Yelling, the Hussites sprang to the assault, faltering over and over under a hail of missiles, only to spring forth again at once.

“Have at them! Death to the papists!”

Supported by the burghers and guildsmen, the Dominicans bravely and staunchly defended their monastery, but it was a vain attempt. The Orphans’ advantage was overwhelming, the virulence of their attack terrible. The monks yielded under the assault, falling back, leaving bodies in white habits, surrendering one building after the next to the Hussites.

The vestibule and barricaded main doors of the Church of the Exaltation of the Cross were the last bastion. The monks fought to the last crossbow bolt and the last harquebus ball. And to the last man.

When, enraged by the rearguard action, the Orphans finally burst into the chancel over the corpses, the rainbow-coloured beams shining from the stained-glass windows revealed only two monks left alive. One, head lowered, was kneeling at the altar, by the antepodium. The second was shielding the first with his body and a crucifix.

“Templum Dei sanctum est! ” His voice, albeit reedy, soared and echoed high up. “Whoever destroys God’s temple destroys God! Withdraw, hell spawn! Withdraw, demons, heretics, before God strikes you down!”

“That’s Jan Buda,” explained one of the Silesians allied with the Orphans grovellingly. “The one kneeling is Mikołaj Karpentariusz, their prior. They have both preached against the teachings of Master Huss. They finished every sermon ‘the only good Czech is a dead Czech.’ Both blessed the weapons of the soldiers marching on Náchod.”

Smil Půlpán’s cheek and neck were covered in blood; he was holding his ear, part of which had been torn off by a crossbow bolt. About a dozen of his men had perished and another dozen were injured, but his ear appeared to be infuriating him the most.

“Only good Czech is a dead Czech, eh?” he repeated ominously. “Then woe is you, you damned priests, for you’re in the clutches of living and evil Czechs. We shall show you how evil a living Czech can be. Take them. To the courtyard with them!”

“Don’t you dare touch me!” yelled Jan Buda. “Don’t you dare—”

A punch in the face quietened him down. The prior put up no resistance.

“Vexilla Regis prodeunt…” he whimpered as he was dragged down the nave. “Fulget Crucis mysterium… Quo carne carnis conditor… Suspensus est patibulo…”

“He’s gone out of his mind,” stated one of the Orphans.

“It’s a hymn.” Reynevan had heard that Smil Půlpán had been a sacristan before the revolution. “It’s the hymn Vexilla Regis—it’s sung during Holy Week and today is Good Friday. A most apt day for martyrdom.”