After passing Reynevan, Samson and Scharley were on the Orphans in an instant. With two sweeping blows, Scharley knocked two of the riders to the ground, and the third, slashed across the face, swayed in the saddle. Samson struck men and horses by turns with his goedendag, sowing terrible confusion. Reynevan reined his horse around, clenching his teeth. He had scores to settle. For the beating, for the spitting, for the barrel of cabbage. As he passed the man swaying limply in the saddle, he snatched his sword and rode into the melee, smiting left and right. He heard biblical quotations being shouted and guided by them located the pursuers’ leader, the goateed priest. Reynevan forced his way towards him, fending off blows from the others.

“Hell spawn!” yelled the priest, seeing him, spurring on his horse and flying forward, brandishing his sword. “Philistine! The Lord will render you into my hands!”

They crossed swords violently once and twice and then were separated by panicking horses. And then finally by Scharley. Scharley gave no thought to honourable duels or knightly codes. He rode up to the preacher from behind and swept his head from his shoulders with a powerful blow of the falchion. Blood spurted up in a geyser. At the sight of it, the Orphans spurred their horses and withdrew. Scharley, Samson and Reynevan took advantage of it and galloped away to the bridge. There was barely enough room on the footbridge for three horses side by side, so there was no fear that they’d be surrounded. But there were still at least three times as many pursuers. In spite of the casualties, they had no thought of retreat. Fortunately, they were reluctant to attack at once. Instead, they regrouped. But it was clear they wouldn’t give up.

“Being apart from you for so long made me forget,” Scharley panted. “A fellow could never get bored in your company, Reinmar.”

“Look out!” warned Samson. “Here they come!”

Half of the Orphans made a frontal attack on the bridge, and the rest, forcing their horses into the water, were crossing the stream to approach from the rear. The only solution was to withdraw. And fast. Reynevan, Scharley and Samson reined their horses around and galloped towards the village, pursued by the wild cries of the Orphans.

“They won’t give up!” shouted Scharley, looking back. “I don’t think they like you!”

“Don’t talk! Ride!”

The wind was howling in their ears as they rode onto the wide common outside the village. The pursuers spread out, meaning to surround them. To his horror, Reynevan found that he was quickly falling behind, that his mount was weakening significantly. That the wheezing horse was stumbling and slowing. Noticeably.

“My horse is failing,” he yelled. “Samson! Scharley! Leave me! Get away!”

“You must be mad,” said Scharley, stopping his horse in an instant and reining it around, drawing the falchion. “You must be mad, laddie.”