“Really. You suspect me, order me tailed, lie in wait for me, provoke me. You question my motives and constantly forget about the single, most important one: the Czech who was plotting in the grange betrayed my brother, turned him over to die at the hands of the Bishop of Wrocław’s executioners and even bragged about it to the bishop. So, had it been him hanging from that beam, I wouldn’t have skimped a farthing on a thanksgiving Mass. Believe me, I also regret it’s not him. Nor any of the others whom you’ve shown me at other times or asked me to identify.”

“True,” admitted Flutek, in a—probably feigned—reverie. “I once had my money on Diviš Bořek of Miletínek. My other tip was Hynek of Kolštejn… But neither of them—”

“Are you asking or stating? Because I’ve told you a hundred times it wasn’t either of them.”

“Yes, after all, you had a good look at both of them… When I took you along with me—”

“At the Battle of Ústí? I remember.”

The entire gentle slope was covered with bodies, but the most macabre site was by the River Zdižnice which ran along the bottom of the valley. There, partly stuck in the bloody mud, towered a mountain of bodies, human corpses mingled with those of horses. It was obvious what had happened. The boggy banks had prevented the men from Saxony and Meissen from fleeing, prevented them long enough for them to be caught first by the Taborite cavalry, and a moment later by the howling horde of infantry rushing after them. The mounted Czechs, Poles and Moravians didn’t waste much time and hacked to death anyone in their way, then swiftly set off in pursuit of the knighthood fleeing towards the town of Ústí. Meanwhile, the Hussite infantry—Taborites and Orphans—remained longer by the river. They slaughtered every last German. Systematically, keeping order, they surrounded and crowded them together, then flails, morning stars, clubs, halberds, gisarmes, voulges, bardiches, spears and pitchforks went into action. They gave no quarter. These Warriors of God, covered from head to foot in blood, shouting and singing as they returned from the battle, were leading no captives.

On the other bank of the Zdižnice, in the region of the Ústí road, the cavalry and infantry still had their hands full. The clanging of iron, roaring and yelling could be heard among clouds of dust as black smoke floated over the ground. Předlice and Hrbovice, hamlets on the far bank, were in flames, and judging from the sounds, a massacre was taking place there, too.

Horses snorted, twisted their heads, flattened their ears, shifted uneasily and stamped. The heat was unbearable.

Riders thundered towards them, raising dust, among them Rohač of Dube, Wyszek Raczyński and Jan Bleh of Těšnice and Puchała.