“They took the town by surprise,” panted Tybald. “They scaled the walls. The town is doomed… Look lively, look lively…”

They were almost separated outside the parish church where the panic-stricken mob wrested them apart for a moment, taking them in different directions. Jutta was pushed, and as she fell she struck a buttress, was winded, by a miracle didn’t fall down—if she had she would have been trampled. Tybald suddenly found himself beside her, clutched her to him, protected her, taking pokes and punches. Weronika screamed horrifyingly as the crowd carried her away. The emissary rushed to her, dragged her out of the crush, trembling, with a vacant stare and torn sleeve.

“This way, this way! Behind the vestry!”

Beside them, a woman and a child were knocked over and trampled before they had time to cry out.

Weronika was jostled and fell down, splashing into the mud. They lifted her up and she screamed, looking around vacantly. She could barely walk and they had to drag her.

Flames were already rising over Bayreuth, with alarming speed jumping from roof to roof, from thatch to thatch. Columns of sparks shot up into the sky. And screaming rose above the roar of the inferno. The last fugitives rushed out of the streets leading to the town square pursued by Hussites. The conflagration was reflected as a thousand flashes on a thousand blades. The screaming of people being killed assaulted the ears.

They slaughtered methodically and unhurriedly, driving the crowd towards the parish church. When the church was full, fires were lit. The choir stalls were soon ablaze and the flames quickly spread to the crowded nave, the choir and the altar as the church’s interior became an immense hearth. Anyone who tried to escape from the flames was stabbed with spears.

Thick streams of blood flowed along the streets leading to the river. Splashing in the bloody mud, the Hussites drove the people there.

The massacre went on.

Weronika recovered and they could run again. And they ran. As fast as they could.

Panic-stricken people teemed around the gate, where fighting and shouts and curses were coming from a nearby stable. Tybald rushed inside without a second thought. A moment later, he appeared with his other assistant, Paweł Ramusz, leading four struggling horses. Blood was dripping down Ramusz’s cheek.

“Into the saddle! And to the gate! To the gate!”

Two men attacked Weronika as she was mounting the horse. They were yelling and grabbing at her clothes, trying to drag her from the horse. Tybald Raabe lashed one with his whip and Jutta kicked the other in the face. Beside them, Ramusz was lashing the mob with a knout. Weronika was trembling, the chattering of her teeth audible over the hullabaloo raging around them.

“To the gate! And the bridge!”