That’s true, thought Reynevan. A veritable Tower of Fools, a Narrenturm. And I… Scharley was right—I am the greatest fool of all. King of the chumps, marshal of the asses, grand prior of the order of pudding-heads.

“You won’t be imprisoned at Stolz for long,” Hackeborn continued cheerfully, “if you display good sense. I happen to know that a great crusade against the Czech heretics is in prospect. If you take the vows and accept the cross, they’ll release you to go and fight. And if you acquit yourself well in the battle against the Schism, they’ll pardon your crimes.”

“There’s one snag.”

“Namely?”

“I don’t want to fight.”

The knight turned around in the saddle and took a long look at him.

“And why would that be?” he asked with a sneer.

Reynevan didn’t manage to answer. There was a shrill whistle and hiss and then a loud crack. Hackeborn choked and raised a hand to his throat to grasp the crossbow bolt that was sticking into his gorget. The knight spat blood copiously, tipped backwards and toppled from his horse. Reynevan saw his eyes, wide open and expressing blank astonishment.

Then things moved fast.

“It’s a raaaaid!” yelled an esquire, jerking his sword from its scabbard. “To aaaarms!”

There was a flash of fire, a terrible boom and a billow of smoke in the bushes. One of the servants’ horses fell beneath him like a stone, pinning its rider to the ground. The other horses reared up, frightened by the explosion, including Reynevan’s. With his arms tied together, Reynevan couldn’t keep his balance and fell, striking the ground painfully with his hip.

Riders streamed out of the undergrowth. Even though he was curled up on the sand, Reynevan recognised them right way.

“Kill them!” roared Kunz Aulock, brandishing his sword.

The Ziębice bowmen unleashed a salvo of crossbow bolts, but all three of them missed unforgivably. They tried to flee but were cut down by swords before they could. The esquire valiantly crossed swords with Kyrie-eleison, their horses snorting and dancing, blades clanging. Stork of Gorgowice put an end to the duel, thrusting a baselard into the esquire’s back. The esquire stiffened and Kyrie-eleison finished him off with a thrust to the throat.

Deep in the dense forest, a frightened magpie screeched in alarm. The air was thick with the smell of black powder.

“Well, well,” said Kyrie-eleison, nudging the prone Reynevan with the point of his boot. “Lord Bielawa. It’s been a long time. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Reynevan was not.

“We’ve waited a long time for you,” Aulock complained, “in the cold, the rain and great discomfort. But finis coronat opus. You’re ours, Bielawa. And ready for use, so to speak, bound like a Christmas goose. Why, it just isn’t your day.”