They found Wiryda Arnoldus, the newly widowed wife of the burgomeister, alive. In her plundered house. Scrambling from the floor and with trembling hands trying to tidy up her torn garb and hide her nakedness with the tatters of her shredded dress and blouse. Samson audibly sucked in air. Scharley swore. Reynevan looked away.

The raping of women was punished harshly in the Tábor’s field army. The military punishment Žižka established for rape was flogging or even garrotting. But, ah well, Žižka had been dead for five years and his penalties had become visibly obsolete and fallen out of use. They hadn’t survived the test of time. Like many other principles and rules. Samson removed his mantle and covered the woman’s shoulders. Reynevan knelt down beside her.

“Forgive me, madam,” he mumbled. “I know it is a bad time… But this is a matter of life and death. One of rescuing a person in grave difficulty… I must… I must ask you a question. Please…”

The woman shook her head and entwined the fingers of both hands in her dishevelled hair. Reynevan was about to touch her shoulder but stopped himself in time.

“Please, madam,” he repeated. “I implore you. I kneel before you. I know you were once imprisoned in a nunnery. Please tell me where.”

She looked at him over the bruises swelling on her swollen cheeks.

“Marienstern,” she said. “And now leave me alone. Begone. And may you all be damned.”

Things had calmed down outside. Kroměšín gave the command to stop the slaughter and the deputy hejtmans and captains—not without difficulty—stifled the Taborites’ ardour. They needed the intervention of Mikuláš Sokol’s cavalry, who took the more determined to task with blows of whips, staves and spear shafts. The Warriors of God, now subdued, limited themselves only to plunder. Resting against his wagon lined with chasubles, Kroměšín watched with contentment as spoils were brought to the town square and placed in a heap.

“Well, physician?” asked Otík of Loza, who was driving off the warriors when he saw Reynevan. “Did you find the burgomeister’s wife? Did you learn anything from her?”

“We must hasten to Lusatia. To the convent in Marienstern.”

“We?” said Kroměšín, frowning. “You go ahead, I want nothing from you. But your comrades serve in the army, and the army is marching to Żagań. I’ll soon be ordering them to march out.”

“Don’t give the order yet, Hejtman.”

The words were uttered by a young man in a scholar’s beret and a black doublet, riding a black stallion. He was accompanied by Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca and a soldier in half-armour over a quilted gambeson. The horses snorted, smelling blood, and the newcomers had to dismount. The hejtman glowered at them.

“Who are you? What is this?”

“Order anyone not involved to move away.”