At some point, the sick man had stopped groaning and raving. He was lying peacefully and even appeared to be feeling better. Reynevan hadn’t dared to use magic in front of witnesses, so his recovery had to be put down to natural factors.

“Get out! Let’s be having you! Look lively! Out of the wagon!”

The sun stung his eyes and the rush of cold air into his lungs almost knocked him unconscious. He had to grab the shoulder of Jan Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów in order to stay upright, on legs of jelly. Nadobny, standing beside him, wasn’t doing any better; he was literally hanging, pale as a sheet, from Kochłowski’s shoulder. The arms trader, although smallest of stature, and Hlas of Libočany turned out to be the toughest. The two of them stood firmly and most convincingly feigned courage.

“There will be an exchange of prisoners, gentlemen Hussites,” Eberwin of Kranz, the mercenaries’ commander, explained from the height of the saddle. “You will soon be free. You are indebted for your fate to the Honourable Gebhard Ungerath, son of His Lordship, Sir Kasper Ungerath. So bow! Low! This moment!”

Gebhard Ungerath, as stocky and ugly as a gnome, raised his head haughtily and pouted, then reined his horse around and rode slowly away.

“Move, heretics, move! Over there, towards the bridge! Hey, over here, the sick man will have to be carried!”

“That river’s the Olza,” muttered Captain Hlas, suddenly growing serious. “We are somewhere between Fryštát and Cieszyn. They’ll carry out the exchange on the bridge. It’s something of a tradition.”

They were made to stand before the bridge, surrounded by horses. The swollen Olza burbled under the bridge, washing the pillars, spilling over the fenders.

They didn’t wait long before a rider appeared on the far bank. In a kettle hat, a mail hood with a short cape and a dull brownish-grey tunic worn over a brigantine, he was a typical vassal, a minor Hussite nobleman. He looked them up and down. He then described two circles with his horse before riding onto the bridge with a thud of horseshoes. He rode across to them, looking around vigilantly. Eberwin of Kranz caught up with him. They conversed for a while. Then the two men rode before Gebhard Ungerath.

“He says,” said Eberwin of Kranz, clearing his throat, “that they have kept their word. They’ve brought young Master Gilbert. They know that instead of five—as was agreed—we have six, so, to show good will, they will free one more Silesian along with young Master Gilbert. But first he wishes to see our captives.”

Gebhard pouted again and nodded his assent. The Hussite vassal, led by Eberwin, walked his horse over to the captives and glanced at them from under his kettle hat. But Reynevan bowed his head, fearful that his face would betray him.

For the vassal was Urban Horn.