‘Don’t speak, my liege, at the wrong time. For I’ll tell you more, that the most menacing hags, the countesses and duchesses of the witchly state, oh, ho, ho, they don’t ride on brooms, or on peels or in mortars, no! Those ones gallop on their black cats!’

‘He, he, he, he!’

‘It be the truth! For on Samhain Eve, on that one and only night of the year, hags’ cats turn into mares as black as pitch. And woe betide he who on a night as black as a pall hears the clatter of hooves and sees a hag on a black mare. He who meets such a witch will not shun death. The witch will twist him around like a leaf blown in the wind and carry him off to the beyond!’

‘You can finish when we return! And come up with a good tale, you bloody beggar, and make ready your pipes! When we return, there’ll be revels here! There’ll be dancing and the blacksmith’s maid will be dandled… What is it, Rispat?’

Rispat La Pointe, who had gone out onto the porch to relieve himself, returned at a run with a face as white as snow. He was gesticulating frantically, pointing at the door. He didn’t manage to utter a word. And there was no need. A horse neighed loudly from the courtyard.

‘The black mare,’ said Fripp, his face almost stuck to the parchment. ‘The same black mare. It’s her.’

‘A witch?’

‘It’s Falka, you dolt.’

‘It’s her ghost!’ Rispat sucked in air. ‘A phantom! She can’t have survived! She died and is returned as a spectre! On the night of Samhain…’

‘She will come at night like a black pall,’ muttered the beggar, pressing the empty mug to his belly. ‘And who shall meet her will not avoid death…’

‘Weapons, get your weapons,’ Fripp said excitedly. ‘Quickly! Cover the door from both sides! Don’t you understand? We’ve struck lucky! Falka doesn’t know about us, she’s come here to get warm, cold and hunger have driven her out of her hideout! Straight into our arms! Tawny Owl and Rience will shower us with gold! Get your weapons…’

The door creaked.

The beggar hunched over the table and squinted. His sight was poor. His eyes were old and ruined, fogged and chronically sore. On top of that it was gloomy and smoky in the tavern. So the beggar could barely see the slender figure that had entered the main chamber from the hallway, dressed in a jerkin of muskrat pelts, wearing a hood and shawl which covered her face. The beggar had good hearing, though. He heard the soft cry of one of the serving wenches, the clatter of the other’s clogs and the innkeeper’s hushed curse. He heard the scraping of swords in scabbards. And Cyprian Fripp’s quiet, scornful voice: