Lord Bergow tore his gaze from the girl’s thigh and cleared his throat, finally understanding what it was all about.

“There is no cost,” he said, bowing. “Let it be a gift from me. In honour of her beauty and grace. Please choose, m’lady.”

Douce of Pack returned the greeting from the saddle and smiled. With seductive charm. Then paraded before the dumbstruck knights, making the mare take small steps as she rode over to the captives.

“That one!”

She has taken a vow, thought Reynevan, watching the servants pull the apprentice from Jaromierz out of the row. She has taken a vow of charity and promised to free somebody. The carpenter is lucky. It’s a sheer miracle… And I could have asked him to inform Scharley. Pity…

“Flee,” hissed the lass, leaning down from the saddle and pointing to the gate. “Run!”

“No!” yelled Reynevan, understanding too late. “Don’t—”

He broke off as one of the martahuzes hit him with the back of his hand. And the journeyman carpenter set off at a run towards the courtyard. He ran fast. But didn’t get far. Douce of Pack seized a javelin from one of the mounted lancers at full gallop, caught up with the apprentice almost at the gate and hurled the weapon in full flight, powerfully, from the shoulder. The javelin struck him in the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades, the tip emerging beneath his breastbone with a fountain of blood. The apprentice fell, legs kicking, curled up and stopped moving. The girl reined her horse around indifferently and paraded across the courtyard. The horseshoes rang rhythmically on the stone flags.

“Is that usual for her?” Ulrik Biberstein asked, curiously but coldly.

“Was she born like it?” Lothar Gersdorf asked, by no means more warmly. “Or did she acquire it?”

“She ought to be sent into the forest after wild boar.” Janko Schaff cleared his throat. “What she kills could at least be eaten…”

“She lost interest in boar long ago,” said Köckeritz gloomily. “Young people today… But what to do, she’s kin…”

Douce of Pack trotted closer. Close enough for them to see the look in her eyes.

“I want one more, Uncle dear,” she said, shoving her crotch against the pommel. “One more.”

Köckeritz looked even gloomier, but before he could say anything, Hartung Klüx forestalled him. The Lord of Czocha Castle was still staring at Douce as though bewitched. Now he stepped forward, removed his bell-shaped cap and bowed low.

“I would be honoured to give the noble lady what she requests,” he said, “in homage to her beauty. Sir Otto?”

“Of course, of course.” Lord Bergow waved a dismissive hand. “Please choose. You can pay me later.”