Drosselbart finished his first piece of propaganda and began another. About the dawning New Times. The peasants’ faces—which had been deadpan during the “peace mission” nonsense—suddenly became animated. Unlike the “peace mission,” several aspects of the New Times attracted the peasants’ attention.
“When that time comes, there will be no more human government or domination or subjugation on the Earth. There will be no more serfdom or taxes. Kings, princes and prelates will disappear and all exploitation of the poor folk will cease. Peasants will not pay any rent to their masters, nor serve them, and homesteads and fishponds, meadows and forests will become theirs…”
The peasants would probably have been given copses and groves, too, but Drosselbart’s litany was brutally interrupted. By a crossbow bolt shot from a nearby wood. And as the beanpole was toppled from the wagon by an arrow to his belly, a cavalry unit galloped out of the wood. And they were charged so swiftly that there wasn’t much they could do. Some of the Nymburkians simply fled, bolted, trying—following the example of the peasants—to find shelter among the cottages, shacks and wattle fences. They were slaughtered as they ran. The rest were surrounded, either on or around the wagon, and a fierce fight began. Berengar Tauler was one of the first to fall. The remaining Taborites fought like devils, aided by Reynevan, Scharley and Rzehors, Samson wreaking havoc with the goedendag. But they were in serious trouble and wouldn’t have survived had the Kumans not come galloping out from the cottages. The fighting shifted from the wagon, moved nearer the edge of the village green and turned into a mounted chase and hand-to-hand combat.
“Over there…” grunted Rzehors, crawling out from under the wagon and pushing a crossbow into Reynevan’s hands. “See him? Him on that grey, with an aurochs on his shield? He’s the commander… My arm’s injured… Shoot him, Reinmar…”
Reynevan seized the crossbow, ran closer just to be certain and fired. The bolt deflected off the reinforced spaulder with a loud clang. And the knight turned to look at him. He yelled from behind his visor and pointed out Reynevan with his sword to another rider, and both of them attacked him at full gallop.
Scharley snatched up a handgonne without a fuse. Samson saw it and deftly tossed him a firebrand from a campfire broken up by hooves. The penitent caught the glowing wood just as deftly, spun around and aimed from armpit height. Fortunately, there was still some powder left in the touch-hole. There was a roar, fire and smoke spat from the barrel, and the attacking rider shot from the saddle, straight under the hooves of the Hungarians chasing him. The first knight, with the aurochs in his coat of arms, loomed over Reynevan with his sword raised to strike, and suddenly stiffened and dropped the weapon and the reins as one of the Nymburkians stabbed him under the arm with a voulge. Another ran up with a flail and struck with great force. It split the armet like a dry pea pod and blood spurted out.
“We gave them what for!” said the wagon hejtman, staggering and wiping from his face the blood that was streaming from his crown. “We gave… Them…”
The Hungarians were yelling triumphantly on the village green. No one was pursuing the fleeing Silesian knights. It became overcast. Four Silesians had been killed. Five Hussites had fallen and there were twice as many wounded. Before the corpses had been carried outside the wattle fences at the edge of the birch copse, one of the wounded died. A large pit was needed.
Berengar Tauler. Drosselbart of the Vogelsang. Henryk Baruth, with sable, an aurochs passant. Krystian Der, trois roses de gueules. A mounted crossbowman. An esquire. A Zbořil, an Adamec, a Ráček, for whom a Mistress Zbořilova, a Mistress Adamcová and a Mistress Ráčková would be waiting in vain at home.
“Hand me the spade,” Samson Honeypot said in the silence. “I’ll dig.” He stuck the spade into the ground, pushed down with all his strength, lifted it up and tossed aside a sod. “I’ll dig as a penance. Because I’m to blame! Iniquitates meae supergressae sunt caput meum! I went to war! Out of curiosity! I could have stopped others, but I didn’t. I could have taught. I could have manipulated. I could have kicked the right people in the arse! I could finally, bugger it all, have sat in Podskalí with Marketa beside me, sat in silence with her and watched the Vltava go by. But I went to war. For the meanest of reasons: curiosity about war itself and human nature.
“So I’m to blame for the deaths of those who lie here. I shall be to blame for the deaths and misfortune that are yet to occur. For that reason, I shall dig this fucking grave. From that pit, de profundis, clamo ad te, Domine… Miserere mei, Deus, have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving-kindness. According unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies; blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin…”
After the third verse, he wasn’t praying alone. And others were digging.
Dzierżka had dozed and was woken by raised voices. She jerked her head up, groped around and felt Elencza’s forearm under her fingers. Elencza roused herself and started to cough dryly.
“There’s news,” said the Franciscan standing inside the circle. His habit was hitched up and he was wearing riding boots instead of sandals. He had clearly ridden straight from the monastery in Środa. “There’s news from our brothers, the monks of the monastery of the Holy Spirit in Lubin.”
“Go on, Frater.”
“The Hussites attacked Chojnów. On the Saturday before Jubilate Sunday.
“Barely a few days ago.” Someone quickly totted it up. “Christ be merciful.”
“And Duke Ruprecht?”
“Fled with his knights to Lubin before the attack. Leaving Chojnów to its fate.”
The bombardment using incendiary shells lasting several hours was admirably effective. Fire raged on the roofs of homesteads, and in many places the wooden hoardings on the walls were also burning. The flames drove the defenders from them more effectively than salvoes from crossbows, harquebuses and trestle guns. The people of Chojnów, who were forced to put out the fires, couldn’t defend the walls, where Hussites were now swarming—Taborites on either side of the Legnica Gate, and Orphans along almost the entire length of the southern curtain wall.
The battle cries and yells suddenly intensified. Torched and fired on from bombards, the Legnica Gate creaked, one wing drooped and the other tumbled down in a shower of sparks. Foot soldiers—Jan Bleh’s flailmen—ran towards the gate roaring savagely, followed by the cavalry—the Czechs of Zmrzlík and Otík of Loza, Tovačovský’s Moravians and Puchała’s Poles.
Reynevan and Scharley ran with the latter. This time, no one forbade them from fighting—quite the opposite—in order to force the Chojnówians to spread out the defence between all the walls, Prokop and Královec had ordered every man who could to take up arms.
After passing through the gate, they ran straight into the fiery jaws of the conflagration along a narrow street between burning houses. Any defenders who attempted to put up resistance were hacked down in a flash; the rest of them fled. From the north, the shooting quietened down but the yelling increased; the Orphans had clearly breached the wall and forced their way into the town.