“We shall defend Kłodzko.” The monk had no intention of complying. “With the help of God and good people. Any help will come in useful. And we shan’t spurn yours, Fessler. You left your parishioners in the lurch. Here you have an opportunity to atone for your sin.”

“How dare you mention sin?” the priest yelled. “And atonement? Out of my way! And watch your words—you insult the Church in my person! And what of it, O barefoot beggar? That I flee? Yes, I do, for it is my duty to save myself, my person and the Church! The heretics are approaching, murdering priests; I am saving the Church in my person, for the Church is me!”

“No,” responded the Augustinian calmly. “It is not. The Church is faithful Christians. Your parishioners, whom you left in Waltersdorf, though you owe them help and support. It’s them, those people yonder, preparing to defend, not to flee. So cast down your bundle, Reverend, seize a pick and get to work. And not another word, Fessler, not another word. I’m humble, but the captain here, God forgive him, is blessed neither with humility nor undue patience. He can order you to work with a flogging. He can also order you hanged. Sir Půta granted him wide powers.”

Fessler opened his mouth to protest, but the captain’s expression made him close it quickly. He resignedly accepted the pick handed to him. His companions picked up shovels. They all had the expressions of true martyrs.

“God’s grace is found in labour!” the monk shouted after them. “And I advise you not to shirk or idle! The captain is watching!”

“Oh,” Bisclavret muttered under his breath. “Oh, it won’t be so easy for us, I observe. Hey, good folk! Who’s that, the monk? Anyone know him?”

“That’s Henryk Vogsdorf,” one of the wagoners shipping a load of stone balls for the bombards informed them. “The Augustinian prior. The people hold him in high esteem.”

“Indeed.”

A mounted unit trotted over from Rybaki, heading for the Lower Bridge Gate. The halberdiers immediately stopped the column of refugees. As the unit approached, it was clear it consisted entirely of magnates. The wagoner transporting balls for bombards who had accompanied them from the bridge on the Nysa turned out to be well informed and talkative.

“The man at the head is our starosta, the Honourable Sir Půta of Častolovice,” he explained, needlessly. Everybody knew Sir Půta and his coat of arms—diagonal blue bands on a silver field. Reynevan and Bisclavret exchanged glances—the presence of Půta in Kłodzko meant that Prokop had left Nysa.

“Beside the starosta,” the wagoner pointed, “rides the Deputy Starosta, Sir Hanusz Czenebis. Behind him is Sir Mikołaj Moschen, the leader of the mercenary force, and the Honourable Wolfram of Pannewitz. Yonder is Maltwitz, Lord of Eckersdorf. Gentlemen from the council: Czetterwang, Gremmel, Lischke…”