A lantern had been hung up and was swaying on a roadside willow, a cunning trick to mislead any pursuers and make them believe that the troop was a long way in front of them. Czirne took down the lantern, held it up and shone it on Reynevan.

“An honest face,” he commented. “A sincere, honest countenance. It turns out that appearances aren’t deceptive and he speaks the truth. An enemy of the Sterczas, are you?”

“Yes, Lord Czirne.”

“Reinmar of Bielawa, is it?”

“It is.”

“Everything is clear. Right, seize him. Disarm him and tie him up. Put a noose around his neck. Look lively!”

“Lord Czirne…” stammered Reynevan, already being held by strong arms. “What…? What…?”

“There’s a bishop’s significavit out on you, young man,” Hayn of Czirne pronounced carelessly, “and a bounty for turning you in alive. You see, the Inquisition is hunting you. Spells or heresy, it’s actually all one to me. But you’ll ride to the Dominican monastery in fetters.”

“Let me go…” Reynevan grunted as the rope bit painfully into his wrists. “Please, Lord Czirne… You’re a knight, after all… And I must… I am hurrying… To the lady I love!”

“Aren’t we all.”

“But you hate my foes! The Sterczas and Aulock!”

“True,” admitted the Raubritter. “I hate those whoresons. But I, young man, am not such a savage. I’m a European. I won’t let my likes and dislikes influence important decisions.”

“But… Lord Czirne—”

“To horse, gentlemen.”

“Lord Czirne… I—”

“Lord Nostitz!” Hayn interrupted forcefully. “You say he’s your kin. Please silence him, m’lord.”

Reynevan received such a punch in the ear that he saw stars and his head was thrown forward almost to the horse’s mane.

After that he said nothing.

The sky in the east lightened, heralding the dawn. It became even colder. Reynevan, arms bound, was shivering from cold and fear in equal measure. Nostitz had to bring him to task several times with a jerk of the rope.

“What are we going to do with him?” Vitelozzo Gaetani suddenly asked. “Must we drag him with us all the way over the mountains? Or do we weaken the unit by giving him an escort to Świdnica? Eh?”

“I don’t know yet.” A note of impatience sounded in Hayn of Czirne’s voice. “I’m thinking.”

“Is the bounty worth all this?” asked the Italian, continuing to press. “And is the bounty much less for him dead?”

“What matters to me isn’t the bounty,” growled Czirne, “but good relations with the Holy Office. And that’s enough talk! I said I’m thinking.”