“Duties,” repeated Prokop the Great, pointing vaguely towards the besieged town. His words were accompanied by a powerful roar; the wall shuddered and dust fell from the ceiling. The senior gunner was finally able to fire his two-hundred-pound bombard. It meant at the same time peace until the morning—a bombard had to cool for a minimum of six hours after being fired.
“I apologise for making you wait, Brother. And you, Brother Wyszek.”
Reynevan had met Wyszek Raczyński earlier, at the Battle of Ústí, in the cavalry of Jan Rohač of Dube. The Pole’s route to the Hussites was untypical—Wyszek had come to Prague in 1421 as an envoy of the Lithuanian Duke Witold, in whose service he remained. The mission concerned—as it later emerged—Korybut’s attempt to gain the throne. The Czech revolution appealed to Raczyński, especially after contact with Žižka, Rohač and the Taborites, who took the Pole’s fancy much more than the moderate Calixtines with whom he had discussed Witold’s mission. Raczyński quickly joined the Taborites, and there was a genuine bond of friendship between him and Rohač.
At Prokop’s signal, everybody took their seats at the map-covered table. Reynevan felt self-conscious and was aware how much of an intruder he was, ill-fitting to the company. His mood wasn’t helped by the relaxed nonchalance of Scharley, who felt at home always and everywhere. Also problematic was Little Prokop and Raczyński’s apparently unreserved approval of their presence. They were accustomed to it. Prokop always had within reach a wide variety of intelligence agents, emissaries, envoys and men on special—and even very special—missions with whom they were not personally acquainted.
“It won’t be a short siege.” Prokop the Shaven interrupted the silence. “We’ve been camped outside Kolín since the Exaltation of the Cross, and I’ll consider it a success if the town surrenders before Advent. You might end up finding me still here after your return from Poland, Brother Wyszek. When are you setting off?”
“Tomorrow at daybreak. Across the Odra, then via Cieszyn and Zator.”
“Aren’t you afraid to go? Now in Poland not only Oleśnicki but any old starosta might lock you up in a dungeon, according to the laws Jogaila has enacted. Caused by his bellyache, no doubt.”
Everybody, including Reynevan, knew what he meant. After April 1424, the Edict of Wieluń—forced on Jogaila by Bishop Oleśnicki, Sigismund and the papal legates—was in force in the Kingdom of Poland. The edict—although neither the name “Huss” nor the word “Hussite” were cited—still talked expressis verbis about Bohemia as a region “infected by heresy.” It forbade Poles from trading with Czechs and travelling to Bohemia at all, and ordered any Poles there to return immediately. The disobedient could expect infamia and the confiscation of their estates. Furthermore, regarding heretics, the edict fundamentally changed heresy from an offence punishable in Poland by ecclesiastical courts into a crime against kingdom and king, a crimen laesae maiestatis and high treason.
This categorisation set in motion the entire state apparatus in pursuing and punishing heresy, and anyone found guilty would be put to death.
The matter naturally infuriated the Czechs—they considered Poland a kindred and amicable country, and now instead of a common front against the Germanic world suddenly came an insult; instead of a front—an affront. However, most people understood Jogaila’s reasons and the rules of the complicated game he had to play. It soon became apparent that the edict was only dangerous on paper—and there it remained. So when a Czech mentioned the “Edict of Wieluń,” he usually winked knowingly or added a sneer. As Prokop did that time.
“Never mind, as soon as the Teutonic Knights cross the Drwęca, Jogaila will forget about his high-sounding edict. For he knows that if he has to search around for help against the Germans, it won’t be found in Rome.”
“Ha,” replied Raczyński. “It’s true, I don’t deny it. But I still have to say I’m afraid. I’m riding in secret, true. But you know yourselves what it’s like with a new law: everyone’s suddenly vying with each other, everyone wants to demonstrate his zeal and show off, for perhaps it’ll be seen and lead to a promotion. So Zbigniew Oleśnicki has an army of informers at his service. And that Jędrzej Myszka, the bishop’s vicarius, that little squirt, son of a dog, has a dog’s nose and is sniffing to find out if there are any Hussites around King Władysław… Forgive me, I meant to say—”
“You meant to say ‘any Hussites.’” Prokop cut him off coldly. “Let’s not split hairs.”
“Yes, indeed… But I would rather not go near the king. I’m meeting Sir Jan Mężyk of Dąbrowa, a supporter of our cause, in Zator. Together we shall ride to Pieskowa Skała, where I will meet in secret Sir Piotr Szafraniec, the Chamberlain of Krakow. And Sir Piotr, a fellow favourably inclined towards us, will convey our message to King Władysław.”
“Well, well,” said Prokop pensively, twisting his moustache. “Except that Jogaila isn’t in the mood for envoys now. He has other worries at present.”
The other men exchanged meaningful glances. They knew what he meant, for the news had spread quickly and widely. Queen Sophia, Jogaila’s wife, had been accused of marital infidelity and adultery. It was rumoured she had shared her bedchamber with at least seven different knights. Arrests and investigations were ongoing in Krakow, and Jogaila, usually calm, was said to be furious.
“A great responsibility rests on you, Brother Wyszek. Our missions to Poland have come out pretty poorly up until now. Suffice to recall Hynek of Kolštejn. Therefore, first inform Lord Szafraniec, please, that if King Władysław permits, a Czech mission will soon come to the Wawel to pay its respects to His Majesty, which will be led by me, in person. That is the most important thing in your mission: to prepare for mine. You are, you will say, my authorised envoy.”
Wyszek Raczyński bowed.
“I shall leave it to your judgement and intuition,” continued Prokop the Shaven, “regarding whom you talk with in Poland and whom you approach and sound out. For you must know that I have not yet decided to whom I shall take my mission. I’d like to go to Jogaila. But in adverse circumstances I don’t rule out Witold.”
Raczyński opened his mouth but said nothing.
“We share common ground with Duke Witold.” Little Prokop cut in. “We have similar plans.”
“In what way similar?” Wyszek asked.
“Bohemia stretching from sea to sea. That is our plan.”
Wyszek’s face must have expressed a great deal, because Little Prokop immediately hurried to explain.
“Brandenburg,” he declared, pointing a finger at the map, “is a land that historically belongs to the Bohemian Crown. The Luxembourg dynasty simply traded Brandenburg to the House of Hohenzollern; it won’t be difficult to invalidate that transaction. We invalidated Sigismund as a king; we will invalidate his dealings, too. We shall take back what is ours. And if the Teutons fight back, we’ll drive our wagons there and tan their hides.”
“I see,” said Raczyński. But the expression on his face barely changed. Little Prokop saw it.
“Having Brandenburg,” he continued, “we shall set about dealing with the Order, the Teutonic Knights. We shall drive the damned Teutons from the Baltic. And then we’ll have the sea, won’t we?”