The Green Lady hurried, forcing her entourage to make haste. They headed north, towards the rocks and hills. They rode swiftly, the misty Ślęża massif ahead of them and the blue Rychleby and Jeseníky behind them. Reynevan rode at the end of the procession, not really knowing where to or why. He hadn’t yet recovered his composure. The ride didn’t last long, however. The Green Lady suddenly gave the order to stop, then indicated with a movement of her head for Reynevan to ride behind her.

There was a penitentiary cross standing at the foot of the hill. Crosses like that usually made Reynevan ponder and prompted him to contemplate. Now the cross didn’t evoke anything.

“Dismount.”

He did as he was told. She stood before him, the wind blowing her cape around, making it cling to her.

“We shall part here,” she said. “I’m going to Strzelin and from there home to Schönau. Your company would not be politic. Understand? Cope by yourself.”

He nodded. She moved close to him and looked him in the eyes. Briefly. And then looked away.

“You seduced my daughter, you scoundrel,” she said softly. “And I… I, rather than slapping you across the face and showing you contempt, have to blush, and in my heart be grateful that you… You know what. Ha, you’re also blushing? Good. That’s a comfort, at least. A paltry one, but still.”

She bit her lips.

“I am Agnes of Apolda. The wife of Cup-Bearer Berthold Apolda. The mother of Jutta of Apolda.”

“I presumed so.”

“Better late than never.”

“I wonder when you guessed.”

“Earlier. But never mind. Fortune favours you,” she continued. “You’re a perfect example of fortune’s darling. But stop tempting fate. Flee. Vanish from Silesia, for ever if possible. You’re not safe here. Biberstein wasn’t your only enemy. You have plenty, and sooner or later one of them will catch you and kill you.”

“I have to stay,” he said, biting his lips. “I won’t go until I see—”

“My daughter, yes?” She squinted dangerously. “I forbid you. I’m sorry, but I won’t consent to the liaison. You aren’t a worthy match for Jutta. Jan of Ziębice has indeed confiscated everything you owned. I’m not as calculated as Biberstein and could survive having a pauper for a son-in-law, wealthy only in heart, may love conquer all, but I won’t let my daughter marry a hunted outlaw. You, if you have any decency at all—and I know you do—won’t allow your enemies to follow your trail to her. You won’t expose her to danger and harm. Confirm that.”

“I confirm. But I’d like to—”