“If Your Eminence permits. Deacon Łukasz Bożyczko. A man whom I trust completely.”

The waters of the Mulda were greyish-brown and foaming, so swollen that the reed belt was almost entirely underwater, with only a bristling comb protruding above the current. The riverside trees were submerged to almost halfway up their trunks. A wagon tipped over on its side had stopped against one such trunk. Another conveyance was resting against a tussock a bit further away, upturned, with only its wheels showing above the water.

“The third was carried away entirely,” said the senior roadman. “The river took it before we got into the main current. We managed to get the rest out.”

“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.”