On the fifth day of their journey, a Saturday, they came to a village the ashes of which were still hot and smoking. That wasn’t all—over a dozen corpses could be seen at various stages of carbonisation. Mořic the Scrapper tracked down and dragged out from a nearby potato cellar two living people—an old man and a young girl. The girl had a blonde plait and a grey frock full of holes burned into it by sparks. The old man had two teeth—one above, the other below—in a bushy white beard.
“Fell on us,” he explained incoherently in answer when asked what had happened.
“Who?”
“Them ones.”
Enquiries into who “them ones” were achieved nothing. The mumbling old man was unable to describe or name “them ones” beyond calling them “rascals,” “rogues,” “devils” and “God strike them down.” Once or twice, he also used another expression—“martauz”—that Reynevan had never encountered before and didn’t know.
“It’s from Hungarian.” Scharley frowned and surprise could be heard in his voice. “They call slave traders and kidnappers ‘martahuzes.’ The old man probably meant that the villagers were abducted. Taken into captivity.”
“Who could have done it?” said Reynevan, sighing. “The papists? I thought we controlled this region.”
Scharley bristled somewhat at the “we.” And Berengar Tauler smiled.
“Our destination, Trosky Castle, is barely two miles from here,” Tauler calmly explained, “and not without reason do they call Lord Bergow a Hussite-killer. Also nearby are Kost, Hrubý Rohozec, Skála and Frýdštejn—all bastions of the lords of the Catholic Landfried. The seats of knights loyal to King Sigismund.”
“You know both the locality and those knights,” said Reynevan, watching the old man and the little girl with the plait ravenously gulping down the pieces of bread Samson was giving them. “You’re pretty well informed. Isn’t it time you revealed your information source?”
“Perhaps it is,” Tauler agreed. “It’s like this: my family have been vassals of the Bergows for years. We travelled with them to Bohemia from Thuringia, where the Bergow family supported the Lord of Lipa in a rebellion against King Henry of Bohemia. My father served Sir Otto the Senior of Bergow, the Lord of Bílina. I served Otto the Younger at Trosky for some time, but no longer. That, though, is a personal matter.”
“Personal, you say?”
“I do.”
“Then we’d like you to lead the march, Brother Berengar,” said Scharley coldly. “Up to the front with you—to the place reserved for experts in the land and its inhabitants.”
The following day was Sunday. Being completely preoccupied with other things, they would never have realised. Not even the distant sound of some bells tolling aroused any associations, nor reminded them of anything—neither Reynevan, nor Samson, nor Tauler and Baťa, never mind Scharley, for Scharley usually made light of both holidays and the Third Commandment. Unlike, it turned out, the Cherethites and Pelethites, in other words Mořic the Scrapper et consortes. All ten of them, having seen a cross at a junction, rode over to it, dismounted, knelt down in a circle and began to pray. Very zealously and very loudly.
“That bell may be Jičín.” Scharley gestured with his head, without dismounting, “Tauler?”
“Perhaps. Let’s be cautious. We must avoid people recognising us.”
“More specifically, recognising you,” the penitent snorted, “and recalling those personal matters. I wonder how grave they were.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Oh, but it is,” countered Scharley, “because it determines how Lord Bergow remembers you. If unfavourably, as I suspect—”
“Not your concern,” Tauler interrupted. “What’s important is what I promised you. I know how to get into Trosky.”
“How is that?”
“There is a way. If nothing’s changed—”
Tauler broke off on seeing Amadej Baťa’s face. And his eyes grow wide.
The road heading north vanished between two hillocks, from where several horsemen, until then unseen, were riding slowly out. Plenty of horsemen, actually, riding as a party numbering at least twenty horse, and the hillocks could easily have been hiding the same amount again.
The detachment consisted mainly of foot soldiers, grey crossbowmen and lancers led by eight knights and esquires, two of whom were dressed in full plate. One of them bore a large red cross on his breastplate. Scharley swore.
Tauler swore. Baťa swore. The Cherethites and Pelethites looked on open-mouthed, still kneeling and with hands held together in prayer.
To begin with, the knights in armour were just as astonished as them but took a little longer to come to their senses. Before the one with the cross—no doubt the commander—had raised a hand and shouted a command, Tauler, Baťa and Scharley were already riding hard, Samson and Reynevan were spurring their horses, and the Cherethites and Pelethites were swinging themselves into the saddle. The knight’s order was directed mainly at the crossbowmen. Before Mořic the Scrapper’s men were able to get away, a hail of bolts fell on them. One man tumbled from his horse—it might have been Warrior, or possibly Dung, Reynevan couldn’t tell. He was too busy saving his own skin.
He hurtled on at breakneck speed through a grove and a clump of birch trees; the white trunks flashed by. One of the Cherethites overtook him, galloping frantically after Tauler, Scharley and Baťa. Samson’s horse was wheezing alongside. Behind them came the thudding of hooves and the shouts of their pursuers. And suddenly the high-pitched, dreadful cry of somebody being caught. A moment later, another man was intercepted.
They hurtled into a ravine, narrow but widening and leading towards a small river. Just ahead of him, Scharley, Baťa and Tauler were splashing through it. They climbed up the far bank and then the side of the ravine. The slope turned out to be muddy and Tauler’s horse slipped, sliding back onto its haunches, neighing in fear. Tauler fell from the saddle but immediately sprang up, yelling for help. Mořic the Scrapper and several of his men passed him at a gallop without even lifting their heads from their horses’ manes. Reynevan reached down from the saddle, held out a hand and Tauler seized it, swinging himself up behind him. Reynevan shouted and jabbed the horse with his spurs. He appeared to have overcome the steep, slippery slope.
But he had not.
His horse slid back down the muddy ravine and toppled over, kicking frantically and unseating both riders. Reynevan shielded his head with both hands, tried to roll away but didn’t manage to. His foot was caught in the stirrup and being squeezed painfully as the horse thrashed about. Tauler, who had been dazed by the fall, got to his feet only to be kicked in the head. Hard. With a resounding thump.
Somebody grabbed Reynevan by the arm and tugged him. He cried in pain, but his foot was jerked out of the twisted stirrup leathers. The horse struggled to its feet and ran away. Reynevan stood up, saw Samson on his feet and then, to his horror, a group of horsemen splashing through the river. They were almost upon them. So close that Reynevan could see their contorted faces. And their bloodied spear blades.