“I beg forgiveness,” said Reynevan, bowing, feeling his cheeks burning. “I was following her, for I… By mistake. I ask for your forgiveness. I shall also, if you permit, ask for hers on my knees—”

“Don’t kneel,” the knight interrupted. “Stay away from her. She is anxious. Shy. But a good child. I’m taking her to Bardo—”

“To the convent?”

“Why do you think that?” The knight frowned.

“For you both look most devout.” The goliard stepped in to save Reynevan from getting himself into more trouble.

Sir Hartwig of Stietencron leaned over from the saddle, hawked and spat, not at all devoutly and not at all chivalrously.

“Stay away from my daughter, Lord Hagenau,” he repeated. “Completely and always. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Very well. Good day.”

After about an hour’s drive, the wagon got stuck in the mud, and the joint strength of all the foot travellers was required to pull it out. Naturally, neither the nobility—meaning Reynevan and Sir Hartwig—nor culture and art—represented by Tybald Raabe—stooped to manual labour. The incident made the beaver-furred tax collector extremely anxious and he ran around, cursing and issuing commands, looking around at the forest apprehensively. He had clearly noticed Reynevan watching him, for as soon as the conveyance was freed and the party set off, he considered it necessary to explain a few things.

“You should know that the load I’m transporting isn’t just any old load,” he began, after riding his horse between Reynevan and the goliard.

Reynevan didn’t comment. In any case, he knew only too well why the man was so concerned.

“I wouldn’t reveal it to anyone else,” the tax collector said, lowering his voice and looking around somewhat timidly, “but you’re a nobleman, after all, from an honest family, with an honest look in your eyes. So I’ll tell you, m’lord—we’re carrying taxes.”

He paused again, waiting for a display of curiosity which was not forthcoming.

“A tax, passed by the Frankfurt Reichstag,” he continued. “A special tax, levied in one payment, for the war against Czech heresy. Every man pays according to his wealth. A knight pays five guilders, a baron ten and clergymen five out of every hundred of their annual stipend. Do you see?”

“I do.”

“The coffer’s pretty full, too, for in Ziębice I received funds not just from some minor baron, but from the Fugger family. It ought not to surprise you that I’m cautious—barely a week has passed since I was attacked. Not far from Rychbach, near the village of Lutom.”

Reynevan simply nodded.