“We’ll be done for,” finished Královec.

“Oh, Reynevan!” said Prokop, snatching a towel from the barber and wiping the rest of the foam from his freshly shaven face. “I’m glad you are here. Did you bring the ointment?”

“I did.”

“Just in time,” said Prokop, waving away the barber and pulling a shirt on over his head. Now shaven, he smelled of Italian soap from Savona.

“My lower back hurts like hell,” he said, sitting down on the pallet and turning away. “Rub that magical ointment of yours on my skin. The pain stops me from gathering my thoughts,” said the hejtman, allowing Reynevan to apply the ointment. “And I must think now. You were by the river today and saw how things are. Crossing won’t be easy, and during such a crossing we’ll be like a snail without a shell; any old sparrow can peck at us. You understand, don’t you? Well? Reynevan?”

“Of course I do.”

“Ooh,” groaned Prokop. “That remedy, that ointment, is just heavenly, the pain subsides like magic. What would I do without you, physician? Don’t go away, Reynevan. Don’t get lost or wander off.”

Reynevan shuddered, sensing a strangely ominous note in his voice. The director of the field armies glanced at the commanders present and gave Kroměšín a sign. The latter put down the knife he was using to carve undercooked meat from the ribs of a roast ram, stood up, walked over to the door of the cottage, glanced outside and checked nobody was eavesdropping. The remaining hejtmans also stopped eating for a while, their faces grave and unmoving. Reynevan rubbed in the ointment.

“And so, Brother Hejtmans,” said Prokop, scratching his freshly shaven cheek, “I have decided. We cross the Mulda the day after tomorrow at dawn. Upstream, using the ford near Kössern. Not a word to anyone. The information is not to leave this chamber.”

The campfires of the Tábor and the Orphans glowed bright all the way to the horizon. The smell of various soldierly vittles rose from the cauldrons hanging above the coals, but Reynevan found it none too appetising, despite his hunger. He walked, deep in thought, towards the farm buildings that the Hussites hadn’t burned down, in order to keep a small piece of roof over their heads. He expected to find Scharley and Samson there.

Suddenly a dainty figure emerged from behind a passing wagon. He smelled the faint scent of rosemary.

“Rixa?”

She materialised beside him, snugly wrapped up in a cloak with a close-fitting hood. She got down to business at once. Her voice was determined and harsh.

“Where and when will Prokop be crossing the Mulda?”

“I’m glad to see you, too.”

“Where and when will be the crossing be? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But please do, if you’d be so kind. I’d finally like to hear whose cause you serve. I’d finally like to be certain.”