“And I heard, honourable commission, that this Bielawa fraternises with Praguians from the Old Town! And what are Old Towners? Traitors to the Chalice, traitors to Master Huss, traitors to the Four Articles! They desire to restore the Babylonian Sigismund to the throne of Bohemia! Without a doubt those Old Towners sent Bielawa in order to kill the hejtman!”

“Death to him!” yelled the crowd. “Death!”

There could only be one verdict, naturally, and it was arrived at very swiftly. To the overwhelming and unalloyed joy of the Náchod Orphans, Reynevan Bielawa, sorcerer, poisoner, traitor, German, Catholic spy and assassin sent by the Old Town, was found guilty of all the crimes he was accused of, in connection with which the revolutionary tribunal unanimously sentenced him to death by burning at the stake.

Obviously, he was not entitled to appeal against the sentence; before Reynevan had managed to open his mouth in protest he was seized by several pairs of strong hands and dragged, accompanied by the baying crowd, to the edge of the camp and a previously arranged huge pile of brushwood and logs. One man rolled a large barrel smelling of cabbage and another brought a lid, hammer and nails. Reynevan was lifted up and shoved by force into the barrel. He struggled and shouted so loudly his lungs almost burst, but his cries were lost among the wailing of the excited mob.

There was a deafening boom. And the air was suffused with the stench of burning powder. The crowd moved back, allowing Reynevan to see what had happened.

From the camp rode up a strange party, consisting of three war wagons. One of them was crewed by ten women of various ages, from teenagers to old women. All of them, apart from the wagoners, were armed with handgonnes and hook guns.

The muzzle of a ten-pound bombard peeped ominously from the second wagon, which was operated by four women. And it was the bombard that had just been fired: a powerful gunpowder blank. Shreds of wadding were still falling, swirling like snowflakes, in a cloud of smoke.

On the third wagon, accompanied by two women and a device concealed under a tarpaulin, stood Alžběta Donotková. She cast a sheepskin off her shoulders and a scarf from her head, and now, blue-eyed, with her tousled flaxen hair flowing behind her, she resembled Nike leading the people. Her deadly serious and menacing expression more called to mind, however, the enraged Fury Tisiphone.

“What is the meaning of this?” roared Jan Pluh, wiping flecks of powder from his face. “What is the meaning of this, Donotková? Are you play-acting? Is this a masquerade? A goose-plucking party? Who let you women pick up arms?”

“Begone from here,” said Alžběta Donotková loudly, as though she hadn’t heard him. “This instant! Immediately. There will be no burning. That is enough.”