“I treat you with kindness,” panted Paszko Rymbaba, standing astride him. “I treat you with kindness and you thump me in the ribs? In my broken ribs? You bastard!”

“Hey, you! Big fellow!”

Paszko turned around. And smiled in delight to see Katarzyna of Biberstein, the maiden he was fond of, to whom, he thought, he was already betrothed and with whom in his dreams he could already see himself coupled in the marriage bed. His dreams were a little premature, as it turned out.

His would-be fiancée jabbed him in the eye with the heel of her hand. As Paszko grabbed his face, the girl hoisted up her cotehardie for greater ease of movement and kicked him hard in the crotch. Her would-be fiancé curled up, breathed in with a whistle, then howled like a wolf and dropped to his knees, cupping the family jewels in both hands. Nicolette lifted her gown even higher, revealing a pair of shapely thighs, leaped up to kick him in the side of the head, then spun around and kicked him in the chest. Paszko Pakosławic Rymbaba pitched over onto the spiral staircase and tumbled down, head over heels.

Reynevan raised himself up to his knees. She stood over him, composed, not even breathing hard, breast barely heaving, with only her eyes, blazing like a leopard’s, betraying any excitement. She was pretending, he thought, only pretending to be afraid and intimidated. She hoodwinked everyone, myself included.

“What now, Aucassin?”

“Upstairs. Quickly, Nicolette.”

She ran, bounding up the stairs like a mountain goat. He could barely keep up with her. I’ll have to make a thorough appraisal of my views regarding the weakness of the fair sex, he thought.

Paszko Rymbaba tumbled all the way down to the bottom of the stairs and into the centre of the hall, almost under the table. He lay for a while, gasping for air like a carp in a net, then grunted, groaned and rocked his head back and forth, still holding his genitalia. Then he sat up.

There was no one in the hall, not counting Woldan’s body with the bear spear plunged into his chest and Hubert, grimacing in pain, cradling one arm—clearly fractured—to his belly. The squire met Rymbaba’s eyes and nodded towards the door leading to the courtyard. Needlessly, because Paszko had already heard the noise, shouts and regular thudding coming from that direction.

A terrified serving wench and boy looked into the hall, then fled as soon as they saw the knights. Paszko stood up, swore crudely, pulled down from the wall a large bardiche with a blackened blade and a shaft full of woodworm holes. For a while, he couldn’t make up his mind. Although he was seething with evil desire to wreak revenge on Biberstein’s beastly daughter, good sense told him he ought to help the comitiva.