“Indeed,” said Biberstein, nodding coldly. “In our towns and cities, people tremble with fear before Czechs, fall into panic. They remember what happened in May.”

“Agreed,” Lutpold Köckeritz confirmed gloomily. “The people of Frydland, Žitava, Zgorzelec and Lwówek looked at the Hussites from the walls. But though the towns were defended and the attacks successfully repulsed, people still fall silent in horror whenever somebody mentions the dreadful fate of Ostritz, Bernstadt, Lubań and Złotoryja. One must show these people something to raise their spirits. The best thing being the sight of a Czech Hussite on the scaffold. Go on then, Otto, name your price. If it’s sensible, I’ll consider it… I say! I say! Control that mare, Douce!”

The page, the boy in the beret with feathers showing off on a horse, had trotted over to the group so fast she almost rode right into the knights. No page, squire or cadet would have dared to make such a display, conscious of the consequences, which included a flogging. The page in question evidently wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Probably because she wasn’t a page.

Under the rakishly tilted beret, blue eyes the colour of a mountain lake, bold to the point of insolence and framed by what must have been half-inch eyelashes, peeped at the knights. The rapaciously retroussé nose clashed somewhat with the blonde locks, ruddy cheeks and cherubic lips, but the overall effect caused a strange sensation in the region that poets used to call euphemistically circa pectora.

The girl—who was fifteen at most—was wearing a white hemstitched blouse and a waistcoat of scarlet satin. A man’s jerkin with a sable collar in the most fashionable style completed the outfit, with her arms stuck through the side seams so that the sleeves hung freely to the back and waved behind delightfully in the gallop.

“If I may, noble gentlemen.” Lutpold Köckeritz presented her with a slight sneer. “This knave juggling a horse is my niece, the gentle-born Miss Douce of Pack.”

The knights—all of them, including the older and more dignified—fell silent and goggled. Douce of Pack reined around her mount, an elegant dark bay mare.

“You promised, Uncle dear,” she said loudly. Her voice was not especially pleasant. Eliminating—although not for everyone—the charm and effect caused by the first impression.

“I made a promise and I shall keep it,” said Köckeritz, frowning. “Be patient. It doesn’t do to—”

“You promised, you promised! I want to now, this minute! I’m bored!”

“The Devil take it! Very well. I shall give you one. Choose. Sir Otto, I’ll take one of them. Without haggling. I’ll pay whatever price you name. We’ll settle up afterwards. I promised the wench I’d give her one and you see for yourselves how fussy she is… So, no matter the cost…”