Fessler opened his mouth to protest, but the captain’s expression made him close it quickly. He resignedly accepted the pick handed to him. His companions picked up shovels. They all had the expressions of true martyrs.
“God’s grace is found in labour!” the monk shouted after them. “And I advise you not to shirk or idle! The captain is watching!”
“Oh,” Bisclavret muttered under his breath. “Oh, it won’t be so easy for us, I observe. Hey, good folk! Who’s that, the monk? Anyone know him?”
“That’s Henryk Vogsdorf,” one of the wagoners shipping a load of stone balls for the bombards informed them. “The Augustinian prior. The people hold him in high esteem.”
“Indeed.”
A mounted unit trotted over from Rybaki, heading for the Lower Bridge Gate. The halberdiers immediately stopped the column of refugees. As the unit approached, it was clear it consisted entirely of magnates. The wagoner transporting balls for bombards who had accompanied them from the bridge on the Nysa turned out to be well informed and talkative.
“The man at the head is our starosta, the Honourable Sir Půta of Častolovice,” he explained, needlessly. Everybody knew Sir Půta and his coat of arms—diagonal blue bands on a silver field. Reynevan and Bisclavret exchanged glances—the presence of Půta in Kłodzko meant that Prokop had left Nysa.
“Beside the starosta,” the wagoner pointed, “rides the Deputy Starosta, Sir Hanusz Czenebis. Behind him is Sir Mikołaj Moschen, the leader of the mercenary force, and the Honourable Wolfram of Pannewitz. Yonder is Maltwitz, Lord of Eckersdorf. Gentlemen from the council: Czetterwang, Gremmel, Lischke…”
Sir Půta’s entourage rode through the Lower Gate with a thud, the sound of horseshoes echoing under the vault of the gatehouse. Once the mounted men had crossed the bridge on the Młynówka and disappeared through the Upper Gate, the halberdiers allowed the fugitives to proceed. Bisclavret suddenly cleared his throat, nudging Reynevan’s stirrup with a foot. Needlessly. Reynevan had already noticed. Everybody had. A woman gave a soft scream behind them.
Four dead bodies were hanging on hooks from the avant-corps of the tower above the Upper Gate. The corpses of four people. To be precise, the remains of the corpses of four people, for the bodies were lacking everything that normally protrudes from a human being, including ears. It was clear that the upper and lower limbs had been worked on lengthily and diligently, for they now only loosely resembled limbs.
“They’re Hussite spies!” The wagoner tugged on the reins. “They caught one and he turned in his accomplices under torture. When the Hussites arrived at Kłodzko, they were meant to open the gates in secret and start fires in the town. They tortured and killed them in the town square two days since. They were cruelly tortured, to discourage others. Flesh torn with red-hot pincers and hooks, bones broken. And now the gates are well guarded by day and by night. You’ll see.”
They did indeed. The Upper Gate was being guarded by a garrison of at least thirty well-armed soldiers. Steam belched from a cauldron suspended above a campfire, lifting the lid. The commander of the company, a bruiser with the face of a criminal, was tossing a stick for a dog.
Bisclavret looked on gloomily, saying nothing.
“Did you know any of the men hanging from the gate?” Scharley asked him, apparently unemotionally.
Bisclavret didn’t look around. His face was set. Finally, he said, “Indeed, but we weren’t that close.”
The Water Gate was also being guarded by an equally strong garrison. Bisclavret swore softly.
“It won’t be easy here,” he finally murmured. “I’ll bet it’s the same at the other gates. I don’t like the look of it, not one bit. We can bid goodbye to the idea of capturing and opening one of the gates. We need to revise our plans.”
“What do you suggest?” Scharley squinted. “Turn on our heels and scarper? While we still can?”
“No,” said Reynevan. “We’re staying.”
“Do you have full control of your faculties?” The penitent eyed him up and down. “Suitable to enable you to make decisions?”
“I’m in control of all my powers. We remain in Kłodzko.”
“Not as part of a penance, I trust? I ask because a short while ago you reminded me of a penitent craving expiation.”
“Never mind what impression I give.” Reynevan frowned. “I heeded your advice and I’ve got a grip. And thus, I declare: we have our orders. The Orphans are depending on us, we must help them capture the town. Let us check all the gates.”
They did. Reynevan, Scharley and Samson inspected the wall from the Bridge Gate to the Castle Hill. Their survey left them pessimistic. The Bath Gate was barred securely using stones and timbers and a squad of soldiers was encamped outside the parish church as well. Companies of mercenaries were stationed at the other gates, the Green and the Czech.
They met Bisclavret at the agreed location, in the back of a bakery in Grodzka Street. Apart from news that the Water Gate and the Przyłęcko Gate were manned by large units of guards, Bisclavret brought some rumours, mainly from the front. It was confirmed that Prokop had left Nysa and led the Tábor north towards the Odra. The mission of Horn and Drosselbart must have succeeded, for the Taborites hadn’t attacked Ziębice, Strzelin or Oława. That fact was widely commented on and opinions varied. According to some, Jan of Ziębice and Ludwik of Oława had committed treason. By negotiating with the heretics, they had proved to be no better than the traitor Bolko Wołoszek and those spies swinging on nooses from the Bridge Tower. There were also those who thought that the dukes had acted judiciously and by negotiating had saved the goods and lives of many people. If only other men, they added pointedly, though softly, could demonstrate similar good sense. The latter opinion was clearly beginning to prevail when news arrived in Kłodzko of the plunder and utter destruction by fire of Niemodlin after Bernard, the Duke of Niemodlin, Wołoszek’s uncle, had rejected the invitation to parley with Prokop the Shaven.
But it was the Orphans marching from the south who worried the townspeople more acutely than Prokop’s Taborites. News about the Orphans had just reached them and caused a considerable commotion, for it was understood that the entire country south of Kłodzko was in flames and running with blood, and the Hussites were pushing north unchecked. Refugees and eyewitnesses told in trembling voices of the fall of Homole Castle, which guarded the Lewin Pass and was thought to be impregnable. Two other fortresses that were supposed to have stopped the invaders—Štěrba and Karpno—had been captured and reduced to ashes. Lewin, Mezilesí, Schnellenstein, Lądek and numerous villages had gone up in smoke. Terrified refugees and eyewitnesses told how anybody who hadn’t fled was slaughtered and the citizens of Kłodzko were close to sheer panic.
Bisclavret rubbed his hands together, but his joy was short-lived. They arrived at the town square just as Sir Půta of Častolovice addressed the crowd gathered there. Prior Vogsdorf was standing beside him.
“Necessitas in loco, spes in virtute, salus in victoria! ” yelled Sir Půta. “I vow, here, before you, on our Lady of Kłodzko and the Holy Cross, that I shall not take a step backwards. I shall defend the town or fall doing so!”