“A whit of knowledge about herbs, nothing more,” replied Reynevan modestly. “What really helped you, Lord Zawisza, was casting off your armour and resting in a more comfortable position—”

“You are too modest,” interrupted the knight. “I know my own limits, know how long I’m capable of enduring in the saddle and wearing armour. Indeed, I often journey at night with a lantern rather than resting—it shortens the journey, and there’s always the chance that somebody might accost me in the dark, which provides a welcome diversion. But since you claim this is a peaceful spot, why weary the horses? Let us sit by the fire until dawn and tell tales… That is also amusement, after all. Perhaps not as good as disembowelling a few Raubritters, but still.”

The fire crackled merrily, lighting up the night. An appetising aroma drifted up from the grease dripping from sausages and chunks of bacon sizzling on sticks grilled by Esquire Wojciech and the servants. Zawisza’s retinue kept their silence and a suitable distance, but Reynevan could still see the gratitude in the glances they were casting him. They clearly didn’t share their master’s fondness for riding through the dark hours by lantern light.

The sky above the trees twinkled with stars. The night was cool.

“Yeees…” Zawisza rubbed his belly with both hands. “Your potion has eased me, truly—what was that magical herb, some kind of mandrake? And why did you seek it in a shepherd’s hut?”

“After Saint John’s Day,” explained Reynevan, glad to be able to show off, “shepherds gather various herbs known only to them and dry them in their huts. And they make from them a decoction, which—”

“Which is given to their flock,” Zawisza calmly interrupted. “You mean you treated me like a bloated ewe. Well, if it helped—”

“Don’t mock me, Sir Zawisza. Folk wisdom is prodigious, and none of the great physicians or alchemists scorned it. Medicine has benefitted greatly from the common folk, shepherds in particular, for they have vast knowledge about herbs and their medicinal—and other—powers.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Reynevan nodded, moving closer to the fire to be more visible. “You’d not believe, Sir Zawisza, how much power is hidden in this bundle, in this bunch of dry herbs from a shepherd’s shack, which isn’t worth a brass farthing. Infusions made from them work miracles, yet few physicians know how effective they are. One must also invoke the patron saints of shepherds when giving these herbs to one’s flock.”

“What you were mumbling over the cooking pot wasn’t about saints.”

“It wasn’t,” Reynevan confessed, clearing his throat. “I told you, folk wisdom—”

“That wisdom reeked of the stake,” Zawisza said, his tone serious. “In your shoes, I’d be careful who I treated and with whom I spoke. I’d be careful, Reinmar.”

“I will.”