“My dear Duke Ludwik, O my young kinsman,” said Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, raising himself up in the saddle, supporting himself on the pommel. “I shall absolve you whenever you wish. And as many times as you wish. Though you are sine peccato in my eyes and no doubt in God’s also. An oath given to heretics carries no weight; a word given to a Hussite is not binding and does not obligate. We act here for the glory of God, ad maiorem Dei gloriam. Look: those good Catholics, those soldiers of Christ over there are expressing their love of God. Which manifests itself, indeed, through hatred for everything that is opposed to and despicable to God. The death of a heretic is glorious to a Christian. Christ benefits from the death of a heretic. And for the heretic himself the destruction of his body means hope for his soul.

“But don’t think,” he added, seeing that his words were making little impression on Ludwik of Oława, “that I feel no sorrow for them. I do. And I bless them in the hour of their death. Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord. Et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

Another bloody head rolled towards the feet of the duke’s horse. The horse took fright, jerked up its head and skittered. Ludwik tugged on the reins.

The mob wailed and yelled, combing houses in a search for the few remaining survivors. The cries of people being slaughtered could still be heard coming from the side streets. The fire roared. The bells tolled on and on with the groaning of bronze.

The carved Death in the town hall tympanum laughed scornfully and swung its scythe.

Elencza wept.

Reynevan completed his account. Jan Královec of Hrádek, Hejtman of the Orphans, leaning against a bombard, looked at Strzegom, black and menacing in the gloom, like a beast lurking in the forest. He looked for a long time. And then suddenly spun around.

“We’re leaving this place,” he spat. “That will be sufficient. We’re leaving. Going home.”

The morning was foggy and quite mild for the time of year. Preceded by patrols and a vanguard of light horse, flanked by a company of infantrymen bearing pavises, the column of wagons rolled on to the south, leaving Strzegom behind it. Down the Świdnica road. Via Rychbach, Frankenstein, Bardo and Kłodzko. Towards Homole. Bohemia. And home.

Axles creaked under the weight of their loads; the wheels ploughed deep ruts in the melting snow. Whips cracked, horses whinnied, oxen lowed. Wagoners swore. Flocks of black birds circled above the column.

In Strzegom the bells were rung.

It was the twelfth of February, Anno Domini 1429, the Saturday before the first Sunday in Lent, sabbato proximo ante dominicam Invocavit.

The hejtmans of the Orphans observed the march out from a roadside rise. The wind ruffled cloaks and billowed standards.