“Not so loud, gentlemen,” hiccoughed the handsome young man. “Not so loud. Let’s not forget the principles of secrecy.”

“Fuck secrecy,” commented the dwarf in the hood in a drunken bass. “On we go! I say, Raabe! Where did you say that fine tavern was? We’ve been riding for hours and our throats are dry!”

“About another furlong,” said the grey-haired man in the horned cap, swaying in the saddle. “Another furlong… Or two… On we go! Spur your horse, Reinmar of Bielawa!”

“Tybald… Nomina sunt odiosa… Secrecy…”

“Pshaw!”

My mamma was a washerwoman

But never washed a thing

What others washed and hung up

She swiped from the washing lines…

The dwarf in the hood belched long and loud.

“On we go!” bellowed the bass, patting the goedendag at his side. “On we go, noble lords! And what are you staring at, peasants? Churls? Cowherds?”

The folk of Grauweide looked on sombrely.

When the hour called nox intempesta arrived and an impenetrable darkness had absolutely muffled and embraced the monastery village of Gdziemierz, two men stole towards the dimly lit Silver Bell Inn. They were both dressed in black jerkins, close-fitting but still allowing free movement. Their heads and faces were swathed in black kerchiefs.

They circled the inn, found the kitchen door at the back and went noiselessly inside. Hidden in the darkness under the stairs, they listened to the mumbled voices that were still coming from the guest room on the first floor, despite the late hour.

Dead drunk, one of the black-clothed men signalled to the other.

Even better, replied the other, also using shared sign language. I can only hear two voices.

The first listened a little longer. A troubadour and a dwarf, he signed. A good thing. The drunk spy is asleep in the next room. To work!

They cautiously climbed the stairs. Now they could clearly hear the voices of the people talking, mainly a deep voice that was holding forth quite indistinctly. Regular and loud snoring could be heard coming from the chamber alongside. Weapons appeared in the hands of the men in black. The first drew a knight’s misericorde. With a swift movement, the second opened a navaja, a folding knife with a slender, razor-sharp blade, the preferred weapon of Andalusian Gypsies.

At an agreed sign, they burst into the chamber, bounded over to the pallet, pounced on the person sleeping there and pinned them beneath the eiderdown. They plunged in their knives at the same time. And realised simultaneously that they had been taken in.

But it was too late.

The first, struck in the back of the head by the goedendag, was felled like a tree under a woodman’s axe. The second was brought down by a blow from nowhere with a table leg. They crumpled but were still conscious, wriggling on the floor like worms, scratching at the floorboards. Until the falling goedendag knocked that idea out of their heads.