“Ah well…” he ended, replacing the misericorde in its sheath. “Much has changed. No one knows I’m alive and in Silesia, not even Apeczko, now the family’s senior member, nor my brothers Wolfher and Morold. And I won’t stay here long. I’ll sort out what I must and never return. I now reside in Lusatia, in the service of the Six Cities… I’m also going to marry a Lusatian girl. Soon. I’m already courting, don’t you know? If you could see her… Cornflower-blue and none-too-quick eyes, a snub nose covered in freckles, short legs, a big arse, nothing French, nothing Burgundian… So perhaps something will change for the better in my life. With any luck.

“I shall treat what you said as your word of honour,” he said, turning around. “Know that I’m going to Ziębice. You can guess why. I’m going to Ziębice to fulfil a duty. I shall carry it out, may the Devil help me. But if by a stroke of luck I don’t… If I don’t succeed… Then I shall hold you to your word, Bielawa. To your verbum nobile.”

“I vow,” Reynevan said, rubbing his numb wrists, “here in the face of these ancient mountains, I vow that Adèle’s tormentors and murderers will not sleep peacefully or enjoy impunity. I swear that before Jan of Ziębice dies, he will know for what he is dying. I take this oath and shall discharge it, even if I sell my soul to the Devil.”

“Amen. Farewell, Reinmar of Bielawa.”

“Farewell, Gelfrad of Stercza.”

Chapter Thirteen

In which the Green Lady—no less mysterious than the Green Knight from the well-known legend—demands various services of Reynevan, including that of giving her pleasure.

Reynevan waited for them in Mokrzeszów, a village about half a mile outside Świebodzice, by the highway leading to Świdnica. He didn’t have to wait long. The knights who’d been escorting him until the day before must have left Świebodzice in the early morning. When he saw them coming down the road, the Sunday Mass in the Mokrzeszów church was still in progress, the parish priest having reached the postcommunio.

When they saw him, they were dumbfounded and reined in their mounts. Reynevan had time to have a good look at them. The brawl with the Inquisition—although it had probably been quickly explained—had left its marks. Priedlanz had a black eye. Kuhn’s head was bandaged. Liebenthal’s nose, likely broken, was red and blue and piteously swollen.

The latter was first to shake off his astonishment. And react. Exactly as Reynevan had expected. The knight dismounted and attacked him with a cry.

“Leave him, Wilrych!”

“I’ll kill the whoreson!”