“How can I counsel him when he speaks the truth?” Foltsch said slowly. “Your prisoner, Sir Ulrik, is a senior Hussite, a comrade of notable local hejtmans, allegedly on good terms with them. He surely knows much about the heretics’ designs and their secret plans. War is upon us, and whoever sees through the enemy’s designs wins out. This captive should be taken to Zgorzelec or Žitava, to be questioned a little and have everything he knows patiently wrung out of him. Thus, I also say: hand him over. For the good of the country, renounce your feud and give him up.”
Ulrik of Biberstein glanced left, glanced right, and the knights, esquires and pikemen responded to his glance by urging their horses ever closer. A squire approached Mikuláš Dachs, who was standing beside Reynevan, with a mighty Zweihänder sword, holding the sheathed weapon so that the hilt was at comfortable arm’s reach. Hans Foltsch saw it all.
“And if I don’t wish to renounce it,” drawled Ulrik of Biberstein with his fist still resting on his side, “what then? Will you strike at me? For the good of the country?”
Foltsch didn’t even twitch. But the burgmen of Roimund and the Zgorzelec men moved their horses closer, directly facing Biberstein’s men. There were a few more of them, Reynevan observed. Swords could be heard grating in scabbards, but Hans Foltsch’s calm was holding everyone back.
“No, Lord Biberstein,” said the Zgorzelec mercenary coldly. “We shall not, for it would please our foes inordinately—when we take up arms against each other, the Hussites rub their hands together. I’ve said what I meant to say.”
“And I heard you.” The Lord of Frydland raised his head. “And so it ends. Farewell. M’Lord Foltsch. M’Lord Warnsdorf.”
Keuschburg disdainfully ignored the farewell and paled with fury.
“Oh no it isn’t!” he yelled. “It’s not the end at all! It will not be left like that! You will answer for this, Lord Biberstein! If not before the courts, then on the duelling ground!”
“I’m accustomed to having people who threaten me with the courts flogged like dogs.” Ulrik Biberstein raised his voice. “So restrain yourself, pup, if you want to keep the skin on your back. I’ll have you beaten here in the mud, not on the duelling ground. You young upstart! What of it, if you mean to marry into the Dohnas? Even if you took a Dohna for your wife you wouldn’t amount to anything. How dare you thus address ancient nobility, O son of a freed peasant servant of the Merseburg bishops. You’re ridiculous!”
Keuschburg’s pale face flushed as red as a sliced beetroot and it looked as though he would charge Biberstein with his bare hands. Foltsch grabbed him by the shoulder and the knight addressed as Warnsdorf seized his horse by the bridle. But the rest of the Zgorzelec soldiers were spoiling for a fight. There was a shout, then another, and swords and battleaxes flashed. Spurred horses neighed and blades flashed in the hands of Biberstein’s men. Mikuláš Dachs grasped and raised the two-handed sword.
“Stop!” roared Hans Foltsch. “Stop, dammit! Put away your weapons!”
The men of Roimund and Zgorzelec obeyed him. Reluctantly. Horses snorted, trampling the snow into mud.
“Be on your way,” Ulrik Biberstein said ominously. “Be on your way, Master Foltsch. Right now. Before anything evil happens.”
The snow thawed in no time when a little sunshine came through the clouds. The wind dropped. It became warmer.
Autumn had returned.
Szklarska Poręba—Reynevan now knew the name of the village with the church—emptied somewhat after Foltsch and Warnsdorf’s detachment disappeared into a ravine leading towards Jakub’s Pass, which he had heard separated the Karkonosze from the Izera Mountains. For some time, Mikuláš Dachs watched gloomily as they went and said something to Biberstein, pointing by turns at the men riding away and at Reynevan. Biberstein pouted, eyed the prisoner up and down evilly and nodded. Then issued orders. Dachs bowed.
“Lord Liebenthal!” he called, approaching. “Lord Stročil, Lord Priedlanz, Lord Kuhn! If you would.”
Four knights stepped out from the gathering and walked over, clearly interested but haughtily reluctant. Which didn’t bother Dachs in the slightest.
“The Honourable Sir Ulrik of Biberstein has ordered this rascal delivered to Silesia, to Stolz Castle,” he said, pointing at Reynevan, “and turned over to Sir Jan Biberstein, the brother of the Honourable Ulrik. The prisoner is to arrive there no later than five days’ time, on Monday, for today is Thursday. He is to be delivered alive, healthy and undamaged. Lord Biberstein has entrusted Lord Liebenthal with command of the escort, but all of you will answer for the carrying out of the order with your lives. Do you understand, gentlemen? Lord Liebenthal?”
“Why us?” Liebenthal asked brusquely, rubbing his very well-defined, stubbly black chin. “And why only we four?”
“Because that is what Sir Ulrik ordered. And because I advised him to do so.”
“We thank you warmly,” sneered another of the four, dressed in a beaver hat worn at a rakish angle. “You mean we are to deliver him to Stolz hale and hearty. And if we don’t, we lose our heads. Splendid.”
“And if he tries to flee?” A third man, a beanpole with a fair moustache, gloomily eyed Reynevan up and down. “May we at least lame him?”
“You’d then risk the Lord of Stolz having you lamed, too.”
“Then what?” the moustachioed man continued. “Are we to bind him and deliver him in a sack? Or maybe shove him into an iron barrel like the one Konrad of Głogów kept Henry the Fat in? Or perhaps—”
“Enough!” Dachs cut him off. “The captive is to arrive at Stolz, hale and hearty, in five days. It’s up to you to do it and that’s that. I’ll add that he’d have to be insane to try to escape. Plenty of parties are after him and if caught by any of them he can expect death. And by no means a swift nor an easy one.”
“And what will they do at Stolz? Cover him in blossom, will they?”
“None of my business what they cover him in.” Dachs shrugged. “But I know what awaits him in Zgorzelec, Žitava or Bautzen: torture and the stake. If Bergow or Schaff seize him again, he will surely suffer a nasty death. Thus, I don’t imagine that he’ll try—”
“I shall not try,” announced Reynevan, tired of being silent. “I can give you my word. Swear on the cross and all that is sacred!”
The knights roared with unrestrained and hearty laughter. Tears were running down Dachs’ face.
“Ooh, Lord Bielawa,” he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “You’ve amused me splendidly. You’ll swear, you say? Feel free! But in the meantime, we’ll bind you with a length of stout rope. And we’ll put you on a peasant’s bow-legged nag so you won’t start thinking about galloping. All just to be on the safe side. Nothing personal.”
They set off soon after. In accordance with Dachs’ promise, Reynevan’s arms were tied up, without excessive cruelty but firmly and tightly. In accordance with the promise, he was put on a horse, or rather a hideous, lumbering nag with crooked hind legs, a horse in name only, which was clearly incapable not only of galloping but even trotting. Naturally, there was no point thinking about escaping on such a steed—it wouldn’t have been possible even to overtake a pair of yoked oxen on it.