“How can I counsel him when he speaks the truth?” Foltsch said slowly. “Your prisoner, Sir Ulrik, is a senior Hussite, a comrade of notable local hejtmans, allegedly on good terms with them. He surely knows much about the heretics’ designs and their secret plans. War is upon us, and whoever sees through the enemy’s designs wins out. This captive should be taken to Zgorzelec or Žitava, to be questioned a little and have everything he knows patiently wrung out of him. Thus, I also say: hand him over. For the good of the country, renounce your feud and give him up.”

Ulrik of Biberstein glanced left, glanced right, and the knights, esquires and pikemen responded to his glance by urging their horses ever closer. A squire approached Mikuláš Dachs, who was standing beside Reynevan, with a mighty Zweihänder sword, holding the sheathed weapon so that the hilt was at comfortable arm’s reach. Hans Foltsch saw it all.

“And if I don’t wish to renounce it,” drawled Ulrik of Biberstein with his fist still resting on his side, “what then? Will you strike at me? For the good of the country?”

Foltsch didn’t even twitch. But the burgmen of Roimund and the Zgorzelec men moved their horses closer, directly facing Biberstein’s men. There were a few more of them, Reynevan observed. Swords could be heard grating in scabbards, but Hans Foltsch’s calm was holding everyone back.

“No, Lord Biberstein,” said the Zgorzelec mercenary coldly. “We shall not, for it would please our foes inordinately—when we take up arms against each other, the Hussites rub their hands together. I’ve said what I meant to say.”

“And I heard you.” The Lord of Frydland raised his head. “And so it ends. Farewell. M’Lord Foltsch. M’Lord Warnsdorf.”

Keuschburg disdainfully ignored the farewell and paled with fury.

“Oh no it isn’t!” he yelled. “It’s not the end at all! It will not be left like that! You will answer for this, Lord Biberstein! If not before the courts, then on the duelling ground!”

“I’m accustomed to having people who threaten me with the courts flogged like dogs.” Ulrik Biberstein raised his voice. “So restrain yourself, pup, if you want to keep the skin on your back. I’ll have you beaten here in the mud, not on the duelling ground. You young upstart! What of it, if you mean to marry into the Dohnas? Even if you took a Dohna for your wife you wouldn’t amount to anything. How dare you thus address ancient nobility, O son of a freed peasant servant of the Merseburg bishops. You’re ridiculous!”