Much had changed since Orontius left the Franciscan monastery and he and Hildegard set out with their troupe. In those days, all they needed was the cart they called the Ark, which they took over from the old juggler Eberlein.

In the meantime, the family was accommodated in two horse-drawn carriages, as there was not enough room in the Ark for the parents and their three growing daughters to sleep. The second carriage, which the daughters called their Nest, was set up as a place for them to sleep and rest, while the Ark also served as a place for cooking and shelter on rainy days.

On the other side of the pond, the other members of the troupe set up camp, including the poet William and his family of six, various minstrels, and former nuns and monks who had gradually joined Orontius' troupe. The flames of the scattered campfires they had lit around the edge of the small pond reflected on the smooth surface of the water. As if from a magical world, the soft sounds of the lute, accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the tambourine, filtered through the natural surroundings.

The troupe had a law that everyone followed: no one should feel alone, but each member gave the others enough space to enjoy a respectable distance. At the same time, their collective spirit gave them the strength to overcome the challenges of their colourful lives and to support each other in providing the necessities of life.

There was one significant difference between Orontius' daughters and the other, particularly female, members of the vagabond community. Maren, Dorothea, and Mafalda could read and write. Their father was well versed in all matters of Christianity and worldly affairs and was able to teach his daughters anything that could be put into words. Over time, each of the girls developed her own handwriting, learned to read, and acquired a knowledge that their peers could only dream of. But with this knowledge came danger. Young women were usually uneducated and had no choice but to marry and have children. Moreover, educated women were quickly accused of witchcraft because of their different mindsets. Orontius knew this too, and he warned his daughters to be careful in their daily activities, not to be arrogant towards others, and to hide their knowledge as best they could, using it only for their own safety.

Mafalda's thirst for knowledge was insatiable. It was difficult for her to pretend to be different from who she really was. "Father, may I look at the religious icon again today?" she asked as she stuffed the sweet porridge into her mouth.

"Of course. Go ahead, my dear, take it. And then it's time for bed. I wish you a blessed night."

The three sisters cleared their plates and disappeared into their carriage. The candle at Mafalda's bedside was not to be extinguished for a long time, for, as she had done so many times before, she studied the religious scene depicted in the small box-tree icon. Her father had explained its meaning in detail. This tiny piece, so small that she could roll it back and forth in the palm of her hand, played a significant role in her father's life. Its sentimental value was deeply ingrained in him, and this precious icon would be his support in his old age. For Mafalda, looking at the small artefact triggered something quite different: a burning interest in all things old and venerable.

One day in 1551, something happened that was to be a turning point in Mafalda's life. The family decided to make a detour via Siegen, while the rest of the troupe continued south-east towards Koblenz. The town of Siegen and its wooded surroundings had a special significance for Orontius' family. His late mother had been a native of Siegen, and Orontius had spent over two decades at the Siegen Franciscan monastery. Years later, in August 1534, Mafalda was born in Flecken, a small village not far from Siegen, later called Freudenberg. Six years later, the town and its castle were destroyed by a devastating fire. The Count of Nassau rebuilt the centre of the village in parallel rows of houses made of clay and wood.

Mafalda was eager to see her birthplace, and as the family felt at home in the area, no one objected.

They trundled into the village on muddy roads and settled into a small inn, where they celebrated their arrival with a hearty meal of venison, beans, and bread. It was something special to be served a meal without having to work for it. Later, as they sat back in their carriages with full bellies in search of a place to spend the night, their spirits were high. A tree-shaded campsite on the banks of a small river called the Weibe, near the centre of the village, provided plenty of firewood. Soon the family had a crackling campfire.

Mafalda watched the loose sparks rising from the blaze. Her eyes were shining. "Father, have you seen the old castle tower?" she asked.

"Yes, you can't miss it. I think the tower is the only thing left of the old castle. The fire destroyed almost everything."

"Some of the walls are still standing," Mafalda objected.

Orontius grinned. "I didn't think you'd missed that."

"What did the castle look like when it was still standing?" Mafalda continued.

Orontius pondered. "It must have been built before the 11th century. Only the low walls were of stone, the rest was of wood. The gatehouse impressed me; it had a heavy portcullis. The courtyard, the residential and farm buildings, the barns, and stables were not visible from the outside. I remember that near the castle there was a small chapel dedicated to St Catherine. A chaplain celebrated mass there with the congregation."

"Do you mean St Catherine of Alexandria?" Mafalda asked.

"Yes, that's who I mean."

"Who is this woman?" Dorothea interrupted.

"She is a saint," Mafalda replied. Zeal lit up her face. "St Catherine's Monastery at Sinai serves as her memorial."

"Where is Sinai?" Dorothea asked.

"In Egypt." Mafalda replied promptly.

The parents exchanged glances.

Dorothea looked at her sister in surprise. "How do you know all this?"

"I read it in a newspaper at the last church festival we went to. A merchant from Basel lent it to me for a while." Mafalda picked up her dress and stood up. "I'm going to explore my birthplace."

"Be back by nightfall," her mother said. "And please, be careful!"

Mafalda nodded. It was not the first time she had set out on her own. She knew the dangers that could befall a young woman.

The place where the old burnt castle stood drew her like a magnet. It wasn't just the ruins that fascinated her. It was also the place where adventurers, treasure hunters and other shady folk hung out, searching for ancient artefacts that had been buried, hidden, or overlooked by others. Mafalda did not count herself among them, for she was not out to make a deal, but simply interested in man-made objects from the past.

The remains of the walls, covered with thick moss, showed the passage of time. Mafalda stuck her fingers into the damp, soft growth and felt a tingling desire. Something was about to happen over which she had no control. It was as if time stood still, for what she was experiencing was beyond reality. A woman with noble features appeared before her, dressed in a white robe that clung softly to her body. Mafalda was taken by her shapely contours and reached out to touch her body. The woman, who resembled a goddess, did not retreat; she came closer, took Mafalda's hand, and guided it to her body. Mafalda accepted the invitation, moved closer and began to caress her breasts and hips. The beauty smiled at her sensually and pulled Mafalda greedily close to her.

At that moment Mafalda realised that the woman was from the distant past and that her appearance was a mirage. The present hit her like a blow. Her hands were still buried in the damp moss. She was not sure what she was looking for, but her instincts told her it had to do with her encounter with the goddess. She needed to touch and see the mysterious something to understand what had happened.

One of her fingertips hit something hard. She dug deeper, breaking through the layer of moss, and tried to pull the object out. As she did so, she felt herself tearing at the fine limbs of the rootless plant. The hard object was enclosed in the green cushion; it had been hidden by the fine plant for centuries and was tightly embedded in it.

Finally, Mafalda got hold of it. She carefully pulled it out and examined it, but first she had to remove the dirt. A coin! Hastily she took her handkerchief from her dress pocket and polished it.

What she saw took her breath away. She recognised herself in the full profile of her head. Several times Mafalda turned the coin between her fingers. The head was only embossed on one side. Why? She brought the coin closer to her eyes to see better. Perhaps the embossing had rubbed off on the back? But no, now she saw the outline of flames leaping from the centre of a raging fire.

She had to show the coin to her father; he would have a plausible answer to her...