“What’s happening?” asked one of the volunteers in a trembling voice. “Is there a fire?”

The building suddenly shuddered, there was a cracking and clattering of the gate being broken down, then savage cries and gunfire. The clang of arms. The volunteers and nuns began to scream. Please, not that, thought Elencza. Anything but what happened in Bardo. Don’t scream, don’t squeal, don’t curl up in the corner with your head between your knees. Don’t wet yourself from fear, like you did then. Run away. Save yourself. My God, where is Mistress Dorota?

Once again, the cracking of a door being forced. The stamping of feet. The clanging of iron. Shouts.

“Death to the heretics! Kill them, whoever believes in God! Kill them!”

Elencza, hidden in the corner of the chamber, saw soldiers and an armed mob enter the hospice, saw the feverish eyes, the red, sweating faces, the teeth bared in a murderous frenzy. A moment later, she pressed her hands to her ears so as not to hear the grotesque wailing of the sick being slaughtered. She closed her eyes tightly so as not to see the viscous blood flowing down the stairs.

“Kill them! Slaughter them! Slaughter them!”

The mob thundered right past her, stinking of sweat and alcohol. The nuns in the dormitory screamed shrilly. Elencza rushed to the door leading to the laundry. The demented shrieks of women being killed continued to resound from the hospital. And the murderous cries of the killers. She heard the thudding of heavy boots as the darkness in the laundry was lit up by torches.

“A nun! A sister!”

“Hussite whore! Take her, boys!”

They seized her and threw her to the floor. She struggled as they shoved her between wooden tubs and smothered her, throwing a heavy, wet sheet over her head. She screamed, stifled by their stench and the odour of lye. She heard laughter as they tore and shoved aside her dress. As knees were forced between her thighs.

“I say! What’s going on here? Stop that! At the double!”

Released, she pulled the sheet from her head. In the doorway to the laundry stood a monk. A Dominican. Holding a torch, he was wearing half-armour over his habit and had a short sword in his belt. The assailants lowered their heads and muttered.

“You amuse yourselves here,” growled the monk, “while your comrades are fighting the enemies of the faith! Do you hear? Out there is the place for good Christians today! God’s work awaits out there! Begone!”

The assailants slunk out, heads lowered, grumbling and shuffling their feet. The Dominican stuck the torch in a sconce and approached. With shaking hands Elencza tried to pull her dress down over her hips. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her lips trembled as she held back sobs. The monk leaned over, offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. Then punched her hard in the ear. The laundry danced in front of the girl’s eyes; the floor slid away. She fell again and before she could come to her senses the monk was kneeling over her. She screamed, tensed and kicked out. He struck her powerfully in the face, seized the bodice of her dress and ripped the cloth with a powerful jerk.