“We shall secure divine peace with our swords,” Jan Čapek said seriously. “We shall buy it with our blood. And we deserve a just reward for it, including Mammon. We didn’t fight a revolution, Brother, to return to that miserable hole, Sány. And to my sorry excuse for a stronghold, to my watchtower, which a hog almost knocked over by rubbing against it. Revolutions are fought in order for things to change: for the worse for the losers, for the better for the winners. Do you see, honoured guests, honourable Reinmar and Scharley, that coat of arms high up on the wall? It’s the crest of Sir Jan of Michalovice, known as Michalec. The castle where we are feasting, Michalovice, was his family seat. And then what? We seized it from him! We were victorious! When I find the time, I’ll get a ladder, take down that shield and hurl it on the ground; why, I’ll even piss on it. And I’ll hang my heraldic stag on the wall on a shield twice as large! And I shall rule here! Sir Jan Čapek of Sány! Lord of Michalovice!”

“Indeed, indeed!” Štěpán Tlach joined in from the dish of ribs. “The revolution is victorious, the Chalice triumphs. And we shall be great lords! Let’s drink to it!”

“Great lords! Only for hens to laugh at,” said the old woman by the spinning wheel with venomous contempt as she adjusted the bobbin on the flyer. “You’re bare-arsed brigands. Parvenus whose coats of arms drip paint when it rains.”

Štěpán Tlach threw a bone at her but missed. The other Hussites paid no attention to the old woman.

“But Mammon…” continued the preacher, pouring wine copiously and becoming increasingly incoherent. “Mammon ought not to be served. Yes, yes, the Chalice will triumph, the true way will be victorious… But the covetous shall not inherit… the Kingdom of God. Listen to me… Hic—”

“Enough.” Čapek waved a hand. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not! I’m sober… hiiic… And thus do I say to you: Let us venerate… Let us venerate… Pax Dei… For they shall be damned… The Chalice will triumph… Triuuumph… Eeey…”

“Didn’t I tell you? Drunk as a lord!”

“I’m sober!”

“You’re drunk!”

“To prove you’re not drunk,” said Jan Kolúch, twirling his moustache, “do as I say. Stick two fingers down your throat and say: Grrr! Grrr! Grrr!”

Priest Buzek managed the first “Grrr,” but on the second choked, rasped, goggled and vomited.

“Go on and puke,” said the old woman scathingly over her distaff. “Hope you puke your own arse out.”

Once again, she was ignored; the company was clearly accustomed to it. The vomit-spattered preacher was shoved out of the hall. There was a thudding as he fell down the stairs.