Reynevan shielded himself from the punches, retreating and covering his head. He didn’t even try to fight back. In spite of that—quite by chance—his fist somehow made contact with the knight’s swollen nose. Liebenthal howled and fell to his knees, cradling his face in both hands. But Stročil and Priedlanz lunged for Reynevan, catching him by the arms. Kuhn, convinced that Reynevan intended to attack the kneeling Liebenthal, shielded his comrade with his body.

“Gentlemen…” Reynevan uttered. “Why this violence… I’ve returned, haven’t I? I shan’t try to escape any more. I yield to being delivered to Stolz without resisting.”

Liebenthal stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes and the blood from his moustache, and drew a knife.

“Hold him!” he bellowed, or rather boomed. “Hold the bastard tight! I’ll cut off his ears! I swore I would! And I will!”

“Leave it, Wilrych,” repeated Priedlanz, looking back at the people now leaving the church. “Control yourself.”

“You can see he came back,” added Stročil. “He promised he won’t try to escape again. Besides, he’ll be trussed up like a turkey.”

“One ear at least!” Liebenthal struggled to break free of Kuhn, who was trying to restrain him. “Just one! As a punishment!”

“No. He’s to be delivered whole.”

“A piece of ear, then!”

“No.”

“Well, at least a punch in the face!”

“That you may do.”

“I say! Gentlemen! What’s going on here?”

The woman who had uttered those words was tall, and her imperious pose made her appear even taller. She was wearing a travelling houppelande, simple of fashion and grey, but made of delicate cloth of high quality, trimmed with a dormouse collar and gloves edged with the same fur. The woman’s calpac was also made of dormouse, worn over a muslin couvre-chef covering her hair, cheeks and neck. A pair of eyes looked out from under the calpac. Eyes as blue and cold as a bright January morning.

“Are you staging a nativity play, gentlemen?” asked the woman. “Though Advent hasn’t even begun?”

Liebenthal stamped his foot, frowned angrily and lifted his head, but quickly restrained himself. He was aided in his decision by, among other things, the sight of soldiers emerging from the vestibule behind the woman. Among others. But not only.

“Lord Liebenthal, am I right?” The woman eyed him. “You were my guest in Żary Castle last summer, and in the party that was subsequently assigned to me. I recognise you, although your nose had a different shape and colour then. Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”

Liebenthal bowed low. Priedlanz, Stročil and Kuhn followed his example. Reynevan also bowed.

“I await an answer. What is occurring here?”

“We must urgently deliver this man to Stolz,” said Liebenthal, pointing to Reynevan, “on the orders of His Grace Ulrik Biberstein. We must deliver him to the castle—”

“Bruised and battered?”