If Konrad Kantner, with his oval face made longer by a deeply receding hairline, his black beard and the piercing eyes of a monk, did not overly resemble a typical member of the dynasty, his daughter Agnieszka was a veritable chip off the Silesian–Mazovian block. The princess had the flaxen hair, bright eyes and small, blithe retroussé nose of a Piast, immortalised by the now famous sculpture in Naumburg Cathedral. Agnieszka, Reynevan quickly calculated, was around fifteen, so must already be promised in marriage. Reynevan couldn’t recall the rumours as to whom.

“Stand up.”

He stood up.

“Know,” said the duke, fixing him with forbidding eyes, “that I do not approve of your deed. In fact, I consider it ignoble, reprehensible and opprobrious, and frankly advise remorse and penance, Reinmar of Bielawa. My chaplain assures me that there is a special enclave for adulterers in Hell. The devils sorely vex the miscreants’ instruments of sin. I shall forego the details owing to the presence of the maid.”

Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz snorted angrily. Reynevan said nothing.

“How you will make amends to Gelfrad of Stercza is a matter for you and him,” continued Kantner. “It is not for me to interfere in this issue, particularly since you are both vassals of Duke Jan of Ziębice. I ought to simply wash my hands of the matter and send you to him.”

Reynevan swallowed.

“But,” continued the duke after a moment of dramatic silence, “out of respect for your father, who laid down his life at Tannenberg at my brother’s side, I shall not allow you to be murdered as part of a foolish family feud. It is high time we put an end to such feuds and live as befits Europeans. You may journey with my entourage all the way to Wrocław. But stay out of my gaze, for the sight of you does not please me.”

“Your Ducal—”

“I said begone.”

The hunt was definitely over. The falcons were hooded, the mallards and herons they had caught already hanging from the bars of the wagon. The duke was content, his entourage, too, because the potentially interminable hunt had been brief. Reynevan noticed several clearly grateful glances—the rumour had already spread through the retinue that the duke had curtailed the hunt and resumed the journey because of him. That probably wasn’t the only rumour doing the rounds, and his ears burned as though all eyes were on him.

“Everyone,” grunted Benno Ebersbach, who was riding alongside him, “knows everything…”

“Everyone, yes,” confirmed Henryk Krompusz, quite sadly. “But, fortunately for you, not everything.”

“Eh?”