Without a word, Kroměšín gestured with a hand and before he had lowered it, six thousand Tábor warriors attacked the town of Bolesławiec yelling wildly. They slaughtered the people in the town square in no time and then massacred anybody they found in the streets. Then forced their way into houses. The people’s cries joined together in one great, hellish scream and a hail of bodies began to fall from windows. The massacre continued in the streets, no mercy was shown and the cobbles were soon covered in bodies. Blood flowed like a river into the gutters, washing away soap suds and urine, slops, dung and manure.

The churches of Bolesławiec offered no protection. People hurrying to Our Lady’s and Saint Nicolaus’s were struck down. Massacres took place outside the Dominican Holy Cross and in the square in front of Saint Dorothy’s. The Church of Saint Hedwig, where more than a hundred townspeople and clergymen were hiding, gave sanctuary for a short while. Then the Hussites forced their way in and entered the vestibule, nave and presbyter. No one survived and the church was set on fire. Bright flames and a column of smoke rose into the sky.

When it began, when the bearded man in blue was being executed, Samson took a step forwards as though wanting to interfere. When the penitent caught him by the arm, he struggled to free himself, but stood where he was, didn’t move forward, didn’t get involved. Didn’t stop anything. He just turned around, as white as a sheet. He looked at Reynevan. At Scharley. And again at Reynevan. And then upwards, at the sky. Quite as though expecting to see something there.

“Brother!” Reynevan said, going over not to Kroměšín, but to Otík of Loza, whom he knew better. “Persuade the hejtman to stop this massacre! Where is the town’s burgomeister? Otto Arnoldus! I must talk to him!”

“Why?”

“He has information of the highest import!” he lied easily, shouting above the screams of the dying. “Secret information of special significance! For the cause!”

“Then you’re unlucky, you and the cause,” said Kroměšín, who was listening. “Burgomeister Arnoldus is there. And his head is over there.”

He pointed to the first man executed, the bearded man in the blue cloak, the one beheaded on the wagon.

“I even feel sorry for him,” he added. “May the Lord give him eternal rest. Et lux perpetua luceat ei.”

“He…” said Reynevan, swallowing. “Arnoldus had a wife… People! Who knows her? Who knows…?”

“I do!” One of the locals spoke up obsequiously from the group serving the Taborites as guides. “They live in Customs Street. I’ll show you!”

“Lead on.”