“Especially pinned by the river,” added Sir Vilém Kostka of Postupice, an experienced warrior, a participant in the war that Poland waged with the Teutonic Order in the years 1410-1414. “To be pinned against a river is to invite annihilation.”

“A decision!” snapped Prokop, tugging his moustache. “What are your suggestions?”

“We shall say a Mass!” said Preacher Markolt, eagerly. “We are the warriors of God, God will listen to us. Let’s celebrate a Mass, asking for the water to subside.”

Prokop froze with his hand on his moustache and looked at the priest for a long time.

“Any other ideas?”

“We deliberate in vain,” said Ondřej Keřský of Římovice tersely, after previously saying nothing. “We must cross the Mulda. If the roadbuilder says we cross in a row, in a row it is.”

“But we must ensure,” said Kroměšín, firmly, “that the Saxons don’t find out about the crossing. For if the curs do—”

“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.”