Thus ended the Battle of Nysa, fought on Monk’s Meadow and its surroundings the day after Saint Gertrude’s Day, Anno Domini 1428, in a crushing defeat and another triumph for Prokop the Great. Afterwards, things proceeded as usual. Drunk on victory, masses of Hussites began finishing off the wounded and stripping the dead. The latter numbered around a thousand, but by supper Reynevan had already heard songs swelling the result to three thousand. At dusk, the song had gained two new verses and the number of dead had grown by a further two thousand.

Now it was the turn of the triumphant Czechs to shout insults, threats, derision and filth about the Pope at the foot of Nysa’s walls, and the defenders had to sit in silence. Every last cottage outside the town walls was burned down, but the town wasn’t attacked. Prokop limited himself to firing bombards, without great conviction, and in the evening, Preacher Markolt organised a torchlit display with the heads of the fallen stuck on spear blades outside the walls.

The following day, before the loot was loaded onto wagons, the Vogelsang—represented by Drosselbart, who had fled from the town—reported to Horn and Reynevan. They immediately went to Prokop. Nysa, reported Drosselbart, was well prepared to be defended. Sir Půta had the situation under control, he was maintaining iron discipline, nipping in the bud any manifestations of panic or defeatism. He had enough men and the means for an effective and lengthy defence of the town in the event of a siege, even following the flight of the bishop and the dukes.

“While you were parading around with severed heads on poles,” announced the cadaverous Drosselbart, quite impudently, “the bishop was fleeing through the Wrocław Gate. And the dukes—Ruprecht, Ludwik of Oława and Jan Ziębice—also made good their escape.”

Prokop the Shaven didn’t comment but looked on enquiringly. Drosselbart understood without words.

“You can forget about Ruprecht for the moment,” he announced, “he will flee all the way to Chojnów, he won’t bar your way now. If you want to know my opinion, his uncle, Ludwik of Brzeg, will also flee at any moment. Ludwik, as you’ve no doubt noticed, didn’t take part in the battle, didn’t even leave Brzeg, even though the bishop was furious. He has quite a powerful force, something around a hundred lances. But avoids fighting. He’s either frit, or… Other rumours are circulating in this regard… Should I say?”

“Go on.” Prokop was playing pensively with the end of his moustache. “I’m listening attentively.”