They rode up to the bridge, where a tense exchange was in progress. It turned out that a unit of soldiers had stationed itself at the bridge and was collecting payments from travellers for passage by force. It was cold and was snowing, and while most of the refugees were paying up without a murmur, from time to time a braver individual would arrive and question the legality of the toll. And that had just happened. The refugee was yelling and fulminating. Children were crying. The soldiers were swearing and shaking their fists.

Jutta and Weronika rode up to the bridge with their hooded heads lowered, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Unfortunately, few travellers were heading eastwards. And each one attracted attention. Their road was suddenly blocked by a large warhorse, a bay lancer’s destrier. Astride it was a knight in a beaver-fur cap and a coat worn over a gambeson.

“Halt. What do we have here? Hoods down!”

There was no way out.

“By the head of Saint Pancras!” said the knight, grinning and slamming his fist against his pommel. “Why, two maids!”

There was no use in denying it.

“I am Gers of Streithagen,” announced the knight. “Lord of the burg of Drachenstein. The pfleger for this region. I’m keeping guard here. When the Hussites come I shan’t let them cross the river; the heretics will meet their match with me. And who might you be, ladies? And why are you in disguise?”

“Not everyone we encounter is a noble knight, O noble Sir Knight,” Jutta mumbled meekly. “There are those who do not respect the fair sex.”

“And my sister and I are hastening,” Weronika added beseechingly. “Noble sir, please let us through.”

“Hastening? Doubtless to your paramours? Who are doubtless yearning to see you? Yearning for kisses?”

“We are hastening to our mama and papa. We are heading home.”

He looked down at them from his destrier and an ugly smile crept over his face.

“Please follow me, misses. To my tent. I’ll write you out a safe conduct. It’ll come in useful should someone pester you.”

Inside the blue and white tent, apart from full Milanese armour on a stand, was a table, a folding chair and a camp bed. The lord of the burg of Drachenstein got down to business without further ado.

“Time to pay for the crossing, wenches,” he said, his face contorting lewdly and pointing at the bed. “You first. Come on, undress. Off with your things.”

“Noble sir—”

“Am I to call my men to help me?”

Weronika looked pleadingly at Jutta. Jutta sighed and shrugged. With trembling fingers, Veronika began to unfasten her buttons. Gers of Streithagen’s eyes were fixed on her cleavage. Jutta wrenched a vambrace and gauntlet from the Milanese armour and slammed it straight into his nose. And when his hands came up to his face, she kicked him in the crotch as hard as she could.