The castle, thought Reynevan, wiping his nose on his collar, where my Nicolette is. And my son.

They reached the village of Hermsdorf around noon. They speeded up, spurring the horses, anxiously glancing towards the granite rock and tower of Chojnik Castle rising above the village. Mikuláš Dachs, warning against possible tricks by potential pursuers, ordered them to be particularly vigilant in the vicinity of Chojnik. Common sense suggested that Janek Schaff couldn’t be in the castle as his trip through the Karkonosze wilderness and valleys must have taken him considerably longer than their route along the highway. But their anxiety didn’t begin to leave them until the castle vanished from sight.

In the valley, they passed Cieplice, a village well known for its warm springs and healing waters. They soon saw Jelenia Góra, the spire of the parish church and the tower of the castle rising above the town, which was allegedly built by Bolesław the Wrymouth, Duke of Lesser Poland, three hundred years earlier and enlarged two hundred years later by his great-great-something grandson.

The escort’s leader, Liebenthal, reined his horse around, rode over and rested his stirrup against Reynevan’s. Then drew a knife and cut the rope binding his wrists.

“We’re going through the town,” he said dryly. “I don’t want people to stare. Or for tongues to wag. Do you understand?”

“I understand and thank you.”

“Thank me tomorrow. For know this: any tricks and I’ll use this blade to cut off your ears. I swear on the Holy Trinity that I will. Even if I am punished by the Bibersteins, I’ll cut off your ears. Beware.”

“Beware also,” added Priedlanz, the one with the fair moustache, “that even though we hold you captive, you can expect worse treatment from the others. Remember what Dachs said—the men who are pursuing you are planning torture and death for you. And can we be sure who’s following us? Foltsch, perhaps, and the other one, Warnsdorf of Rohožec. Bergow, perhaps? Klüx? Janko Schaff? And these lands, know this, are the estates of Schaff and his relatives and comrades—the Nimpcz, Zedlitz and Redern families. Even if you escaped from us you wouldn’t get far. You’d be caught by peasants and they’d turn you over to their masters.”

“Without a doubt,” said the third member of the escort, nodding in agreement. “In sooth, better let us deliver you to Stolz. And count on Sir Jan Biberstein’s mercy.”

“I shan’t try to escape,” Reynevan assured them, rubbing his wrists. “I’m not afraid of Jan Biberstein, for I don’t consider myself guilty. I shall prove my innocence.”

“Amen,” summed up Liebenthal. “Let us ride, then.”