He thought back. The courtyard at Trosky Castle. The javelin lancing the carpenter’s apprentice. Eyes the colour of water in a mountain lake. Beautiful and utterly inhuman. Douce of Pack.

“Let’s ride.”

They rode the whole day, as hard as they could without risking exhausting the horses. And as far as the wilderness, the dense forest, bogs and ravines barred by tangles of thorny branches would allow. They rode, looking back and listening out. But they heard only the drumming of woodpeckers.

In order to cover the greatest distance possible, they only stopped when the darkness absolutely precluded riding, on a relatively dry hummock, not daring to make a fire. A crescent moon, as thin as a swarf, shone above the treetops.

“Let’s turn back,” decided Rixa. “We must have lost them for good after all.”

They rode for some time along the course of a shallow stream, the Bobrzyca, a left-bank tributary of the Bóbr, according to Rixa. The Bobrzyca flowed through Tomaszów, which lay on the Via Regia.

In Rixa’s opinion, Tomaszów was to be avoided; she suggested they head west and find the road leading to the village of Warta. Reynevan relied on her knowledge of the vicinity, for the area was unfamiliar to him. He had been there during the expedition of spring 1428, but he hadn’t admired the views then, nor did he remember anything now.

The presence of a settlement—possibly Warta—was betrayed by the clattering of storks and the barking of dogs. Soon after, they heard the thudding of a working mill, then saw the mill and the millpond with a carpet of duckweed. The dogs kept barking.

“Shall we go in or avoid it?”

“We’ll go in,” decided Rixa. “It looks safe. And by the way, we can ask for directions. I doubt that Grellenort was here, but there’s no harm in asking.”

They rode between wattle fences and vegetable beds. Cautiously. But not cautiously enough.

At the very edge of the village stood a huge oak. Four bodies hung from its branches. One, clearly recently hanged, was still twitching.

A dozen soldiers were gathered around the tree, dressed in colourful—not black—raiment. The soldiers spotted them at once and rushed towards them shouting. Reynevan and Rixa turned around, only to see a knight on a horse with a caparison galloping frantically towards them from the mill. In full plate armour. And a sallet with the visor down. With a tournament shield bearing a coat of arms. And a lowered lance. Quite simply, Amadís of Gaula. Or some other knight from legend.