It was all the stranger that they had returned. From midway through Advent, Elencza once again began to dream of blood, killing and conflagrations. And of Reynevan. Reinmar of Bielawa. Elencza of Stietencron dreamed of Reynevan several times in such gruesome circumstances that she began to add him to her evening prayers. Keep him—as well as me—in Your care, she repeated under her breath, bowing her head before the altar, before the Pietà and Saint Świerad. Give him—as well as me—strength and solace, she prayed, gazing at the carved face of Our Lady of Sorrows. Protect him—as well as me—in the night, be his shield and buckler, be our unsleeping refuge and stronghold. And let me see him at least once more, she added even more quietly, so softly and secretly that neither the Intercessor nor the saint could accuse her of excessively secular thoughts.

The sixteenth of January, 1429, the Sunday before Saint Anthony’s Day, proved to be just as busy as during the week, for there was unexpectedly much more to do. Czech Hussites—the main topic of conversation throughout December—marched to Oława at Epiphany and entered the town the following day. It occurred, contrary to the hopeless and alarmist predictions of some people, without the town being captured, without fighting or bloodshed. Ludwik, Duke of Oława and Niemcza, did exactly as he had a year earlier—he reached an agreement with the Hussites favourable to both sides. The Hussites promised not to burn or plunder the duke’s estates, in exchange for which the duke gave sanctuary to wounded and crippled Czechs in Oława’s two hospitals. Which immediately became full of patients. They ran out of pallets and bedclothes; mattresses and palliasses were laid on the floors. There was a great deal of work and nerves became frayed, which quickly affected everyone, even the usually calm Premonstratensian nuns and the usually calm Dorota Faber. Nervousness grew. Anxiety. Fatigue. And the overwhelming, paralysing fear of infection.

Elencza initially took the hubbub that woke her up as a dream. She jerked the edge of the feather-bed, her head tossing on the saliva-damp pillow. That dream again, I’m dreaming about Bardo again, she thought, balancing on the edge of slumber and wakefulness. The capture and slaughter of Bardo, four years ago. Bells sounding the alarm, the blowing of horns, the neighing of horses, crashing, thudding, the wild cries of the soldiers, the keening of people being killed. Fire, lighting up the fish skins in the windows, a glimmering mosaic dancing on the ceiling…

She sprang up and sat back down. Bells sounded the alarm. Screams resounded. The gleam of fire lit up windows. It isn’t a dream, thought Elencza, it isn’t a dream. It’s actually happening.

She pushed open the shutters and the stench of burning and cold air filled the chamber. The nearby town square echoed with the shouts of a hundred throats and hundreds of torches twinkling with flickering lights. Shots could be heard from the Wrocław Gate. Several nearby houses were already afire, a glow creeping into the sky over the New Castle. Flaming brands were coming closer. The ground appeared to be trembling.