They passed Głubczyce, silent in terror, rode on and saw to their right the Opava Mountains and the Hrubý Jeseník massif. Their route was marked by more and more columns of smoke. Not only Nová Cerekev and Kietrz were burning, but at least five other towns and villages.
They rode up a hill and saw the Tábor advancing: a long column of cavalry, infantry and wagons. They heard the singing in Czech.
O knights of God, make ready for the fight!
Sing ye in praise of the Lord’s peace!
The Antichrist is abroad, fomenting unrest,
Be heedful, his trickery will never cease!
At the front rode standard bearers with banners fluttering above them, including the pennant of the Tábor—white with a gold Chalice and the motto “Veritas vincit”—and a second standard, this one of the field army, also white, with a red Chalice and a gold Host sewn onto it, surrounded by a crown of thorns.
After the standard bearers rode the commanders. Warriors covered in dust and glory; illustrious leaders. Prokop the Shaven, easily recognisable by his frame and huge whiskers. Markolt of Zbraslavice, the celebrated Taborite preacher and ideologist. Like Prokop, dressed in a fur calpac and coat; like Prokop, singing. Also singing was Jaroslav of Bukovina, the commander-in-chief of the Tábor field army. Jan Bleh of Těšnice, the hejtman of the municipal defence army, singing dreadfully out of tune. Beside Bleh, not singing, was Blažek of Kralupy, wearing a tunic with a large red Chalice on his armour and riding a battle stallion. Beside him, Fedor of Ostrog, a Ruthenian prince, warlord and troublemaker, fighting alongside the Hussites. Beyond them followed commanders of the municipal militias: Zikmund of Vranov, Hejtman of Slaný; and Otík of Loza, Hejtman of Nymburk. Behind them came an ally of the Taborites, Sir Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín, in full armour, with his coat of arms on his shield: three red stripes on a silver field. The two knights riding side by side with Zmrzlík also bore coats of arms. The Polish Wieniawa, a black buffalo’s head, could be seen on the gold shield of Dobko Puchała, a veteran of Grunwald, leading a regiment made up of Poles. Jan Tovačovský of Cimburk, commanding a powerful regiment of Moravians, bore silver and red battlements on his shield.
The flowers, the grass and the wind,
weep, O imprudent humankind,
Gold, precious stones, grieve with us!
Angels, archangels, soldiers of Christ’s love,
thrones, apostles, grieve with us.
The wind blew from Jeseníky. It was the eleventh of March, Anno Domini 1428. The Thursday before Laetare Sunday.
A mounted troop. Light cavalry in kettle hats and sallets with spears.
“Urban Horn and Reinmar of Bielawa. The Vogelsang.”
“We know who you are.” The troop’s commander didn’t lower his eyes. “You’ve been expected. Brother Prokop is asking if the coast is clear. Where is the enemy army? At Głubczyce?”
“There’s no one at Głubczyce.” Urban Horn smiled mockingly. “The coast is clear, no one will stand in your way. No one in the region would dare.”
The Głubczyce suburbs were burning, fire quickly consuming the thatched roofs. Smoke was completely veiling the town and the castle, drawing the greedy glances of Taborite commanders. Prokop the Shaven noticed them.
“Leave well alone,” he said, straightening up from a table erected in the middle of the forge. “Don’t touch either Głubczyce or any more neighbouring villages again. Duke Wenceslaus will pay, it has been agreed. We shall keep our word.”
“They don’t keep their promises to us!” growled Preacher Markolt.
“But we do to them.” Prokop cut him off. “For we are the Warriors of God and true Christians. We will keep our word to the Duke of Głubczyce, the heir of Opava. At least as long as the heir of Opava keeps his. But if he betrays us, if he takes up arms against us, then I swear on the Lord’s name he shall only inherit smoke and ash.”
Some of the commanders present in the makeshift headquarters smiled at the thought of the massacre. Jaroslav of Bukovina openly chortled and Dobko Puchała gleefully rubbed his hands together. Jan Bleh grinned, as if already seeing the fire and killing in his mind’s eye. Prokop noticed it all.
“We are entering the bishop’s lands,” he declared, resting a fist on the map lying on the table. “There’ll be enough to burn, enough to plunder—”
“Bishop Konrad,” said Urban Horn, “and Půta of Častolovice are concentrating their forces at Nysa. Jan of Ziębice marches to their aid. Ruprecht, Duke of Lubin and Chojnów, is also approaching, and his brother, Ludwik of Oława.”
“How many of them are there in all?”
Horn looked at Rzehors. Rzehors nodded, knowing that everybody was waiting to see what valuable intelligence the notorious Vogelsang would offer.
Rzehors raised his head after quite a long calculation. “The bishop, Půta, the dukes. The Knights Hospitaller from Strzegom and Mała Oleśnica. Mercenaries. Municipal militias… And peasant infantry… Taken together, seven to eight thousand men. Including about three hundred lances.”
“Young Duke Bolko, the heir of Opole, is approaching from Krapkowice and Głogówek,” interrupted Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín, who had just returned from a foray. “His men have reached Kazimierz and occupied the bridge over the Stradunia, a strategic point on the Nysa-Racibórz road. What force might Bolko be commanding?”
“Around sixty lances,” Rzehors assessed calmly, “and around a thousand foot soldiers.”
“Damn that bloody Opolian!” growled Jaroslav of Bukovina. “He’s cutting us off, threatening our flank. We can’t march on Nysa with him behind us.”
“So let’s strike straight at him,” suggested Jan Bleh of Těšnice. “With our full force. Let’s crush him—”
“He’s lined up in a place that is hard to attack.” Rzehors shook his head. “The Stradunia has flooded, the banks are marshy—”
“Furthermore,” said Prokop, raising his head, “time does not permit it. If we get caught up in a fight with Bolko, the bishop will gather more forces and occupy more convenient positions. When she sees we have difficulties, that she-wolf Lady Regent Helena in Racibórz is liable to take action. She and her loathsome son, Mikołaj. Przemko of Opava is likely to decide to do something extremely stupid, and it might also be too great a temptation for Wenceslaus. We would end up encircled, fighting on several fronts. No, Brethren. The bishop is our most bitter foe, so we march as quickly as possible towards Nysa. Let us move out! The main forces by road, towards Osoblaha… And I’ll have other tasks for brothers Puchała and Zmrzlík. But more about that in a moment. Firstly… Reynevan!”
“Brother Prokop?”
“The young Opolian… You know him, I believe?”
“Bolko Wołoszek? I studied with him in Prague—”
“That’s wonderful. You’ll go to him. With Horn. As envoys. You’ll suggest a pact in my name—”
“He won’t want to listen to us,” said Urban Horn coldly.
“Put your faith in God.” Prokop looked at Dobko Puchała and Jan Zmrzlík, who were waiting for orders, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “In God and in me. I’ll make sure he will.”