Spytek of Melsztyn paled and pursed his lips; Siestrzeniec’s hand immediately moved to his sword hilt. Bedřich made a signal with his eyes to the Moravians. Scharley took off his cap and stepped forwards.

“Oh, what a jester,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve caught a loud-mouthed thief, gentlemen warriors, no two ways about it! He slanders others to save his own skin. And give him a good thrashing when you get to Pszczyna, m’lord officer, don’t spare your blows on such a fellow! Let him know what slanderers can expect!”

“And who might you be?” barked the moustachioed man.

“We are merchants from Elbing,” announced Bedřich of Strážnice calmly. “Returning from Hungary—”

“And I’m a grey goose.”

“I give you my word.”

“He is lying!” yelled Schilling. “He is a Hussite!”

“Shut your trap,” said the moustachioed man. “And you, gentlemen, will have to come with us to Pszczyna, where my superiors will get to the bottom of who you are, whether real merchants or feigned merchants. Petzold, Mladota, dismount, search their saddlebags and baggage. And take their weapons from them.”

“M’Lord Commander,” said Bedřich and slightly moved the edge of his cloak aside, meaningfully patting a bulging pouch hanging from his belt. “Perhaps we can come to some agreement?”

The moustachioed man urged his horse forwards and looked down at them. Then his face twisted into a contemptuous smirk.

“They pay higher sums in Pszczyna for heretics. And the fact you’re offering a bribe makes you a heretic for certain. You will go in fetters. And your wretched pouch will be ours in any case.”

“God knows I didn’t mean it to take this turn,” said the preacher and shrugged.

“Which turn?”

“This one.”

A soldier passed Bedřich a crossbow and he brought the butt smoothly up to his cheek. The bowstring twanged and a bolt—fired from close range—hurled the moustachioed man from his horse.

“Attack!”

Spytek of Melsztyn hacked one of the mercenaries with his sword, while Siestrzeniec fell on the others, slashing and stabbing by turns with a sword and the battleaxe. The mercenaries fought back, yelling, lowering their spears and brandishing poleaxes. Three men fell from their horses, struck by bolts from the crossbows of the Moravians and the Polish esquires; a fourth fell face down into a puddle, shot by Scharley. The rest came for them, yelling war cries. And then Samson struck.

The giant seized a heavy bench made from a log split in half and picked it up as though it was a feather. And like the cyclops Polyphemus hurling boulders at Odysseus’s ship, so Samson Honeypot flung the bench at the mounted Pszczyna mercenaries. With better effect than Polyphemus had, wreaking terrible harm among the men and animals.

Reynevan, nimbly weaving among the melee, attacked Schilling. And saw something incredible.