Someone else had made a vow on the heron. Cahir was paying the barons’ daughters compliments.

Angoulême, now tipsy, could be heard throughout the entire hall. The tight-lipped baron, excited by the discourse on bows and arrows, had begun to dance attendance on Milva.

‘Please, won’t you try some wild boar, miss. Oh, if I may say so… There are fields of crops on my estates dug up by whole herds of them, if I may say so.’

‘Oh.’

‘You can come across some fine animals, three-hundredweight specimens… Height of the season… If, miss, you’d express a desire… We could, so to speak, go hunting together…’

‘We shan’t be staying here so long.’ Milva looked strangely enquiringly at Geralt. ‘For we have more serious tasks than hunting, if you excuse me, sir.

‘Although,’ she added quickly, seeing that the baron was looking gloomy, ‘I would most eagerly go hunting game with Your Lordship if there is time.’

The baron’s face lit up at once.

‘If not the chase,’ he declared enthusiastically, ‘then at least I must invite you to my residence. I will show you my antler, trophy, pipe and sabre collections, so to speak…’

Milva fixed her eyes on the tablecloth.

The baron seized a tray of fieldfares, served her and then filled her wine glass.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am no courtier. I don’t know how to entertain. I’m pretty wretched at courtly discourse.’

‘I was raised in the forest.’ Milva cleared her throat. ‘I esteem silence.’

Fringilla found Geralt’s hand under the table and squeezed it hard. Geralt looked her in the eyes. He couldn’t guess what was hidden in them.

‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I believe in the sincerity of your intentions.’

‘You aren’t lying?’

‘I swear on the heron.’

The town sentry must have had a few too many Yuletide tipples, for he was swaying. He banged his halberd against a signboard and loudly, though incoherently, announced it was ten of the clock, although it was actually well after midnight.

‘Go to Beauclair by yourself,’ Reynart de Bois-Fresnes said unexpectedly as soon as they’d left the tavern. ‘I’m staying in town. Until tomorrow. Farewell, Witcher.’

Geralt knew the knight had a lady-friend in town whose husband travelled a lot on business. They’d never talked about it, for men don’t talk about such matters.

‘Farewell, Reynart. Deal with the skoffin. Don’t let it go off.’

‘There’s a frost.’

There was a frost. The narrow streets were empty and tenebrous. The moonlight shone on the roofs, gleamed brilliantly on the icicles hanging from the eaves, but didn’t reach the streets. Roach’s horseshoes rang on the cobblestones.

Roach, thought the Witcher, heading towards Beauclair Palace. A shapely chestnut mare, a present from Anna Henrietta. And Dandelion.

He spurred his horse on. He was in a hurry.