“Good folk!” chimed in somebody from the mediocres, the town commoners of the middle class. “Don’t listen to the traitor! Seize him.”

The crowd fomented. Others also took up the appeals of the monk and the commoner, but the mob shouted them down and shoved them away, making good use of staffs, sticks, fists and elbows. The proletariat swiftly retook the square.

“Did you see how they wanted to stop up my mouth?” the emissary began again. “Do you see how the truth pains those damned priests? They preach deference to the Church and the lords. They call Czechs ‘heretics’! But is there any greater heresy than to distort the word of God according to your own whims? For that is what the prelates do by distorting the word of Christ. Perhaps I’m wrong? Perhaps you challenge that, monks?”

“They do not! It’s the truth! The truth!”

Some halberdiers marched into the square, thudding and stamping; the hooves of cavalry boomed on the cobbles. The mob swayed and began to yell. The goliard vanished from the wagon as though blown away by the wind.

“Over there,” said Weronika, catching sight of him. “After him, quickly.”

The emissary stealthily dashed beyond the wagons and hid in an alleyway. They ran after him. He was waiting for them, concealed around the corner. He seized Jutta by the arm and shoved her against the wall, pushing a knife to her throat. Weronika screamed softly, being strangled from behind by another man in a grey mantle who had appeared out of nowhere behind her.

“A maid?” the emissary said, looking under her hood and loosening his grip slightly. “By the Devil! You’re maids!”

He gave a sign for the man in the mantle to slacken the strap he was garrotting Weronika with. He was a youngster, sixteen at most.

“What urged you to follow me? Speak, and swiftly!”

“We seek contact with the Hussites,” Jutta stammered out.

“What?” he said through clenched teeth and again pressed his knife to her neck. “What the hell?”

“We’ve escaped from a convent,” said Jutta in a faint voice, aware that her explanation sound extremely improbable. “We want to get to the Hussites. My… My betrothed… My betrothed is among the Hussites…”

The goliard let her go. And took a step back.

“What is his name?”

“Reynev… Reinmar Bielawa.”

“Saint Clare, O guardian of agitators,” said the emissary, gasping. And held his head in his hands. “You are Jutta of Apolda,” he said forcefully. “I’ve found you. Saint John, O Baptist of our Lord Jesus Christ in the waters of the Jordan! Saint Cecille, O patron saint of musicians! I’ve found you! I, Tybald Raabe, have finally found you!”

Chapter Eighteen

In which mercy is not given, there is no pity, there is no compassion. And medicines and amulets prove powerless.