There was silence for some time. The knight broke it.

“Going back to Duke Ludwik,” he said, “in truth, he didn’t act chivalrously, leaving Brzeg at the mercy of the Hussites, nor as befits a knight or a duke. But—”

“But it wasn’t just him, you meant to say?” the miller interrupted with an angry grimace. “You are right! For others also turned tail on the enemy, staining their honour. Where are you, Duke Henryk the Pious, who chose death rather than flee from the field?”

“I meant to say,” the knight stammered a little, “that the Hussites achieved much by treachery. By treachery and propaganda. Spreading false news and panic—”

“But where does treachery come from?” the Minorite monk suddenly asked. “Why does that seed sprout so easily and bloom so luxuriantly, why such a harvest? Magnates and knights surrender fortresses and castles without a fight, go over to the enemy’s side. The peasantry is drawn to the Hussites, serve them as guides, identify and turn priests over to their deaths. What’s more, they attack monasteries and pillage churches themselves. There are plenty of apostates among the clergy, too. But there’s no duke prepared—like Henryk the Pious—to fight and die pro defensione christiane fidei. It’s puzzling to me. How does it come about?”

One of the peasants, a powerful fellow with a shock of hair, spoke up in a deep voice, “Perhaps because we didn’t have to fight the Saracens, the Turks or the Tartars, who invaded Silesia in our great-grandfathers’ time. I’ve heard they were black-faced, red-eyed, fire-breathing, bore devilish marks, used witchcraft and choked our soldiers with hellish fumes. You knew at once what power drove them on. But now? Monstrances swaying over the Czech army, the Host and pious words painted on their bucklers. They sing to God as they march, pray on their knees and receive Holy Communion before the battle. Call themselves ‘Warriors of God.’ So perhaps…”

“Perhaps God is on their side?” The monk finished his sentence with a wry smile.

Only a year ago, thought Dzierżka in the heavy silence that fell, only a year ago no one would even have dared to think something like that, let alone say it. The world is changing, changing utterly. Why is it, though, that the world must always change in massacres and conflagrations? In trying to renew itself, must it always bathe in blood, like Poppaea in milk?