And then turned to Bergow and an older knight in a quilted doublet standing alongside, with a dignified face and proudly pouting mouth. Reynevan was certain he’d seen him before somewhere. After a moment’s thought, he realised he also knew the man in the bell-shaped cap.

“I don’t know, I truly don’t know, Sir Otto.” The dignified man turned to Lord Bergow, spreading his arms. “We have orders from the patriciate of the Six Cities. Bautzen placed an order with me. Sir Hartung Klüx of Czocha, here present, represents the interests of Zgorzelec; Sir Lutpold of Köckeritz, who will soon be here, represents Löbau. But our orders are for Hussites. Not some chance and lamentable rabble.”

Otto of Bergow shrugged. “What can I say, noble Sir Lothar of Gersdorf? Just one thing: this chance rabble will be begging for mercy in Czech before they burn at the stake in Bautzen or Zgorzelec. Like genuine Hussites. Indistinguishable.”

Lothar Gersdorf nodded in understanding and in agreement with the logic. And Reynevan now recalled where and when he’d seen him and the handsome, serrated Hartung Klüx in the bell-shaped cap. He’d seen both of them two years before. In Ziębice. At the tournament on the Feast of the Birth of the Virgin Mary.

Gersdorf, Klüx and several of the other knights stepped aside to confer. A handful of knights who had previously been silent also approached the prisoners. Two of them didn’t bear coats of arms. The third, dressed most richly, had on his doublet a shield divided into six vertical silver and red bands, the universally known coat of arms of the Schaff family. Reynevan also remembered seeing Gocze Schaff, the Lord of Gryf Castle, at the Ziębice tournament. So, the man at Trosky must have been his brother Janko, the heir and Lord of Chojnik Castle.

A clanging and thudding of hooves resounded from the gate and guardhouse as a detachment of soldiers rode into the outer bailey. They were preceded by two heralds. One, dressed in white, was carrying a blue standard with three silver lilies. The yellow standard of the other herald bore a red stag’s antler. Reynevan felt a lump in his throat. He knew that coat of arms. More acquaintances had arrived. The new arrivals reined in their horses and dismounted, carelessly tossing the reins to panting servants, then walked up to the lord of the castle and bowed with respect, but proudly. Apart from the pikemen and bowmen, only a young page wearing a large beret with three ostrich plumes remained in the saddle. Indifferent to being thought of as a rogue, a jester and a fool, the page led his horse through a sequence of dressage steps. Horseshoes rang on the cobbles.

“Lord Bergow. We cordially greet you!”

“Lord Biberstein, Lord Köckeritz. May I welcome you warmly.”