Behind the King's horse that stands still, the rest of the hunting procession gradually comes to a halt. A few of the riders gather around the King, who bends slightly in his saddle, his long black hair obscuring his face. Ferox leans over, asking him something. The King bends even more and then, suddenly, he begins to slide off his horse.

There's a general gasp of surprise from the riders. Ferox grabs his father but struggles to both hold his horse still and sustain the new weight; the fact that the King's left foot is still trapped in the stirrup makes the situation even more awkward. The other riders rush to help but only add to the confusion. Horses neigh and squeal in the sudden commotion.

I glance at Oliver. He retrieves the cow horn bugle that he carried on a leather strap behind his back and gets up to his feet. Then, he brings the bugle to his lips.

It sounds nothing like the trumpets, but it's loud enough to carry across the market square. All the eyes turn to Oliver. For a second, he's the only man standing.

Then I join him.

And then, the whole crowd rises like a tide. Out of each ten people who have come to the market today, nine had a different purpose than to buy a dozen eggs or a new hat. They came for a new life—and for revenge.

The shoemaker, the milkman, the buyers and the sellers—they all rise, and the crowd hits the group of riders like a wave smashing on a cliff.

Before I know it, I'm running, together with Oliver and the others, towards the bridge. The crowd will take care of the riders, but we must prevent the gates from closing.

After a momentary confusion, the riders seem to grasp the situation, and among the roar of the attacking people I hear the metal sounds of swords and the first screams of pain. A few of the nobles at the end of the procession have been quick thinking enough to turn back before the crowd has surrounded them. As we run across the bridge, they gallop past us, seeking protection behind the walls. Luckily for us, those are the cowardly ones, more interested in saving their hide than attacking us.

While running, I look back and see the riders surrounded by the crowd. Swords rise and fall, and a couple of nobles are being dragged off their horses. A fountain of blood shoots momentarily into the air, gleaming red in the sunshine. Bile rises at the back of my throat. This is real, we have started it, and now there's no way back.

Accompanied by a dozen of our followers, we sprint into the cool shadows of the gatehouse, expecting a small army of guards to greet us. Yet the passageway is strangely empty, and the inner gates at the end of it stand as open as the outer ones. Nobody is trying to shut them or to lower the portcullis. I glance up to check the arrows slates in the ceiling and the walls, but it seems that nobody is intending to shoot at us.

This scenario is so much better than what we expected that it gives me pause, but it would be ridiculous to stop now. We proceed with caution, and at the end of the passageway, we find a couple of guards. They writhe on the floor in pain. I don't see any blood but it is clear someone has got to them before us. I exchange confused looks with Oliver. He shrugs, and shouts:

"Lets go!"

We run through the tall inner gates and burst into the castle yard. Next to the guards station, two more soldiers writhe on the ground, as if some invisible hand is squeezing their insides. Again, I see no blood, but their agony is unmistakable. Apart from them, the yard contains only a few servants and slaves, who stare at us with shocked expressions.

As our people keep streaming into the yard, a rumbling sound comes from behind us, and a white horse flashes by me, barely recognizable under the red splashes covering its hide.

"Close the gates!" shouts Hadrian, turning his horse around. He looks about him wildly, a bloodied longsword in in his hand, a smudge of red on his cheek, a piece of his sleeve torn off and hanging down. More riders follow him, and among them comes Ferox, bloodied and bruised, with the King, either dead or unconscious, thrown across his saddle. Behind them, on the bridge, three more riders are swinging their swords, dealing blow to the crowd mostly armed with sticks and agricultural appliances.

One of them turns and I recognize Jasper.

"Hadrian, shut the gates!" he yells. "We can't hold them much longer!"

"Shut the damn gates!" shouts Hadrian again, and then he seems to finally register that there's no guards around to carry out his orders, and that the yard is filling with rebels who have managed to pass Jasper and his comrades.

Hadrian backs his horse away from the gates, looking around. For a moment his eyes stop on me, and he frowns, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. Then, he turns his horse around, and rides after his brother and the other horsemen through the main entrance into the Great Hall.

We rush after them, but the high doors slam closed before we reach them.

"It doesn’t matter." Oliver turns to me, smiling widely. "We're here. The fools think they're safe inside. It's time to surprise them again."

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