.

“Sir Hartwig of Stietencron,” said Tybald Raabe after clearing his throat. “Sir Reinmar of Hagenau.”

Sir Hartwig of Stietencron scrutinised Reynevan for a moment, but contrary to expectations didn’t ask about his kinship with the famous poet.

“You frightened my daughter, my lord,” he announced haughtily, “by chasing after her.”