They were driven through a narrow gate into a walled outer bailey which narrowed towards the west, overshadowed by the walls of the upper castle. The yokes were removed. Reynevan felt the back of his neck with a numb hand to discover it had been rubbed raw. The journeyman carpenter began to say something to him but broke off with a cry when the thong of a whip struck his back.

“Line up, curs!” Pimple-Face roared. “Stand in line! Keep your traps shut!”

Pushed and prodded, they lined up by the wall. There were thirty-three people with him—Reynevan was only now able to count exactly—including seven women, four old people and three striplings. Neither the old people nor the boys appeared fit for slave labour. He wondered why they’d been captured.

He had no more time to wonder further.

The way to the gate leading to the upper castle from the outer bailey was up a wooden, partially roofed staircase. A group of richly attired men was descending it, to be greeted by the captain of the guard and several vassals at the bottom.

“And what do we have here, Hurkovec?” asked a well-built man with a fair moustache leading them. There was no doubt who he was: his loose-fitting haqueton was decorated with the motif of a winged fish, the crest of the Bergow family. The man was the Lord of Trosky Castle, Otto of Bergow in person.

“What do we have here?” he repeated. “A few peasants, beggars, women and children. I thought, Hurkovec, I’d made a few things clear to you. You were meant to supply me with Hussites, you good-for-nothing. Hussites, not peasants caught at random. Think I shall pay you for peasants? Most of whom are probably mine anyway?”

“As God is my judge.” Pimple-Face beat his breast and bowed low. “May I not live to see tomorrow, Your Lordship! They are Hussites, most surely Hussites. Heretic scum, one and all, true sons of Huss.”

“They don’t look it,” said another knight, young and handsome, wearing a bell-shaped cap over curled hair. Almost every hem of his clothing was finished with rounded serrations, as fashion demanded. “They don’t look it,” he repeated, approaching, covering his nose with a serrated sleeve, “but let us ask for form’s sake. I say, old woman! What are you? Do you venerate Huss as your god?”

“I am innocent! Good sir! I am a poor widow!”

“And you, peasant? Do you receive communion under both kinds?”

“I am not guilty! Mercy!”

“They lie, Your Lordship,” Pimple-Face assured him, bowing. “They lie, the heretical swine, trying to save their skins. Wouldn’t you, in their place?”

The handsome knight glanced at him with vicious contempt, looking as though he’d strike him for such a suggestion. But he confined himself to spitting.