“Aye, it must be admitted,” said Jan Královec, riding his horse right to the bank, its forehooves in the water, “that the river is carrying plenty of water. And is bloody fast.”

“A mild winter, rain instead of snow,” said Jakub Kroměšín of Březovice, Hejtman of the Tábor’s field army, nodding. “It will be just the same at the other fords.”

“So is the River Mulda going to stop us in our tracks?” said Prokop the Shaven, reining his horse around and casting a look at the hejtmans. “Is this bit of wet water to thwart our plans? Brothers! I want to hear your opinions! And decisions!”

The senior roadman said nothing for a long time, weighing up what to say. Nobody hurried him. Everybody, including Reynevan, knew that he had vast experience. He had covered the Tábor’s combat trail with his unit of engineers almost from the beginning, and had achieved fame in 1424 when, by a bold crossing of the Labe, he had led Žižka out of an encirclement at the Battle of Kostelec. He had created clearings in the forests at Tachov and Retz, made a crossing over the marshes of Moravia out of tree trunks, built bridges on the Sázava and the Odra, and got wagons across the Nitra, the Kwisa, the Bóbr, the Regen and the Naab.

“We shall cross it,” he said, finally relieving the tension with a dry and matter-of-fact statement. “But not with a triple column, because that draws too much weight of water. We need to do it one at a time, one wagon after the next, in a row, using safety ropes.”

“A crossing in a single column will take at least a day,” said Jíra of Řečice, Hejtman of the Orphans, weighing up his words. “That’s a long time.”

“Our number will slowly grow on the far bank,” confirmed Kroměšín grimly, “and slowly decrease on this side. The Saxons will cotton on and strike us where there’ll be fewest of us at a given moment. They could give us a damn good hiding.”

“Especially pinned by the river,” added Sir Vilém Kostka of Postupice, an experienced warrior, a participant in the war that Poland waged with the Teutonic Order in the years 1410-1414. “To be pinned against a river is to invite annihilation.”

“A decision!” snapped Prokop, tugging his moustache. “What are your suggestions?”

“We shall say a Mass!” said Preacher Markolt, eagerly. “We are the warriors of God, God will listen to us. Let’s celebrate a Mass, asking for the water to subside.”

Prokop froze with his hand on his moustache and looked at the priest for a long time.

“Any other ideas?”

“We deliberate in vain,” said Ondřej Keřský of Římovice tersely, after previously saying nothing. “We must cross the Mulda. If the roadbuilder says we cross in a row, in a row it is.”

“But we must ensure,” said Kroměšín, firmly, “that the Saxons don’t find out about the crossing. For if the curs do—”