“Whose men were they?” asked the commander of the relief, a long-haired, moustachioed youth as thin as a rake. “They sped away too fast for me to identify them. You saw them close up. So? Brother Bielawa!”

Reynevan knew the man asking the questions. He had met him in Hradec Králové two years before. It was Hejtman Jan Čapek of Sány, who was advancing rapidly through the Orphans’ ranks. The cavalry bearing Chalices on their chests who had come to their aid were Orphans. The Warriors of God thus christened themselves after having been “orphaned” when their beloved and revered leader, the great Jan Žižka of Trocnov, died.

“Reynevan! I’m talking to you!”

“Apart from the foot soldiers, there were eight more armoured men,” he calculated. “Two knights and six esquires. That’s one of them, over there, being bound. The commander had a cross on his armour, and pliers or pincers on his shield… Black on a silver field…”

“As I suspected.” Jan Čapek of Sány grimaced. “Bohuš of Kováň, the Lord of Frýdštejn. A brigand and traitor! Oh well, pity he managed to escape… I’d have flayed him… And what are you doing here? Where did you come from? Eh? Brother Scharley?”

“We’re travelling.”

“Travelling,” repeated Čapek. “Well, you were fortunate. If we hadn’t arrived in time, you’d have travelled vertically for the last leg of your journey, dropping from a branch with a rope around your necks. Lord Bohuš likes to trim trees with hanged men. We have scores to settle with him, oh yes—”

“Does this Lord Bohuš,” Reynevan suddenly recalled, “by any chance trade in people? Slaves? Is he what they call a martahuz?”

“A queer name.” The Hejtman of the Orphans frowned. “It’s true that Bohuš of Kováň shows no mercy to folk of our faith. Anyone he catches alive he strings up at once from the nearest tree. If he manages to catch one of our priests, he burns him at the stake, publicly, as a terrible warning. But I’ve never heard of him taking slaves. You, let me tell you, were lucky. You escaped with your lives—”

“Not everyone.”

“That’s life.” Čapek spat. “In a moment we’ll make a burial mound. How many can that be? The Czech lands are so full of burial mounds and graves, we’re beginning to run out of space… That one there? Also dead?”

“He’s alive,” replied Amadej Baťa, who was kneeling beside Tauler with Samson, “but each time he opens his eyes he closes them again…”

“A horse kicked him.”

“Well,” said Čapek, sighing, “that’s his misfortune. And we don’t have a medic.”

“We do.” Reynevan unfastened a bag. “I’ll tend to him.”

Although he didn’t usually, Reynevan fell asleep in the saddle. He would have fallen had Samson, who was riding beside him, not held him up.

“Where are we?”