In which Reynevan is first given a thrashing and later sets off for Strzelin in the company of four people and a dog. The tedium of the journey is enlivened by a dispute about heresies, which we are told are spreading like weeds.

Reynevan was following a merrily burbling stream along the edge of a forest as it meandered among green knotgrass and through an avenue of willows. In a clearing up ahead, a road crossed the stream over a footbridge of sturdy timbers so black and moss-covered that it might have been built during the reign of Henry the Pious. On the bridge was a wagon, pulled by a bony bay nag. The wagon was tilting sharply. It was clear why.

“Looks like you have a problem with that wheel,” stated Reynevan, walking closer.

“It’s worse than you think,” replied a young woman, ginger-haired and pretty though somewhat plump, smudging tar on her sweaty forehead. “The axle has broken.”

“Ah. Nothing to be done without a blacksmith, then.”

“Oy vey,” cried the other traveller, a bearded Jew in modest but neat and by no means shabby raiment, clutching a fox-fur hat. “O, God of Isaac! Disaster! Woe betide us! What to do?”

“Were you making for Strzelin?” Reynevan asked, guessing from the way the shaft was pointing.

“Correct, young sir.”

“I shall help you in exchange for a ride, for I am heading that way, too. And I also have troubles—”

“ ’Tis not difficult to discern.” The Jew’s beard moved as he spoke, and his eyes flashed cunningly. “You’re a nobleman, young sir, that is apparent. So where, then, is your horse? But let it be. You have a kind look in your eyes. I be Hiram ben Eliezer, rabbi of the Brzeg Qahal. Travelling to Strzelin—”

“And I be Dorota Faber,” the ginger-haired woman cheerfully interrupted in mid-sentence. “Travelling the wide world. And you, young sir?”

“My name is…” Reynevan decided after a moment’s thought, “Reinmar of Bielawa. Listen. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll pull the wagon off the bridge somehow and unhitch the mare, then I’ll ride her bareback to the suburbs of Oława and take that axle bearing to a blacksmith. If necessary, I’ll bring him back here with me to finish the job. Let’s get to work.”

It turned out not to be so easy.

Dorota Faber wasn’t much use, the old rabbi none at all. Although the scrawny mare doggedly beat her hooves on the rotten timbers and leaned into the collar, they barely shifted the wagon two yards. Reynevan was unable to lift the conveyance by himself. They finally sat down by the broken axle and stared panting at the gudgeon and lamprey teeming at the bottom of the stream.

“So where do your world travels take you?” Reynevan asked the ginger-haired woman.