<br/>The squire noted the faint sneer that curled his master’s lip at the mention of Mainz, and was prepared for it; his other master in the order, the reverend Kaspar, had warned him that von Schwarz preferred his fellow Austrians.  It must be torture for him in an Order which welcomed knights from as far afield as Outremer itself, as well as Englishmen and Estonians.  It mattered little to Wulf where a man hailed from, as long as he was a loyal son of the True Church.  Ritter Albrecht had yet to prove himself to the squire (and indeed the order’s chaplain) on that score.  He bowed neutrally and called to the bathhouse attendant, a slinking Rus serf by the name of Yosef.  ‘Here, you!  Take his Excellency to the banya and see to his needs.’    The knight’s other road companions also dismounted and followed Wulf to the stables.<br/><br/>The warhorse fed, watered, thoroughly groomed and bedded down, Wulf returned to the izba.  The maid was now fussing around the welcome platter, brushing away imaginary crumbs.  As he entered she squeaked and bobbed a curtsey.  He ignored her, checking once again that all was well and wondering how his master had liked the Russian style of bathing - a long swelter in a room full of hot, balsam scented steam, lashing oneself with birch twigs to stimulate the skin, followed by a drench in waters hot and cold.  Of course to an undead the stimulation of skin was futile, and Wulf had never seen one sweat, but the steam would be pleasant and the drenching refreshing enough.  It also helped to fend off the ever-present irritation of lice and fleas.  He had tried it himself and had found it very pleasurable.  The serf had been instructed to offer their master fresh clothing in the Rus style.  Wulf had had the household seamstresses make up  a pair of fine linen leggings and a long embroidered linen tunic to go over the top,  with soft felt boots embroidered to match the shirt; the design on them was supposed to be the lord‘s own emblem of the black lion on gold, but the Rus had their own ideas of what a lion looked like.  Wulf had a feeling the warrior might prefer his own travel-soiled garb.<br/><br/>But here was Ritter Albrecht now, his hair damp scented with wood smoke.  Wulf laid a firm hand on the maid’s shoulder and  stilled her fidgets.  ‘My lord.  Your refreshment, as promised.’<br/>