“God alone knows,” replied Královec. “But in any case, we have no way out, we must wait. Let us pray, Warriors of God! Our Lord, Who art in Heaven…”
It was cold and a fine, dry snow had begun to fall.
“What village lies ahead of us?”
“Mikowiec, Your Grace. And beyond it will be Schwedeldorf—”
“It is thus time! Time! Bring the banners forward! The banners shall lead the charge!”
The standard bearers moved through to the front. The first banner to stand before the army was that of Ziębice, with its half-black, half-red eagle. Beside it rose up the bishop’s banner, bearing black eagles and red lilies. Beside it gleamed the white and red of Opava’s standard. Beside it the Świdnica banner: black eagles and a red and white chequerboard. And the black eagle of Wrocław.
The commanders stood alongside Jan of Ziębice in his Milanese armour. The young Wenceslaus, heir of Opava, Duke of Głubczyce. Mikołaj Zedlitz of Alzenau, Starosta of Otmuchów, with a gold clasp on a red shield, leading the bishop’s regiment. The bishop’s marshal, Wawrzyniec of Rohrau. The Starosta of Grodków, Tamsz of Tannenfeld. Deputy Starosta Hinko Stosz, commanding the Świdnica contingent. Jerzy Zettritz, the Commander of Wrocław, easy to spot with a red and silver aurochs’ head in his arms.
“Onwards!”
“Your Grace! Young Kurzbach, from the foray!”
“Come here, come! And speak! What tidings? Where are the Hussites?”
“They lie…” answered the young knight with three gold fish on his shield, still mounted. “They lie outside Stary Wielisław—”
“They aren’t marching?”
“No. They’ve made camp.”
The commanders muttered. Hinko Stosz swore. Tannenfeld spat. Jan of Ziębice reined his horse around.
“It matters not!” he shouted. “It matters not!”
“Your spy has clearly betrayed us, Duke,” Jerzy Zettritz declared dryly. “We’ve lost the element of surprise. What now?”
“It matters not, I said! We strike!”
“Against the wagenburg?” mumbled Wawrzyniec of Rohrau. “Your Grace… The Czechs are at readiness—”
“They are not!” said the duke. “Bielawa didn’t betray us. He could not have! He’s a coward and a weakling! He knows we have him by the balls, that I can crush him under my heel, him and his harlot… He wouldn’t dare… Královec, I swear, knows nothing about us, he wouldn’t have set up a wagenburg, he’s pitched a regular camp. Our advantage has grown! We’ll arrive before dawn, fall on them in the darkness as they sleep, scatter and slaughter them. They won’t withstand the charge; we’ll tear them apart! God is with us! Midnight has passed, it’s the twenty-seventh of December, the holiday of Saint John the Evangelist, my patron saint! In the name of God and Saint John, onwards, gentle knights!”
“Onwards!” shouted Wenceslaus of Opava.
“Onwards!” repeated Mikołaj Zedlitz, Starosta of Otmuchów. Possibly a little less boldly.
“Onward! Gott mit uns! ”
Two and a half thousand Warriors of God were waiting in readiness on, between and under the wagons of the wagon fort. More than a thousand were waiting in reserve, ready to replace the dead and wounded. An assault detachment of Orphans, two hundred light cavalrymen, were crammed in the centre of the square.
The campfires had been put out. Cauldrons of embers glowed red by the wagons.
“They’re coming!” the returning hlidkas reported. “They’re coming!”
“Ready yourselves!” Královec commanded the hejtmans. “Reynevan, to me.”
“I want to fight on a wagon. In the front line. Please, Brother.”
Královec was silent for a long time, biting his moustache. It was impossible to make out his expression in the moonlight.
“I understand,” he finally replied. “Or rather I can guess. I refuse your request. You’re staying by me. When the time comes, we shall enter the battle with the cavalry. A thousand horse are coming for us, my boy. A thousand horse. On the wagon, in the field… anywhere. Believe me, the chances of fulfilling your death wish are equal.”
The wagenburg stood ready and silent. The silence was deathly, barely interrupted by the snorting of a horse, the clanking of a weapon or the coughing of one of the warriors.
The ground began to tremble perceptibly. At first slightly, and then more and more powerfully. The dull thud of hooves striking the frozen ground reached Reynevan’s ears. The Orphans began to nervously cough, the horses to snort. The flames of fuses glowed and flickered on and under the wagons.
“Wait,” Královec repeated from time to time. The commanders passed the order down the line.
The thudding of hooves grew. Intensified. There was no doubt. The heavy cavalry, invisible in the darkness, had passed from a trot to a gallop. The Orphans’ wagon fort was their goal.
“Jesus Christ,” Královec suddenly said. “Jesus Christ… But it cannot be! They cannot be so stupid!”
The rumble of hooves intensified. The earth shook. The chains connecting the wagons jingled. The blades of gisarmes and halberds clanked and rang as they banged against each other. The hands tightly gripping the shafts trembled more and more. The nervous coughing intensified.
“Two hundred paces!” yelled Vilém Jeník from the wagons.
“Ready yourselves!”
“Ready yourselves!” repeated Jan Kolda. “Right, lads, arse cheeks together!”
“A hundred paces! Theeey’re in view!”
“Fire!”
The wagenburg flared up as fire shot from a thousand barrels. A thousand shots rang out.
Amid the squealing of horses, in the yelling, in the tumult and clanking, the darkness was suddenly lit up by fire. At first listless, barely giving off light, it was fanned by a wind that blew up in the dawn and finally exploded with strength and fury. The thatched roofs of the cottages of Schwedeldorf and Stary Wielisław blazed with huge, bright flames, the ricks outside Czerwona Góra and the barns, sheds and shacks on the Wielisławka stream glowed red. Some fires were lit on Královec’s order; others Duke Jan ordered his men to light at the moment of attack. The aim was the same: for there to be light. Enough light to make killing possible.
The wagon fort’s salvo was deadly. The first line of the charge fell as though flattened by a gale under a hail of balls and bolts thudding against armour; the second line rushed into the swarm of tumbling horses and men trampling them, the charging steeds tripping and falling over the dead and wounded steeds, panicking, throwing their riders in a macabre squealing and whinnying. The cries of horses joined the screaming of men rising up into the night sky.
Only the third line reached the wagons, and although the impetus of its attack was largely slowed, the wagenburg still shuddered and shook under the impact of the armoured cavalry. But it withstood the onslaught. And iron rained down on the knights pressed against them. Pushed by their comrades from behind, they couldn’t fall back or run away, so they defended themselves as best they could from the blows striking them. Hussite flails, battleaxes and morning stars shattered helmets; halberds destroyed spaulders; battleaxes hacked off arms; and clubs and poleaxes, voulges and awl pikes pierced armour. Hidden under the wagons, the crossbowmen fired bolt after bolt into the horses’ bellies, while others slashed their legs with scythes set upright on shafts. Squealing and the thudding of iron and yelling rose above the battlefield, fire reflected red on blades.