The following day was Sunday. Being completely preoccupied with other things, they would never have realised. Not even the distant sound of some bells tolling aroused any associations, nor reminded them of anything—neither Reynevan, nor Samson, nor Tauler and Baťa, never mind Scharley, for Scharley usually made light of both holidays and the Third Commandment. Unlike, it turned out, the Cherethites and Pelethites, in other words Mořic the Scrapper et consortes. All ten of them, having seen a cross at a junction, rode over to it, dismounted, knelt down in a circle and began to pray. Very zealously and very loudly.

“That bell may be Jičín.” Scharley gestured with his head, without dismounting, “Tauler?”

“Perhaps. Let’s be cautious. We must avoid people recognising us.”

“More specifically, recognising you,” the penitent snorted, “and recalling those personal matters. I wonder how grave they were.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but it is,” countered Scharley, “because it determines how Lord Bergow remembers you. If unfavourably, as I suspect—”

“Not your concern,” Tauler interrupted. “What’s important is what I promised you. I know how to get into Trosky.”

“How is that?”

“There is a way. If nothing’s changed—”

Tauler broke off on seeing Amadej Baťa’s face. And his eyes grow wide.

The road heading north vanished between two hillocks, from where several horsemen, until then unseen, were riding slowly out. Plenty of horsemen, actually, riding as a party numbering at least twenty horse, and the hillocks could easily have been hiding the same amount again.

The detachment consisted mainly of foot soldiers, grey crossbowmen and lancers led by eight knights and esquires, two of whom were dressed in full plate. One of them bore a large red cross on his breastplate. Scharley swore.

Tauler swore. Baťa swore. The Cherethites and Pelethites looked on open-mouthed, still kneeling and with hands held together in prayer.

To begin with, the knights in armour were just as astonished as them but took a little longer to come to their senses. Before the one with the cross—no doubt the commander—had raised a hand and shouted a command, Tauler, Baťa and Scharley were already riding hard, Samson and Reynevan were spurring their horses, and the Cherethites and Pelethites were swinging themselves into the saddle. The knight’s order was directed mainly at the crossbowmen. Before Mořic the Scrapper’s men were able to get away, a hail of bolts fell on them. One man tumbled from his horse—it might have been Warrior, or possibly Dung, Reynevan couldn’t tell. He was too busy saving his own skin.