“Go on.” Prokop was playing pensively with the end of his moustache. “I’m listening attentively.”
“Ludwik of Brzeg’s wife, as you know, is Elisabeth, the daughter of the Prince-Elector of Brandenburg, Frederick. The Prince-Elector is in cahoots with the King of Poland, Jogaila, and is trying to marry his son to Jogaila’s daughter. He knows that the King of Poland is secretly sympathetic to the Czechs, so in order not to annoy him or spoil the chance of a marriage with Poland, he is exerting influence on Duke Ludwik through his daughter, so that Ludwik will avoid—”
“Enough.” Prokop let go of his moustache. “That’s nonsense, I won’t waste time on it. But spread that rumour, by all means. Let it circulate. What can you say about Jan Ziębice? And about the young Duke of Oława?”
“Before they fled from Nysa, there was an argument between the two of them and Půta of Častolovice. It’s no secret what it was about. Both of them want to save their duchies. In short: they want to negotiate. Pay a ransom.”
“Emperor Sigismund threatens loss of life, honour and estates to anyone who parleys with us,” said Prokop slowly, “and the Church throws in a curse. Have they forgotten about that? Or do they consider them empty threats?”
“Sigismund is far away.” Drosselbart shrugged. “Very far away. Too far away for a king. A king should defend his subjects. But what is Sigismund doing? He’s in Buda, doing nothing. The dukes used that argument more than once in their dispute with Půta.”
“What say you to that?” Prokop the Shaven raised his head. “Horn? Bielawa?”
“Jan of Ziębice is a traitor,” Reynevan blurted out hurriedly. “A mendacious bastard! He fled from Nysa, betrayed and left Sir Půta, his future father-in-law, all alone. He is betraying Emperor Sigismund and only wants to make a pact with us because it’s convenient to him today. Tomorrow, he’ll betray us for his own convenience!”
Prokop looked at him for a long time.
“I presume,” he said finally, “that Jan of Ziębice and Ludwik of Oława are undecided and hesitant, not knowing how to approach us. We’ll ease their task by taking the first step ourselves. If they really want to parley, they’ll seize the chance with both hands. You’ll ride to Ziębice and Oława and submit our proposal. If they pay ransom and refrain from armed interventions, I’ll spare their duchies. If they don’t pay or break the agreement, they won’t even rise from the rubble and embers in a hundred years. You’ll leave at once. You two. Horn and Brother Drosselbart.”
“What about me?” asked Reynevan.
“Not you,” replied Prokop calmly. “You seem too excited to me. I sense some private interest in this, some rage, some personal matter. We are carrying out noble aims and ideas in this campaign. We are bringing the true word of God. We are burning churches where, instead of God, they venerate the Roman Antichrist. We are punishing prelates, tyrants and oppressors of the people who have sold their souls to Rome. We are punishing Germans greedy for Slavic blood. But apart from noble ideas, we have business to do. The harvest was meagre and we are beginning to feel the effects of the embargo. Sixteen bushels of rye cost four groschen in Prague, Reinmar. Four groschen! Bohemia is threatened with hunger. We marched on Silesia for plunder and spoils. For money. If I can acquire money without fighting or human casualties, all the better, all the greater our gains. Negotiations and pacts, remember, are as good a way to wage a war as firing bombards. Do you understand that?”
“I do.”
“Splendid. But in any case, I shall wait until it has matured in your breast. Meanwhile, Horn and Drosselbart are riding to Ziębice and Oława. Without you. I have other tasks for you.”
The next day, on the Saturday before Judica Sunday, called White Sunday in Silesia and Deathly Sunday by the Czechs, Prokop began negotiations with Půta of Častolovice regarding the ransom for the captives taken in battle. Meanwhile, Jaroslav of Bukovina and Zikmund of Vranov burned down Otmuchów and Paczków, painting the sky with two towering columns of smoke. Otík of Loza, Zmrzlík and Tovačovský hadn’t wasted any time, either, burning down Vidnava and capturing Javorník Castle. Puchała didn’t fall behind, diligently and methodically burning down the bishop’s villages and farmhouses.
But Prokop found some time for Reynevan. He interrupted the negotiations to bid him farewell. And give him his final instructions.
“Your task is of prime importance for the campaign,” he instructed. “Now, face to face, I’ll tell you: it is much more important than the negotiations being conducted by Horn and Drosselbart. I’m telling you this because I see you are still sulking about not being sent with them. I repeat: the task you are receiving is a hundredfold more important. And, I don’t deny, a hundredfold more exacting.”
“I shall carry it out, Brother Prokop,” promised Reynevan. “For the glory of the Chalice.”
“For the glory of the Chalice,” repeated Prokop the Shaven with emphasis. “Good you understand how closely you are bound to the cause of the Chalice, and that only with us will you avenge your brother and the harm received at the hands of the papists. Only this way—and no other—will you accomplish it. Remember.”
“I shall.”
“Godspeed.”
Five horses rode away in the morning. Carrying Reynevan, Scharley, Samson, Bisclavret and Rzehors. Samson had the Flemish goedendag fastened to his pommel, while Scharley was armed with a dangerous-looking weapon called a falchion, a scimitar with a curved blade, widening to the point. Weapons like that, in spite of their Saracen appearance, were forged throughout Europe and were particularly popular in Italy. It was lighter than a traditional sword and considerably handier in combat, particularly in close combat.
They crossed onto the left bank of the Nysa near the smoking ruins of Otmuchów and headed towards the Rychleby range. They travelled along the route that a few days earlier the Hussite units had marched down. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, were visible tracks of their passing and evidence of the noble aims and ideas upheld by the Tábor. Smouldering embers were all that remained of churches where the Roman Antichrist was venerated. Here and there, a prelate who had been bought by Rome was hanging from a bare branch. Ravens, crows, wolves and wild dogs were feeding on the corpses. Actually, one ought to have assumed that they were all the bodies of Germans and the enemies of the Chalice greedy for Slavic blood, ought to have believed that among the dead there were no completely innocent or chance individuals. One might have believed that. But no one did.
They passed the bishop’s town of Javorník and headed for the mountains and the Krutvald Pass. And there, in the spring, winter descended on them.
It began harmlessly, becoming overcast, with a somewhat harsher and colder wind and a few little snowflakes. Without warning, in an instant, the few snowflakes turned into a dense, white blizzard. The snow, falling in large flakes, instantly covered the road, painted the spruce white and filled the ruts. It stuck to the travellers’ faces and filled their eyes with water as it melted on their eyelashes. The higher towards the pass they climbed, the worse it became—the ferociously howling gale intensified the blizzard, and they couldn’t see anything apart from the manes of their horses, white from snow. Having blinded them, the blizzard toyed with their other senses—you would have sworn you’d heard wild laughter, giggles, cries and howling in the snow. None of the company was especially superstitious, but all at once they began to huddle and cower in the saddle, and without being urged at all, the horses trotted more briskly, giving only the occasional anxious snort.