Blood stained the puddles, soaked into the snow.

The wounded esquire heard the rider approaching, alerted by the snorting of a horse and the jangling of a bridle. He groaned, tried to stand up but fell back. His efforts intensified the bleeding, the crimson stream pulsating more strongly between the plates of his cuirass and flowing down the armour. The wounded man settled back harder against a fallen tree trunk and drew a dagger. Aware how feeble a weapon it was in the hand of a man who couldn’t stand, whose side had been pierced by a spear and whose ankle was twisted after falling from his horse.

The approaching bay colt was a pacing horse, its unusual gait immediately visible. The bay’s rider didn’t have the sign of the Chalice on his chest, so wasn’t one of the Hussites the esquire’s troop had just been fighting. He wasn’t wearing armour. Or carrying a weapon. He looked like an ordinary traveller. The wounded esquire knew only too well, though, that in the month of February Anno Domini 1429, no one was simply travelling in the Strzegom hills or the Jawor plain.

The rider examined him at length from the height of his saddle. At length and wordlessly.

“That bleeding needs staunching,” he finally said. “I can do it, but only if you toss that dagger aside. If you don’t, I’ll ride off and you can cope by yourself. Decide.”

“No one…” the esquire grunted. “No one will pay a ransom for me… So don’t say I didn’t warn you—”

“Will you toss the dagger aside or not?”

The esquire swore softly, took a big swing and flung the dagger away. The rider dismounted, unfastened his saddlebags, then knelt down beside him, holding a leather bag. He used a short folding knife to cut through the straps attaching the two parts of the breastplate to the cuirass. After removing the armour, he slashed open the blood-soaked gambeson and looked intently, bending low over the wound.

“Nasty…” he muttered. “Looks very nasty. Vulnus punctum, a stab wound. It’s deep… I’ll put on a dressing, but can do no more without help. I’ll carry you to Strzegom.”

“Strzegom… besieged… Hussites…”

“I know. Don’t move.”

“I think…” The esquire panted. “I think I know you.”

“Well, I never, your face looks familiar to me, too.”

“I am Wilkosz Lindenau… The esquire of Lord Borschnitz, may God rest his soul… The tournament in Ziębice… I escorted you to the tower… For you are… For you are Reinmar of Bielawa… Aren’t you?”

“Aha.”

“Why, it’s you,” said the esquire, his eyes opening wide in terror. “Christ. It is you.”

“Accursed at home and excommunicated abroad? Indeed. It’s going to hurt now.”

The esquire clenched his teeth hard. Just in time.

Reynevan led his horse. Hunched over in the saddle, Wilkosz Lindenau groaned and moaned.