Zawisza reined in his stallion a little, raised himself in the saddle again and farted. Frightened jackdaws took flight from roadside willows. Garbów’s retinue, consisting of a grizzled esquire and four armed servants, maintained a prudent distance some way back. Both the esquire and the servants had splendid mounts and their costumes were rich and spotless, as befitted the retainers of the Starosta of Kruszwica and Spiš who was said to collect rent from around thirty villages. However, neither the esquire nor the servants looked like sleek, lordly pages. On the contrary, they looked like cruel killers, and the weapons they carried were no parade-ground trinkets.

“So if you are not taking umbrage,” Zawisza went on, “why, then, are you so silent?”

“Because it appears,” Reynevan plucked up the courage, “that you are more offended by me than I by you. And I know why.”

Zawisza the Black turned in his saddle and looked long at him. “Thus speaks sorrowfully wronged innocence,” he said at last. “Know this, son, it is foolish to bed other men’s wives, and I consider it a base practice worthy of punishment. Frankly speaking, in my eyes, you are no better than a cutpurse or a chicken thief. Worse, even, for the latter are but wretched knaves who have seized an opportunity out of desperation.”

Reynevan made no comment.

“Ages ago, it was customary in Poland,” Zawisza the Black continued, “for a seducer of other men’s wives to be taken to a bridge and his ball-sack fastened to it with an iron hobnail. And a knife was laid beside him. ‘You wish for freedom? Then cut yourself free.’”

Reynevan didn’t comment this time, either.

“It is no longer practised,” the knight admitted, “and that’s a pity. My Lady Barbara is by no means flighty, but when I think that a dandy, a pretty boy like you, lad, might take advantage of her in Krakow in a moment of weakness… what can I say?”

The ensuing lengthy silence was again interrupted by the cabbage the knight had consumed.

“Aaaye.” Zawisza grunted with relief and looked up at the sky. “But know that I do not condemn you, laddie, for let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And having summed it up thus, let us talk no more about it.”

“Love is a wonderful thing and has many names,” said Reynevan, a little pretentiously. “After hearing songs and romances, no one carps about Tristan and Isolde or Lancelot and Guinevere. But a no less great, impassioned or sincere love binds Adèle and me together. And damn it, everybody seems to have it in for me—”