The youngster with the snub nose wheezed and spat blood. Then he sat up straight, a smile appeared on his blood-spattered face and he held his hand out to Reynevan.

“Thank you for the help, young sir knight. By the shinbone of Saint Aphrodisius, I won’t forget this! I’m Kuno of Wittram.”

“And may devils flay me in Hell if ever I forget your help, m’lord,” said the fair-haired man, holding his right hand out to Scharley. “I am Paszko Pakosławic Rymbaba.”

“Assemble,” commanded one of the men in armour, displaying a swarthy face and blue, close-shaven cheeks beneath an open visor. “Rymbaba, Wittram, grab the horses! Quickly, dammit!”

“Blow that.” Rymbaba leaned over and cleared his nose into his fingers. “They’ve fled!”

“They’ll soon return,” announced another of the reinforcements, pointing at an abandoned shield with three fish, one above the other. “Have you both lost your minds, attacking travellers right here?”

Scharley, who was stroking the chestnut’s nostril, gave Reynevan a very telling look.

“Right here,” repeated the knight, “in the Seidlitzes’ lands? They won’t forgive this…”

“They will not,” confirmed a third. “To horse, everybody!”

The road and forest echoed with shouting, neighing and the thudding of hooves. Halberdiers were streaming among the bracken and tree stumps, and over a dozen horsemen, heavily armed soldiers and crossbowmen were rushing along the road.

“Flee! yelled Rymbaba. “Flee if you value your lives!”

They set off at a gallop, pursued by yells and the whistles of the first crossbow bolts.

They weren’t pursued for long. When the infantry fell back, the horsemen had slowed, clearly not trusting their numerical advantage. The bowmen sent one more salvo after the fleeing men, and that was the end of the pursuit.

Just to be certain, they galloped on a few more furlongs and took a roundabout route through hills and maple forests, glancing back every now and then. But no one was chasing them. They stopped near the outermost cottage of a village to rest the horses. Rather than waiting for his cottage and farmyard to be plundered, the peasant brought out a bowl of pierogi and a pail of buttermilk. The Raubritters sat, leaning against the fence. They ate in silence. The oldest, who had introduced himself as Notker of Weyrach, looked long and hard at Scharley.

“Yeees,” he said finally, licking his buttermilk-covered moustaches. “You’re decent and bold men, Master Scharley and you, m’Lord Hagenau. Incidentally, are you a descendant of the famous poet?”

“No.”

“Aha. Where was I? Ah yes, that you’re bold and brave fellows. And your servant, though he looks like a halfwit, is exceptionally courageous and valiant. You came to the rescue of my boys and thus find yourselves in deep water. Trouble will come of it—you’ve crossed the Seidlitzes, and they are vengeful.”