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reliable guide for this journey, they thought his views on religion were wrong, dangerous and misplaced. ‘A plague on your views, sir.’ Courtenay had risen to his full height in the saddle and had clearly decided to exert his authority.
    I looked from one camp to the other. Eckhardt and I had talked about these issues often enough over recent days that he would not expect me to join in open battle against my mentor and the earl, and I decided not to turn the occasion into an argument, for the five of us had to endure each other’s company for some weeks yet, and there was no advantage in souring the atmosphere unnecessarily.
    Niccolò came to the rescue. ‘I fear, Your Grace, that your words may be more true than you intended. Look at the doors of the houses!’
    The reason for the street’s desertion quickly became clear: a number of the doors had plague marks daubed on them. This was most worrying, for not only would we be at risk of the dreadful disease, but strangers were always treated with suspicion when plague raged. It was mid-afternoon, and we had intended to stop here for the night, but the sight of the daubed doors made discussion unnecessary: we would have to move on.
    ‘Where is the bridge?’ asked Thomas.
    ‘There is no bridge,’ Eckhardt scowled. ‘We shall have to take a boat across.’
    This was not a prospect we relished, for the Rhine here was still wide and fast-flowing.
    ‘Then, before we make a final decision, I should like us to review our route,’ said Thomas. ‘For myself, I would prefer to travel south, to Basel, as there are a number of books I wish to purchase there. I had understood that we might take a boat upstream from here to that great city, but in the present conditions that is clearly impossible. Nevertheless, I would welcome a discussion.’ Thomas seemed to have recognized that if he was going to convince the party to take the southern route, then this was his last chance to get our agreement.
    As he spoke, we continued to ride down to the riverbank, where, as expected, we found most of the boats pulled high up the bank and away from the water. One large, flat-bottomed ferry remained, however, large enough to take us, our horses and the two carts, and Eckhardt began to bargain with the surly boatman. Not surprisingly, he did not relish the trip at all. It was not, he explained, the crossing that concerned him (every one of us would have to take an oar to make safe passage), but the return journey. Six burly youths were lounging against the wall of a bankside inn, and the game was clear – he would not cross unless we paid his relations to make the return crossing with him. No doubt it was a game they had played many times, and I was inclined to accept the price, exorbitant as it was. Courtenay, however, decided this was the moment to stand his ground.
    ‘Tell the peasant he is a rogue and we will pay a reasonable price and no more. And tell that rabble against the wall there that unless they come to our assistance immediately, I shall speak to the authorities and have them whipped.’
    Although they did not understand his English, the ‘rabble’ clearly understood his attitude and expressed their response with Germanic eloquence, two spitting in the mud before us while another stood and urinated, never taking his eyes from His Grace and clearly ready for a fight.
    The matter was resolved for us, however, as a crowd carrying cudgels and billhooks came through the gates of the town and walked boldly towards us; it was clear that at times of plague visitors were distrusted and unwelcome. Immediately, Courtenay’s nerve broke. ‘Come, there’s no time for arguing. Tell him we agree.’
    Without delay, he rode his horse straight on to the ferry, waving to the cartmen to whip their horses forward. Within seconds we had become the rabble, and we boarded pell-mell as the mob approached, the band of youths from the inn stepping aboard at the last minute with the measured