He tripped. On a body. Lying on the ground, right by the threshold to a cottage, was a man. Reynevan recognised him at once. It was one of the men from the tavern, the one with the bushy eyebrows. Now that the hood and hat had fallen off, a tonsure was visible, shaved down all the way to a thin ring of hair above the ears. He was lying in a pool of blood. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

A crossbow bolt slammed into the beam above Reynevan’s head with such force that straw fell from the roof of the porch. Reynevan jumped aside and cowered as another bolt thudded into the whitewashed wall right beside his face, sprinkling him with lime dust. He fled in panic; seeing to his left the black abyss of the lane, he ducked into it without hesitation. The fletching of a third bolt hissed beside his ear.

He cleared some barrels and a muck heap and ran into an arcade. And collided with somebody. So hard that they both fell down.

The stranger was first to his feet. It was the other man from the tavern, the one with the shiny face. He also had a tonsure. Reynevan picked up a thick log from a pile by the wall and aimed a blow at him.

“No!” cried the fellow with the tonsure, retreating against the wall. “No! I’m not—”

He spluttered and puked blood. He didn’t fall but remained suspended. A bolt was sticking out under his chin, pinning him to a post. Reynevan hadn’t even heard the whistle. He cowered and rushed into the lane.

“You! Stop!”

He stopped so abruptly that he skidded over the slippery grass, straight in front of a horse. His very own horse. The bay from the Green Lady whose reins were being held by the tall, swarthy character resembling a journeyman.

“Into the saddle,” he commanded hoarsely, shoving the reins into his hand. “Into the saddle, Reynevan of Bielawa. Ride! And don’t stop.”

“Who are you?”

“No one. Ride! Don’t tarry!”

He obeyed.

He didn’t ride far; the night was pitch-black and dreadfully cold. After happening on a hayrick by the road, Reynevan buried himself deep in the hay. His teeth were chattering. From cold and fear.

Someone had made an attempt on his life in Ciepłowody. But who? Biberstein, having given the matter more thought?

Duke Jan’s thugs, who might have been tracking him? The bishop’s servants? The Inquisition? Who were the men with shaved heads who were watching him in the tavern? And why were they killed? Who was the character resembling an apprentice who saved him?

He lost himself in speculations. And fell asleep, utterly confused.