“And that’s that,” agreed Horn. “Go to sleep, Reinmar. You have a long road ahead of you. A long, long road.”

A long, long road, he repeated in his thoughts, gazing at the stars through the wind-shaken branches. That’s what he said. Thinking I wouldn’t notice the sneer and ambiguity? Or quite the opposite: was he hinting at it?

It must be a good forty miles from here to Prague: ten days’ riding at a conservative estimate. A long road indeed. Leading directly into the hands of Bohuchval Neplach, known as Flutek, the head of the Tábor’s intelligence service. Flutek won’t easily be convinced, made to believe; that road might also be a long one. A difficult one. And painful. It’s well known what Flutek does to suspects before he comes to believe them. And to those he doesn’t believe.

Should I confess everything? Tell them about Jutta’s kidnap, about Bożyczko, about the blackmail? Ha, perhaps I’ll save my life by doing that. If they believe me. But I won’t regain their trust. They’ll lock me up, bury me alive in some tower or castle in a remote spot. Before I get out—if I get out at all—Jutta will be far away, married or in a convent. I’ll lose her for ever.

Running away, he thought, getting up cautiously, would be tantamount to admitting my guilt. That’s how it’d be treated: as blatant proof of treachery.

Blow it. Damn it all. There’s no other choice.

The campfire died down and plunged the entire clearing in darkness. The entire camp. And the men sleeping with their heads on their saddles, shifting beneath their covers, snoring, farting, mumbling in their slumber. No one had even thought about setting a watch. Reynevan silently retreated into the darkness, among the undergrowth. Cautiously and slowly, being careful not to step on any dry twigs, he began to move towards the tethered horses.

The horses snorted as he approached. Reynevan froze, stopped dead. Fortunately, the trees were soughing and other sounds were lost in the endless rustling. He breathed out in relief. Too soon.