After the standard bearers rode the commanders. Warriors covered in dust and glory; illustrious leaders. Prokop the Shaven, easily recognisable by his frame and huge whiskers. Markolt of Zbraslavice, the celebrated Taborite preacher and ideologist. Like Prokop, dressed in a fur calpac and coat; like Prokop, singing. Also singing was Jaroslav of Bukovina, the commander-in-chief of the Tábor field army. Jan Bleh of Těšnice, the hejtman of the municipal defence army, singing dreadfully out of tune. Beside Bleh, not singing, was Blažek of Kralupy, wearing a tunic with a large red Chalice on his armour and riding a battle stallion. Beside him, Fedor of Ostrog, a Ruthenian prince, warlord and troublemaker, fighting alongside the Hussites. Beyond them followed commanders of the municipal militias: Zikmund of Vranov, Hejtman of Slaný; and Otík of Loza, Hejtman of Nymburk. Behind them came an ally of the Taborites, Sir Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín, in full armour, with his coat of arms on his shield: three red stripes on a silver field. The two knights riding side by side with Zmrzlík also bore coats of arms. The Polish Wieniawa, a black buffalo’s head, could be seen on the gold shield of Dobko Puchała, a veteran of Grunwald, leading a regiment made up of Poles. Jan Tovačovský of Cimburk, commanding a powerful regiment of Moravians, bore silver and red battlements on his shield.

The flowers, the grass and the wind,

weep, O imprudent humankind,

Gold, precious stones, grieve with us!

Angels, archangels, soldiers of Christ’s love,

thrones, apostles, grieve with us.

The wind blew from Jeseníky. It was the eleventh of March, Anno Domini 1428. The Thursday before Laetare Sunday.

A mounted troop. Light cavalry in kettle hats and sallets with spears.

“Urban Horn and Reinmar of Bielawa. The Vogelsang.”

“We know who you are.” The troop’s commander didn’t lower his eyes. “You’ve been expected. Brother Prokop is asking if the coast is clear. Where is the enemy army? At Głubczyce?”

“There’s no one at Głubczyce.” Urban Horn smiled mockingly. “The coast is clear, no one will stand in your way. No one in the region would dare.”

The Głubczyce suburbs were burning, fire quickly consuming the thatched roofs. Smoke was completely veiling the town and the castle, drawing the greedy glances of Taborite commanders. Prokop the Shaven noticed them.

“Leave well alone,” he said, straightening up from a table erected in the middle of the forge. “Don’t touch either Głubczyce or any more neighbouring villages again. Duke Wenceslaus will pay, it has been agreed. We shall keep our word.”

“They don’t keep their promises to us!” growled Preacher Markolt.