The smell of fire and smoke surrounded them as flames shot up above the roofs of the stables, from where several Czechs were leading out stamping horses. More shots boomed, accompanied by roars and thuds from the fighting taking place near the church hospital. Men were firing crossbows and harquebuses at anything that moved, from the windows of the church tower and the chancel.

A canon of the Holy Sepulchre lay against the wall at the entrance to the burning medicinarium. It was Brother Tranquillus. His wet habit was smouldering and steaming, and he was holding his belly in both hands, blood streaming through his fingers. His eyes were open and staring straight ahead, but he probably couldn’t see anything.

“Finish him off,” said Halada, pointing at him.

“No!” Reynevan stopped the Hussites with a high-pitched cry. “No! Leave him.” Seeing their menacing looks, he added more quietly, “He’s dying… Let him die in peace.”

“Time is short anyway,” called the soot-covered horseman. “No use wasting it on that half-corpse! Onwards, to horse!”

Reynevan, still half-asleep or in a trance, mounted the horse that was handed to him. Scharley—riding beside him—nudged him with his knee.

In front of him were Samson’s broad shoulders and Urban Horn was on the opposite side from Scharley.

“Be careful who you support,” hissed Horn. “They are Orphans from Hradec Králové. Don’t fool around with them—”

“That was Brother Tranquillus—”

“I know who it was.”

They tumbled through the gate, straight into smoke. The hospital mill and outbuildings were burning, flames belching upwards. The bells were still tolling in the town and people teemed on the town walls.

They were joined by more riders, led by a moustachioed man in cuir bouilli and a mail hood.

“Over there,” the moustachioed man pointed at the church, “the door to the vestibule’s almost forced, and there’d have been plenty to loot! Brother Brázda—they were almost in!”

“Maybe, but those up there will soon realise how few of us there really are.” The man with the blackened face addressed as Brázda pointed at the town walls. “Then they’ll come out and finish us off even quicker. To horse, Brother Velek!”

They galloped away, splashing mud and melting snow. Reynevan’s faculties had returned enough to enable him to count the Czechs: he calculated that a force of about twenty had stormed Frankenstein. He didn’t know whether to admire their bravado or be surprised by the scale of the destruction wrought by such a tiny force—in addition to the hospital buildings and mill, the dyers’ sheds on the banks of the Budzówka were ablaze, along with the sheds by the bridge and the barns just outside the Kłodzko Gate.

“Farewell!” The moustachioed man in cuir bouilli addressed as Velek turned around and shook a fist at the burghers gathered on the wall. “Farewell, papists! We’ll be back!”