Indeed, they couldn’t complain of a lack of company, for the road was busy with traffic heading in the opposite direction, from Brzeg to Oleśnica. They’d already passed several merchants on heavily laden wagons cutting deep ruts, escorted by a dozen or more armed men with thuggish faces, and a column of pitch makers weighed down by full goatskins, their presence announced in advance of their arrival by the sharp smell of their wares. A knight rode by with a lady and a small retinue. His Bavarian armour was opulent, and the fork-tailed lion rampant on his shield declared his membership of the Unruh family. Recognising Zawisza’s coat of arms at once, the knight greeted him with a proud bow which clearly indicated that the Unruh didn’t consider themselves the Zawiszas’ inferiors. The knight’s companion, wearing a pale mauve dress, was riding side-saddle on a gorgeous dark bay mare. Surprisingly, she wore no headdress, and the wind was freely playing in her golden hair. As she rode alongside, the woman raised her head, smiled delicately and granted Reynevan, who was staring at her, such an intense come-hither look that the young man trembled.

“Oh my,” said Zawisza soon after. “You won’t die of natural causes, my lad.”

“In order to prove,” said Reynevan, “that I don’t begrudge you your spitefulness or taunts, I’ll cure you of your flatulence.”

“How, pray tell?”

“You will see. What we need is a shepherd.”

A shepherd appeared quite soon, but on seeing some horsemen turning from the highway towards him took panicked flight, plunged into the thicket and vanished like the morning mist. Only his bleating sheep remained.

“We should have laid a trap for him,” observed Zawisza, standing up in his stirrups. “We won’t catch up with him over that bumpy ground. Judging by the speed he set off at, he’s probably crossed the Odra by now.”

“And the Nysa, too,” added Wojciech, the knight’s esquire, demonstrating both a ready wit and a knowledge of geography.

Reynevan was unmoved by the teasing. He dismounted and walked purposefully over to the shepherd’s hut, from which he emerged a moment later holding a large bunch of herbs.

“I didn’t need a shepherd,” he calmly explained. “Just these. And a dash of boiling water. Any chance of a cooking pot?”

“Whatever you need,” said Wojciech dryly.

“If you have to boil water, we’ll make a stop.” Zawisza looked up at the sky. “And a lengthy one, for night approaches.”

Zawisza the Black leaned comfortably against his sheepskin-covered saddle, looked into the mug he had just drained and sniffed.

“In truth, it tastes like sun-warmed moat water and stinks of tomcat,” he announced, “but it works. My gratitude, Reinmar. It is a falsehood, I see, that universities teach a young man naught but drunkenness, lewdness and vulgar speech.”