“Templum Dei sanctum est! ” His voice, albeit reedy, soared and echoed high up. “Whoever destroys God’s temple destroys God! Withdraw, hell spawn! Withdraw, demons, heretics, before God strikes you down!”
“That’s Jan Buda,” explained one of the Silesians allied with the Orphans grovellingly. “The one kneeling is Mikołaj Karpentariusz, their prior. They have both preached against the teachings of Master Huss. They finished every sermon ‘the only good Czech is a dead Czech.’ Both blessed the weapons of the soldiers marching on Náchod.”
Smil Půlpán’s cheek and neck were covered in blood; he was holding his ear, part of which had been torn off by a crossbow bolt. About a dozen of his men had perished and another dozen were injured, but his ear appeared to be infuriating him the most.
“Only good Czech is a dead Czech, eh?” he repeated ominously. “Then woe is you, you damned priests, for you’re in the clutches of living and evil Czechs. We shall show you how evil a living Czech can be. Take them. To the courtyard with them!”
“Don’t you dare touch me!” yelled Jan Buda. “Don’t you dare—”
A punch in the face quietened him down. The prior put up no resistance.
“Vexilla Regis prodeunt…” he whimpered as he was dragged down the nave. “Fulget Crucis mysterium… Quo carne carnis conditor… Suspensus est patibulo…”
“He’s gone out of his mind,” stated one of the Orphans.
“It’s a hymn.” Reynevan had heard that Smil Půlpán had been a sacristan before the revolution. “It’s the hymn Vexilla Regis—it’s sung during Holy Week and today is Good Friday. A most apt day for martyrdom.”
A crowd of Orphans gathered around the two monks in front of the church. The first blow fell almost immediately, then the first kick, then more blows and kicks, and then clubs and axe butts. The prior dropped. Jan Buda stayed on his feet, praying out loud and spitting blood from his lacerated mouth. Smil Půlpán looked at him with hatred. At a sign, a stump used for splitting logs was brought from the woodshed.
“They say you blessed the weapons of the men marching on Náchod, Papist. We learned the punishment we’ll use on you from the bishop’s ruffians at Náchod. Bring him here, Brethren.”
Jan Buda was dragged over and one of his legs was placed on the chopping block. One of the Hussites, a powerful bruiser, raised a battleaxe and swung. Jan Buda screamed frightfully and blood shot up in a pulsating fountain from the open wound. The Orphans lifted up the Dominican, jerking spasmodically, and placed his other leg on the block. The battleaxe landed with a dull thud and squelch and the ground shuddered under the impact. Jan Buda screamed even more horrifically.
Berengar Tauler took a few unsteady steps, leaned with both hands against the wall of the church and vomited. Reynevan withstood it, but barely. Samson went very pale and suddenly glanced up at the sky. And remained looking in that direction for a long time, as if expecting to find something there.
On a block used to chop firewood, those butchers, haeretici, wishing in their rage and wickedness to surpass the very Devil, their master and teacher, severed with axes all the poor wretches’ extremitatis one after another. My quill cannot describe those atrocities, my hand trembles, lacrimae flow from my eyes… Nicolaus Carpentarius, Johannes Buda et Andreas Cantoris, martyres de Ordine Fratrum Praedicatorum, died martyrs’ deaths for the Word of God and for their witness. O God, O God, we appeal to Thee! Usquequo, Domine sanctus et verus, non iudicas et vindicas sanguinem nostrum?
Meanwhile, the Orphans plundered the church of everything of any value. Holy paintings, planks from the choir stalls and the chopped-up remains of the altar—objects without value—were burning on a mountainous pyre. On Půlpán’s orders, the two mutilated and dying monks were dragged over to the pyre and tossed onto it. The Hussites, standing in a ring, watched the two limbless torsos clumsily writhing in the flames. In fact, they burned poorly as it had started raining. Smil Půlpán felt his torn-off ear, swore and spat.
“There’s one more!” yelled some men hurrying from the vestibule. “Brother Půlpán! We’ve caught another! He was hiding in the pulpit!”
“Bring him here! Bring the papist!”
The man whom the Hussites dragged in, howling, wriggling and kicking was—Reynevan recognised him right away—Deacon Andrzej Kantor. He was dressed in nothing but a shirt, for he had clearly been caught trying to discard his Dominican habit. As he was being dragged, he noticed Reynevan.
“M’Lord Bielawa!” he howled. “Don’t let them kill me! Don’t leeet them! Save me, m’loooord!”
“You sold me, Kantor. Remember? You sold me to my death. So you will perish like Judas.”
“M’loooord! Have meeercy!”
“Bring him here.” Půlpán pointed at the bloodstained chopping block. “He’ll be the third martyr. Omne trinum perfectum! ”
Perhaps it was an impulse, some vague recollection. Perhaps it was momentary weakness, fatigue. Perhaps it was catching Samson Honeypot’s deeply melancholic expression out of the corner of his eye. Reynevan didn’t entirely know what induced him to take that particular action. He snatched a crossbow from the hands of the Czech next to him, took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck Kantor beneath the sternum with such force that it passed right through him, almost wrenching the deacon from his executioners’ grasp. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“I had my own score to settle with him,” said Reynevan in the turgid and dreadfully deathly silence that followed.
“I understand,” said Smil Půlpán, nodding. “But don’t ever do that again, Brother. Because others might not.”
Flames roared across the church roof, the chevrons and beams crashing down into the blazing interior. A moment later, the walls began to crumble and collapse. A column of sparks and smoke shot skywards. Black rags whirled around above the fire like crows above a battlefield.
The Church of Saint Anne caved in completely. Only the stone arch of the portal remained standing and grew black in the flames. Like the gate to Hell.
A rider dashed into the square and brought his foaming horse to a sliding stop in front of the Orphans’ hejtmans: Jan Královec, Little Prokop, Kolda of Žampach, Jíra of Řečice, Brázda of Klinštejn and Matěj Salava of Lípa.
“Brother Jan! Brother Prokop has turned back from Oława and is heading via Strzelin to Rychbach. He calls for you there without delay!”
“Did you hear that?” Královec turned towards his officers. “The Tábor calls!”
“The castle has not yet fallen,” Little Prokop reminded him.
“Lucky for it. Commanders, to your troops! Load the loot onto the wagons, round up the cattle! We are moving out! We march on Rychbach, Brothers! On Rychbach!”
“Greetings, Brethren! Greetings, Tábor!”
“Welcome in God’s name, Brethren! Greetings, Orphans!”
There was no end to the cries of greeting; joy and euphoria at the reunion seized them all. Soon, Jan Královec of Hrádek was crushing Prokop the Shaven’s right hand, Little Prokop was kissing Markolt’s bristly cheek, Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín was slapping Matěj Salava of Lípa on his iron cuirass and Jaroslav of Bukovina was groaning in the powerful embrace of Jan Kolda of Žampach. Urban Horn hugged Reynevan, Rzehors hugged Drosselbart. The Orphans’ flailmen and archers greeted the Taborite lancers, while the Slány voulgemen and the Nymburk axemen hugged the Chrudim bowmen. The drivers of the combat wagons greeted each other, cursing hideously in their customary fashion.