“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.

“Heretical bitch…” he wheezed. “Time for your convers—”

He didn’t finish. Reynevan hooked a forearm around his neck, pulled backwards and cut his throat.

They ran down the stairs and into the frosty night, into red-tinged darkness, which still resounded with shouts and the clangour of fighting. Elencza slipped on the icy steps and would have fallen were it not for Reynevan’s helping hand. She glanced up, into his face, looking through tears, still stunned, still not quite sure if she was dreaming. Her legs bent under her, faltered. He noticed.

“We must flee,” he uttered. “We must.”

He seized her around her waist, pulled her into a niche in the wall, into the concealing gloom. Just in time. A half-naked and bloodied man ran past down the lane being chased by the wailing and yelling mob.

“We must flee,” Reynevan repeated. “Or hide somewhere…”

“I…” she said, struggling to overcome her panting and the trembling of her mouth. “You… Save… Me—”

“I will.”

They suddenly found themselves in the town square, near the pillory, amid the frantic crowd. Elencza looked up, straight into the face of Death. A scream of terror stuck in her throat. It’s just a sculpture, she said to herself, trying to reassure herself, trembling. Just a sculpture. A skeleton representing Death carved in the tympanum above the western entrance to the town hall, grinning and wielding a scythe. It’s just a sculpture…

Shots rained down from the windows of the blazing town hall. Firearms roared; bolts hissed from crossbows. It’s the less severely wounded Czechs, recalled Elencza with astonishing lucidity. The lightly wounded and convalescents were quartered in the town hall. They wouldn’t agree to being disarmed…

She tottered on, not knowing where they were going. Reynevan stopped her, squeezing her arm hard.