The poorhouse of the Divine Heart of Jesus was located outside the town walls, near the Weavers Gate. The meal was being served as they arrived. Gaunt paupers covered in suppurating sores dragged themselves out of bed, took bowls in their trembling hands, dipped bread in them and crammed it, now softened, into their toothless mouths. Tybald Raabe cleared his throat, looked away and covered his nose with the cuff of his glove. The grey-eyed priest didn’t even notice. Poverty and suffering made no impression on him and had stopped interesting him long ago.

They had to wait. The girl they had gone to see was busy in the poorhouse kitchen.

A foul smell was emanating from there.

They had to wait a while before she joined them.

So that’s Elencza of Stietencron, thought the grey-eyed man. None too appealing. Stooped, grey, thin-lipped. With an empty gaze. And her hair mercifully hidden by a cap and wimple. With her once-fashionable plucked eyebrows slowly growing back.

Elencza Stietencron, a survivor of the massacre where sixteen men—including soldiers—were killed. The only person to get out alive. The stooped plain-looking girl survived. The conclusion suggested itself. The stooped plain-looking girl was no ordinary stooped plain-looking girl.

“Noble Miss Stietencron—”

“Please don’t address me like that.”

“Hmm… Miss Elencza…”

Elencza. An unusual name, too. Rarely encountered. Tybald Raabe tracked down its origin—the daughter of Władysław, Duke of Bytom, bore that name. The grandfather of Hartwig Stietencron, who served the Bytom duke, gave that name to one of his daughters. A tradition was established, in accordance with which Hartwig had christened his only child.

The grey-eyed man signalled something to Tybald Raabe with his eyes. The goliard cleared his throat.

“Miss,” he spoke seriously. “I forewarned you last time. We must ask you a few questions. Regarding… Ścibor’s Clearing.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember.”

“You must,” said the grey-eyed man sternly—too sternly. The girl cringed, quite as though he had raised a hand or shaken a fist at her.

“You must.” The priest softened his tone. “It’s a matter of life and death. We have to know. The young nobleman who joined your party two days before the robbery and soon left it—was he among the robbers in the clearing? Miss Elencza! Was Reinmar of Bielawa among the assailants?”

“A young nobleman,” Raabe explained, “whom you know as Reinmar of Hagenau, miss.”

“Reinmar Hagenau…” Elencza Stietencron’s eyes widened. “That… was… Reinmar of Bielawa?”

“The very same.” The grey-eyed man did his best to control his impatience. “Did you recognise him? Was he among the assailants?”

“No! Of course not—”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Because… Because he…” the girl stammered and looked beseechingly at Tybald. “It couldn’t have… Master Raabe… There are rumours… About Reinmar of Bielawa… That… he harmed… the daughter of Lord Biberstein… Master Raabe! It cannot be true!”