Morale was not good. Brázda of Klinštejn, nursing a cold, sneezed. Matěj Salava spat. The ever-lugubrious Piotr the Pole had become even gloomier than usual. Even the habitually cheerful Jan Kolda of Žampach was growling under his breath. Jan Královec observed a grim silence.

“I say! Look there!” Salava suddenly pointed at a rider he had seen, heading northwards across the snow-covered slope. “Who is that? Isn’t it that wounded Teuton? Did you let him go free, Brother Jan?”

“I did,” Královec reluctantly admitted. “Poor wretch. No one would have paid a ransom. May he go to Hell.”

“Aye, I believe he will,” Piotr the Pole rasped. “He’s wounded. He won’t make it to Wrocław alone, without help. He’ll expire somewhere in a snowdrift.”

“He won’t be alone or without help,” countered Jan Kolda, indicating another rider. “Ha! Why, if it isn’t Reynevan on his pacing horse! You also let him leave, Brother?”

“I did. What, is he a captive? We talked. He was hesitant, I could see something was nagging at him. He finally told me he had to return to Wrocław. ‘Go back, then,’ I said. And that’s that.”

“Then may the good Lord preserve him and keep him,” said Brázda and sneezed. “Let’s ride, Brothers.”

“Let’s ride.”

They descended the rise, galloped a short distance to catch up with the column and rode to the head.

Brázda reined his horse back to a trot and addressed Jan Kolda, who was now alongside him. “I wonder what news there is in the wide world—”

“Why does it bother you again?” said Kolda, turning to face him. “The world, the world. What does it mean to you?”

“Nothing,” admitted Brázda. “I was just wondering, is all.”

The morning was foggy, and quite mild for February. There had been the hint of a thaw in the air; the snow began melting at dawn, and the prints of iron-shod hooves and the ruts made by wagon wheels filled at once with black water. Axles and swingletrees creaked, horses snorted and wagoners cursed drowsily. The column of almost three hundred wagons made slow progress. The pungent, choking smell of salt herrings hung over the column.

Sir John Fastolf rocked sleepily in the saddle. The excited voice of Thomas Blackbourne—a knight from Kent—jerked him out of his slumber.

“What is it?”

“De Lacy returns!”

Reginald de Lacy, the commander of the vanguard, came to a sliding stop in front of him, so abruptly that they had to narrow their eyes against the spraying mud. Terror was painted on the face of the knight, whose chin and cheeks were covered in a fair, youthful fuzz. Terror combined with excitement.

“Frenchmen, Sir John!” he crowed, fighting to bring his steed under control. “Ahead of us! To the east and west of us! In an ambuscade! A great host!”