However reckless it was, the relief came not a moment too soon, for the mounted knight had just tumbled from his horse with a crash like a copper kettle thrown from a church steeple. The fair-haired knight with the two-handed sword, pressed against the wagon by pikestaffs, could only help him with filthy words, which he was hurling lavishly at his assailants.

Reynevan rushed into the heart of the fray. He used his horse to push aside and knock over the men teeming around the fallen knight, delivering a clanging blow to the kettle hat of a man with a grey moustache. When the helmet fell off, the man turned around, scowled malevolently and hit Reynevan hard with a halberd from close quarters, fortunately only with the pole. But it was enough to knock Reynevan off his horse. The grey-moustachioed soldier leaped forward, pinned him down and seized him by the throat. And soared away. Literally. For Samson had slammed a powerful punch into the side of his head. Others jumped onto Samson at once and the giant found himself in a predicament. He seized a halberd from the ground and whacked the first attacker so hard with the flat of the blade across his helmet that the blade flew off and the man fell to the ground. Samson brandished the remaining pole, swinging it around like a reed, making room for himself, Reynevan and the knight who was getting to his feet. The knight had lost his sallet when he fell, so a young, ruddy face, a snub nose and green eyes stuck out of the bevor protecting his neck.

“Just you wait, you swine!” he yelled in a comical descant. “I’ll show you, you shit-eaters! By the skull of Saint Sabina! You won’t forget me!”

Scharley came to the aid of the fair-haired knight defending himself by the wagon, who was in a lamentable situation having lost his two-handed sword in the scrum. The penitent deftly picked up an abandoned sword at full gallop and scattered the foot soldiers, hacking left and right with immense skill. The fair-haired man didn’t waste time searching for his weapon in the sand, but threw himself into the fray with his fists.

The unexpected relief appeared to have tipped the scales in favour of the men being attacked, when suddenly the thud of iron-shod hooves resounded and four heavily armed men hurtled into the clearing at full gallop. Even if Reynevan had any momentary doubts regarding their identity, they were dispelled by the triumphant yells of the foot soldiers, who entered the fray with redoubled resolve at the sight of reinforcements.

“Alive!” yelled the leader of the heavily armed men from behind the visor of a helmet with three silver fish on a shield. “Take the scoundrels alive!”