Jan Zmrzlík trotted up to the hillock and dismounted from his blood-spattered horse. He wiped the gore from his face. He glanced at the field where his three hundred horsemen had decimated and routed four hundred elite Lusatian horse. He knelt down.

“Non nobis…” he said, putting his hands together and raising his eyes towards the sky. “Non nobis, sed nomini Tuo, Domine, da gloriam…”

Others, seeing it, began to kneel, too.

Reynevan dismounted, swayed and caught hold of a stirrup. Then bent forward and threw up.

“It is a fine thing to be a hero,” observed Samson, breathing heavily. “If it wasn’t for the fear. How do you feel, Reinmar?”

Reynevan puked again. Samson didn’t repeat the question.

Scharley trotted over and also dismounted. Waiting for Reynevan to recover.

“Veritas Dei vincit,” he said. “I don’t know how, but vincit. I don’t know how it came to pass that ten Saxon regiments weren’t waiting here for us. It must indeed have been divine intervention. Or somebody got the fords mixed up.”

“Neither one, nor the other,” Reynevan replied sombrely. “Rixa rode down and finished off Bożyczko. Sending Jutta to her doom in the process, sending her to her death…”

Samson, standing alongside, shook his head. He finally pointed towards the crossing. And at the approaching forces.

Accompanied by Kroměšín, Keřský and the other hejtmans, Prokop the Shaven rode up, dressed in a sable calpac and a cloak with a wolf-fur collar worn over a quilted and studded brigantine. He was grinning broadly as he surveyed the battlefield. He dismounted and embraced Jan Zmrzlík tightly.

“Non nobis,” said the Lord of Orlík, modestly bowing his head. “This glory is not thanks to us, but to God… Our men fought valiantly… Unsparingly… Why, like these three, for example. Many fell…”

“The sacrifice will not be forgotten,” promised Prokop. He smiled with approval at the sight of Scharley splashed with blood and the still-panting Samson. He saw Reynevan. Grew serious. And walked over.

“Forgive me,” he said dryly. “I had to. I didn’t believe in your betrayal, but they insisted. The suspicions had to be dispelled. And they were. We will cross here, at Kössern, without sustaining any losses. And the Elector of Saxony, the Landgrave of Thuringia and the Brandenburgians have assembled all their forces at the ford near Dornau, ten miles from here, and are waiting for us. And only this man did I tell about the crossing at Dornau.”

He pointed. Reynevan saw a man tied between two horses being led. He recognised him, but only with difficulty. No face could be discerned, only a mask of congealed blood. It was Prokop’s personal barber. The one with the Italian soap.

“I’ve known better barbers, too,” said Prokop, looking on disdainfully. “Be sure, Brother Kroměšín, that he has confessed everything. About accomplices, contacts and so on.”

“He has.”