The wind buffeted the banners fluttering beside each other—the Orphans’ Pelican shedding drops of blood into a gold Chalice flapped beside the Veritas vincit, the Host and the Tábor’s crown of thorns. The Warriors of God cheered and threw their hats and helmets into the air.
While behind them, the town of Rychbach, which had been torched by the Taborites after being abandoned by its panicked residents, blazed and belched forth clouds of black smoke.
Prokop, his hand still on Jan Královec’s shoulder and a very satisfied smile on his face, looked at the army forming up. Now, gathered together, it numbered over a thousand horse, more than ten thousand foot and three hundred combat wagons laden with artillery. He knew there was no one in the whole of Silesia capable of standing up to that force in the field. All that was left to the Silesians were the walls of their towns. Or—as in the case of the people of Rychbach—flight into the forests.
“Move out!” he yelled to the hejtmans. “Prepare to move out! We’re marching on Wrocław!”
“On Wrocław!” Jaroslav of Bukovina joined in. “And Bishop Konrad! Moooove out!”
“Today is Easter Day!” cried Královec. “Festum festorum! Christ is risen from the dead! He is truly resurrected!”
“Resurrexit sicut dixit! ” Little Prokop joined in. “Hallelujah!”
“Hallelujah! Let us sing to God, Brethren!”
A thunderous song escaped the lips of the Orphan flailmen and Taborite lancers and soared heavenwards. To be echoed by the voulgemen of Chrudim, the pavisiers of Nymburk and the crossbowmen of Slaný.
Christ the King
Has risen from the tomb!
Let us all sing,
His glory dispels the gloom!
Lord have mercy!
Lord have mercy!
As they set off in turn, the song was taken up by the spearmen of Zikmund of Vranov, the knights of Zmrzlík, after them the crews of the combat wagons, the light cavalry of Kolda of Žampach, the riders of Salava and the Moravians of Tovačovský. Finally, the Poles of Puchała brought up the rear with the thunderous song on their lips.
Our Lord rose from the dead,
After His cruel torment,
For us this is solace indeed,
Christ is our merriment!
Have mercy!
Dust blew up in a cloud over the Wrocław road. Leaving behind the flames of Rychbach, the Taborite–Orphan army of Prokop the Shaven marched north. Towards Ślęża, shrouded in clouds and darkening on the horizon.
Jesus Christ is arisen,
We must his example follow,
Therefore let us hasten,
The Lord God to hallow.
Lord have mercy!
The fires in the town were still raging, while the area outside the walls had almost burned down, was only smoking as dying flames flickered on charred beams and posts. Hearing the Hussite singing fading away in the distance, people began to emerge from their hiding places, to leave the forests and descend from the hills. They looked around, horrified, weeping, seeing the destruction of their town. They wiped the soot and tears from their faces. And sang. For it was Easter, after all.
Christ, He has risen
From all His agony
To praise Him we are bidden,
So let us joyous be!
Lord have mercy!
The Franciscan monks left their hiding places and came down from Winnik Mountain. They walked, weeping and singing, towards the blackened ruins of the town.
It was Easter.
Christus surrexit
Mala nostra texit
Et quos dilexit
Hoc ad celos vexit
Kyrieleison!
The army of Prokop the Shaven marched north. Clouds of fire and columns of smoke rose above the villages burned down by the sorties of Salava and Fedor of Ostrog. The thatched roofs of Útěchov bloomed in crimson flames. Praus, Harthau and Rudelsdorf were on fire. Soon, almost the entire horizon was aflame.
It was Easter.
The Warriors of God were marching north. With a song on their lips.
Ye Saints, please intercede
May our calls not go ignored,
Pray for us we plead
All hail the Almighty Lord!
Lord have mercy!
It was Easter. Christ was truly resurrected.
Fire consumed the land.
Chapter Twenty-One
In which various individuals watch how history comports itself—from various perspectives. History throws off its chains. Lets rip. And shows what it can do.
“Woe is Silesia.”
“Silesia is accursed!”
Located near Środa Śląska, situated by the River Średzka Woda, the refugee camp was overcrowded, simply bursting at the seams. Usually, the rotation of people coming and going meant that conditions were fairly tolerable, but that day Dzierżka of Wirsing was literally horrified by the perspective of new fugitives appearing.
She relaxed when dusk began to fall—people seldom arrived during the night, and she knew that many people were planning to leave at daybreak. The Hussites had gone. They had marched south, taking the route to Kostomłoty, Strzegom, Bolków and Landeshut. Perhaps they had returned to Bohemia? Now the smoke had stopped blackening the sky during the day and the glow of fires wasn’t lighting up the night sky. People were tired of wandering, they wanted to go home. Back to their burned-out houses. To the ashes of their towns and villages. To Sobótka, Gniechowice, Górka, Frankenthal, Arnoldsmühle, Woskowice, Rakoszyce, Słup. And many, many others, with names that sounded strange and meant nothing to them.
An ox lowed; a goat bleated. A child started crying somewhere among the wagons, and Elencza of Stietencron quickly dashed past beside Dzierżka. Having finished her work with the others in the kitchen, Elencza didn’t join them to sleep and rest. Elencza appeared never to rest. For seven days, during which Dzierżka supported the camp organisationally and financially, Elencza only rested when categorically instructed to do so. Dzierżka didn’t like to be categorical with Elencza. She saw how the young woman reacted to it. She saw it the first day when Elencza Stietencron arrived in Skałka on Tybald Raabe’s chestnut. When Dzierżka foolishly thought she knew how to shake the young woman out of her torpor and apathy.
“Woe is Silesia,” repeated a stout Wrocław burgher, a merchant whom not even the presence of armed forces could prevent from taking to the road with a cart full of goods.
“Accursed Silesia,” repeated a miller from Marcinkowice.
The refugees gathered around the campfire—a kind of camp council that had spontaneously formed, made up of people with evident authority—nodded and muttered. Dzierżka was the only woman among them. They were mainly grave-looking peasants with the faces and bearing of natural leaders. Aside from the stout Wrocław burgher, there was also the miller from Marcinkowice near Brzeg, a leaseholder from near Kątowy, two mercenaries in livery faded by the dust of many roads and an innkeeper from Górka. There was a barber-surgeon from Sobótka, who was much in demand. He was a Minorite from the monastery in Środa Śląska, a senior monk; the younger ones were tirelessly attending to the sick and wounded. There was a Jew, from God knew where. There was a knight. One of those impoverished ones, but still a remarkable sight among the others.
“Twice in Wrocław we feared for our lives,” said the stout merchant. “The first time was on the Thursday before Palm Sunday, when, after sacking Brzeg and burning down Ryczyn, the main Hussite forces stopped outside Oława. The fire and smoke were clearly visible and the stench of burning was being carried on the wind, for it is but a stone’s throw from Oława to Wrocław… And though the town walls are strong, defended by cannons, with no shortage of soldiers, our legs turned to jelly… But God averted it. They departed.”