Kyrie-eleison, who was pursuing him, naturally didn’t know about the magical straw and measured his length on the doorstep, sliding headlong through pig muck. Right afterwards, Stork of Gorgowice tripped over the talisman and the third thug fell onto Stork, who was cursing vehemently. Reynevan was already in the saddle of the waiting horse, already spurring it to gallop, straight ahead, across the gardens, through cabbage beds and gooseberry hedges. The wind whistled in his ears and he heard curses and the squealing of pigs behind him.

He was among the willows by a drained fishpond when he heard the tramping of hooves and the yelling of his pursuers. Instead of avoiding the fishpond, he skirted around it along the very narrow causeway. His heart missed a few beats each time the causeway subsided beneath the horse’s hooves. But he got away.

His pursuers also hurtled onto the causeway but were less fortunate. The first horse didn’t even make it halfway but slid off neighing and sank up to its girth in sludge. The second horse recoiled, churned up the embankment with its hooves and slid up to its rump in the sticky mud. As the riders yelled and cursed furiously, Reynevan took advantage of the circumstances and the time he had gained. He jabbed his heels into the grey and galloped across the moors towards the tree-covered hills, beyond which he hoped were forests and safety.

Aware that he was taking a risk, he forced the heavily wheezing horse to gallop hard uphill. He didn’t allow the grey to rest at the top, immediately urging it down the sparsely forested hillside. And then, quite unexpectedly, his way was blocked by a rider.

The frightened grey reared up, neighing piercingly. Reynevan somehow managed to stay in the saddle.

“Not bad,” said the horseman. Or rather the Amazon. For it was a young woman, tall, dressed in male attire with a tight velvet jerkin with the ruffled collar of a white shirt spilling out at the neck. A thick, fair plait fell down to her shoulder from beneath a sable calpac decorated with a plume of heron’s feathers and a golden brooch with a sapphire worth probably as much as a fine horse.

“Who’s after you?” she shouted, skilfully controlling her skittish horse. “The law? Speak!”

“I’m not a criminal—”

“For what reason?”

“For love.”

“Ah! I thought so at once. See that row of dark trees? The Stobrawa runs that way. Ride there as quickly as you can and hide among the swamps on the left bank while I draw them away from you. Give me your mantle.”

“What do you mean, m’lady…? How can—?”

“Give me your mantle, I said! You ride well, but I ride better. Oh, what an adventure! Oh, there’ll be a story to tell! Elżbieta and Anka will faint with envy!”