“I must have sent her ten letters,” Reynevan said bitterly. “More than ten, I’d say. I know we’re at war and times are uncertain, but one of the letters must have reached her. Why didn’t she reply? Why didn’t she send word? Why did I have to find out about my own son from Neplach?”

The penitent tugged on the horse’s bit. “The conclusion suggests itself,” he said, sighing. “She has no desire to see you at all. It might sound cruel, but it’s only logical. Perhaps even—”

“Perhaps even what?”

“Perhaps he isn’t even your son? There, there, calm down, control yourself! I was only thinking aloud. But on the other hand—”

“On the other hand, what?”

“It might be that… Oh well, no! Never mind. If I say it, you’ll do something foolish.”

“Speak, damn it!”

“You might not have received answers to your letters because old Biberstein is ashamed and furious and has locked his daughter and the little bastard up in the tower… Why, no, that’s utterly banal and sentimental. Like Aucassin et Nicolette… By the saints, don’t make faces like that, laddie, you’re frightening me.”

“Don’t talk nonsense and I won’t. Agreed?”

“By all means.”

After taking a detour around Prague, they headed north. Rain was falling relentlessly; when it stopped pouring, it began to spit, and when it stopped spitting, it began to drizzle. The mounted squad became bogged down in the mud and was making slow progress—in two days they had only reached the Labe and the bridge linking Stará Boleslav to Brandýs. The following day, having skirted around the town, they continued on their way towards the Nymburk road.

Samson Honeypot—riding behind Scharley and Reynevan—said nothing, but sighed from time to time. Berengar Tauler and Amadej Baťa, riding behind Samson, were deep in conversation. The conversation—perhaps because of the weather—quite often descended into a quarrel, which was fortunately as short-lived as it was sudden. And bringing up the rear, wet and gloomy, rode the Cherethites and Pelethites. Unfortunately.