“And you,” said Buko, ignoring the sorcerer, stood over the younger one, who was cringing and had begun to snivel. “You, lassie, wipe your nose and listen carefully. Sit here and wait for the pursuers. They might not have sent anyone after you, but they’ll certainly come after Lady Biberstein. You’ll tell the Lord of Stolz that the ransom for his young daughter will be… five hundred grzywna, or precisely five hundred times three score Prague groschen: a trifle for Biberstein. Sir Jan will be notified of the means of payment. Do you understand? Look at me when I’m talking to you! Do you understand?”

The lass cringed even more but lifted her blue eyes towards Buko and nodded.

“Do you really consider this a good idea?” Tassilo of Tresckow asked seriously.

“Indeed. And that will suffice. We ride.”

Buko turned to face Scharley, Reynevan and Samson.

“You, however—”

“We,” Reynevan interrupted, “would like to ride with you, m’Lord Buko.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We would like to accompany you,” Reynevan, staring at Fair Nicolette, was paying no heed to Scharley’s hissing or Samson’s face. “For safety. If you have nothing against it—”

“Who said I don’t?” asked Buko.

“Well, don’t,” said Notker of Weyrach pointedly. “Why should you? Wouldn’t it be better, given the circumstances, for them to be with us rather than behind us? They wanted, if I recall, to go to Hungary, so it’s on their way…”

“Very well.” Buko nodded. “You will ride with us. To horse, comitiva. Hubert, guard the girl… And you, m’Lord Huon, why are you pulling a face?”

“Think, Buko. Think.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

In which Reynevan, instead of going to Hungary, goes to Castle Bodak in the Golden Mountains. He doesn’t know it, but he will only manage to leave there in omnem ventum.

They travelled along the road to Bardo, quickly at first, often looking back, but soon slowed. The horses were weary and the state of the riders was far from good. Woldan of Osiny, face badly cut by the dented helmet, wasn’t the only man riding hunched over in the saddle, groaning. The others’ injuries, although not as spectacular, were clearly making themselves felt. Notker of Weyrach was grunting and Tassilo of Tresckow was holding his elbow against his belly, trying to find a comfortable position. Kuno of Wittram, grimacing as though he’d drunk Marseilles vinegar, was calling on the saints in hushed tones. Paszko Rymbaba was feeling his side, cursing, spitting on his hand and looking at the saliva.