“Do you know who I am?”

He nodded stiffly, for a moment unable to utter a word, which was read as insolence. The man with the evil voice punched him in the region of the kidneys. Reynevan had also seen him at Trosky. Mikuláš Dachs, he recalled. A client of the Bibersteins. The burgrave of some castle or other. I forget which.

“I know… I know who you are, Lord Biberstein.”

Ulrik Biberstein sat upright in the saddle, in so doing appearing even taller. He rested a fist in a steel gauntlet on the faulds of his Nuremberg armour.

“You will be punished for what you have done.”

Reynevan didn’t answer, in so doing risking another thump. But this time Mikuláš Dachs let it go.

“Prepare him for the road,” ordered Biberstein. “Give him some warm things so he won’t expire. He’s to arrive at Stolz in one piece and sound in body.”

Three knights rode slowly over from the group near the cottage and came closer. Two were wearing full plate armour, modern and white, with large reinforced left pauldrons and rerebraces, allowing them to do away completely with shields. The third, the youngest, wasn’t wearing plate armour; all he had on under his wolfskin coat was a quilted, slightly grubby doublet. Reynevan recognised him at once.

“The wheel of fortune turns!” Nikel of Keuschburg, the former prisoner at Michalovice Castle, snorted contemptuously. “You had me and now I have you! How do you like it, m’lord heretic? I’m free today, bought out of captivity. And you’re in fetters! With a rope round your neck! Soon to meet the hangman!”

Making his steed take short steps, the youngster rode closer. He clearly intended to force his horse between the Lord of Frydland and Reynevan, but Mikuláš Dachs barred the way.

“What right do you have to take this prisoner, Lord Biberstein?” cried Keuschburg.

Ulrik of Biberstein pouted his lips, with no intention of answering. The squire flushed with anger.

“Yours is a poor example!” he yelled. “An example of private interest! You put the country at risk for some obscure family feud, for personal vengeance and self-seeking scores. It is a shameful deed! Shameful!”

“Master Foltsch,” Biberstein interrupted in a calm voice. “You are a serious fellow, known for your consideration and famed for your good advice. So advise this young pup to shut his trap.”

Keuschburg reached down to his side, but one of the riders caught his arm in an iron gauntlet and squeezed so hard the youth cringed in the saddle. Reynevan guessed who it was; he remembered the stories heard at Michalovice. Hans Foltsch from Roimund Castle. A mercenary from Zgorzelec.