The peasants murmured. Friend Gamrat moved closer, resting on his ash staff, as gloomy as a wet All Saints’ Day.

“Perhaps they be,” he grunted ominously. “And perhaps they bain’t…”

“They bain’t, they bain’t,” a smiling Scharley assured them. “Didn’t you know? Those two have been caught, and the bounty’s been paid.”

“Methinks you’re a-lyin’.”

“Leave go of my sleeve, fellow.”

“And what if I don’t?”

The penitent looked him in the eyes for a moment. Then threw him off balance with a hard shove and spun to kick him in the shin just below the knee. The shepherd dropped to his knees and Scharley broke his nose with a short punch from above. The peasant grabbed his face and blood gushed through his fingers, decorating the front of his smock with a vivid patch.

Before the peasants had overcome their surprise, Scharley snatched Friend Gamrat’s stick from him and struck him in the temple with it. Friend Gamrat’s eyes rolled up and he slumped into the arms of the peasant behind him, whom the penitent also walloped. Scharley spun around like a top, aiming blows to every quarter.

“Flee, Reinmar!” he yelled. “Run for it!”

Reynevan dug his spurs into the horse’s side, jostling the throng, but didn’t manage to get away. The peasants leaped on him like dogs from both sides and grabbed the harness. He struck out feverishly with his fists, but they dragged him from the saddle. He fought as hard as he could, kicking like a mule, but blows were raining down on him, too. He heard Scharley’s furious yelling and the dry crack of the ash staff falling on skulls.

The peasants overwhelmed Reynevan and pinned him down. The situation was desperate. He was no longer fighting a band of peasants, but a terrible many-headed monster, a hydra with a hundred legs and a hundred fists, slippery with filth and stinking of muck, urine and rancid milk.

Over the cries of the mob and the swoosh of blood in his ears, he suddenly heard battle cries, thudding and neighing, and the ground trembled from the pounding of horseshoes. Bullwhips whistled, cries of pain resounded, and the many-armed beast smothering him disintegrated. The peasants—a moment earlier meting out violence—were now on the receiving end. The horsemen rampaging around the clearing ran them down and thrashed them mercilessly with their whips. Some of the peasants fled into the trees, but none avoided being struck.

Things soon quietened down a little. The horsemen were calming their snorting horses and combing the battlefield, looking for anyone they could still thrash. It was quite a colourful company. It was obvious at once that it was a party to be respected rather than joked with, not only from their apparel and gear, but also from their faces, which even a mediocre physiognomist would have found little difficulty classifying as shady and thuggish.