“As I listen,” Lothar Gersdorf said as he approached and raised his head proudly, “I truly wonder who has lost his mind: me or you. Lord Rožmberk and the Germans were paying for gentlemen, for noblemen, for knights. And what are you selling here? Motley beggars! Go on, catch and offer me Rohač of Dube, give me Ambrož, Královec, the Zmrzlíky brothers, Jan Černín, Kolúch or Čapek of Sány. I’ll spend my silver on them. But I don’t intend to waste my money on these beggars. What good are beggars to me?”
“These beggars,” Lord Bergow said without lowering his gaze, “will scream and howl for mercy in the Czech language at the stake. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Biberstein, nodding coldly. “In our towns and cities, people tremble with fear before Czechs, fall into panic. They remember what happened in May.”
“Agreed,” Lutpold Köckeritz confirmed gloomily. “The people of Frydland, Žitava, Zgorzelec and Lwówek looked at the Hussites from the walls. But though the towns were defended and the attacks successfully repulsed, people still fall silent in horror whenever somebody mentions the dreadful fate of Ostritz, Bernstadt, Lubań and Złotoryja. One must show these people something to raise their spirits. The best thing being the sight of a Czech Hussite on the scaffold. Go on then, Otto, name your price. If it’s sensible, I’ll consider it… I say! I say! Control that mare, Douce!”
The page, the boy in the beret with feathers showing off on a horse, had trotted over to the group so fast she almost rode right into the knights. No page, squire or cadet would have dared to make such a display, conscious of the consequences, which included a flogging. The page in question evidently wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Probably because she wasn’t a page.
Under the rakishly tilted beret, blue eyes the colour of a mountain lake, bold to the point of insolence and framed by what must have been half-inch eyelashes, peeped at the knights. The rapaciously retroussé nose clashed somewhat with the blonde locks, ruddy cheeks and cherubic lips, but the overall effect caused a strange sensation in the region that poets used to call euphemistically circa pectora.
The girl—who was fifteen at most—was wearing a white hemstitched blouse and a waistcoat of scarlet satin. A man’s jerkin with a sable collar in the most fashionable style completed the outfit, with her arms stuck through the side seams so that the sleeves hung freely to the back and waved behind delightfully in the gallop.
“If I may, noble gentlemen.” Lutpold Köckeritz presented her with a slight sneer. “This knave juggling a horse is my niece, the gentle-born Miss Douce of Pack.”
The knights—all of them, including the older and more dignified—fell silent and goggled. Douce of Pack reined around her mount, an elegant dark bay mare.
“You promised, Uncle dear,” she said loudly. Her voice was not especially pleasant. Eliminating—although not for everyone—the charm and effect caused by the first impression.
“I made a promise and I shall keep it,” said Köckeritz, frowning. “Be patient. It doesn’t do to—”
“You promised, you promised! I want to now, this minute! I’m bored!”
“The Devil take it! Very well. I shall give you one. Choose. Sir Otto, I’ll take one of them. Without haggling. I’ll pay whatever price you name. We’ll settle up afterwards. I promised the wench I’d give her one and you see for yourselves how fussy she is… So, no matter the cost…”
Lord Bergow tore his gaze from the girl’s thigh and cleared his throat, finally understanding what it was all about.
“There is no cost,” he said, bowing. “Let it be a gift from me. In honour of her beauty and grace. Please choose, m’lady.”
Douce of Pack returned the greeting from the saddle and smiled. With seductive charm. Then paraded before the dumbstruck knights, making the mare take small steps as she rode over to the captives.
“That one!”
She has taken a vow, thought Reynevan, watching the servants pull the apprentice from Jaromierz out of the row. She has taken a vow of charity and promised to free somebody. The carpenter is lucky. It’s a sheer miracle… And I could have asked him to inform Scharley. Pity…
“Flee,” hissed the lass, leaning down from the saddle and pointing to the gate. “Run!”
“No!” yelled Reynevan, understanding too late. “Don’t—”
He broke off as one of the martahuzes hit him with the back of his hand. And the journeyman carpenter set off at a run towards the courtyard. He ran fast. But didn’t get far. Douce of Pack seized a javelin from one of the mounted lancers at full gallop, caught up with the apprentice almost at the gate and hurled the weapon in full flight, powerfully, from the shoulder. The javelin struck him in the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades, the tip emerging beneath his breastbone with a fountain of blood. The apprentice fell, legs kicking, curled up and stopped moving. The girl reined her horse around indifferently and paraded across the courtyard. The horseshoes rang rhythmically on the stone flags.
“Is that usual for her?” Ulrik Biberstein asked, curiously but coldly.
“Was she born like it?” Lothar Gersdorf asked, by no means more warmly. “Or did she acquire it?”
“She ought to be sent into the forest after wild boar.” Janko Schaff cleared his throat. “What she kills could at least be eaten…”
“She lost interest in boar long ago,” said Köckeritz gloomily. “Young people today… But what to do, she’s kin…”
Douce of Pack trotted closer. Close enough for them to see the look in her eyes.
“I want one more, Uncle dear,” she said, shoving her crotch against the pommel. “One more.”
Köckeritz looked even gloomier, but before he could say anything, Hartung Klüx forestalled him. The Lord of Czocha Castle was still staring at Douce as though bewitched. Now he stepped forward, removed his bell-shaped cap and bowed low.
“I would be honoured to give the noble lady what she requests,” he said, “in homage to her beauty. Sir Otto?”
“Of course, of course.” Lord Bergow waved a dismissive hand. “Please choose. You can pay me later.”
The women behind Reynevan began to sob. And he knew. Before he felt the horse’s hot breath over him. Before he saw the eyes above him. Eyes the colour of a mountain lake. Beautiful. Enchanting. And absolutely inhuman.
“This one.”
“He doesn’t come cheap,” said Pimple-Face, bent over in a bow. “He’s the dearest… A singular Hussite, so the price is singular…”
“I shall not bargain with you, boor.” Klüx clenched his jaw. “You will not name the price. And for the maiden I shall pay any price. Seize him!”
The pikemen dragged Reynevan out, pushed him right in front of the dark bay mare’s chest and its ornate peytral shot with gold thread.
“Run.”
“No.”
“Oh, he resists?” Douce of Pack leaned down from the saddle and fixed him with a piercing gaze. “You won’t run? Stay there then. Think it makes any difference to me? I’ll ride up and run you through. But I’ll wager you won’t stand still; you’ll be off like a shot. And then you’ll pay for your pride. I’ll stick you like a pig!”