In the blink of an eye, as fast as lightning, Scharley was standing beside Samson, Tauler was beside Scharley, and Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret were beside them. And Reynevan, too, not knowing himself when, how or why. But he was there. Blocking the way. To Samson. And the sculpture.

“Would you? Would you, heretics?” yelled Krejčíř. “Idolaters? Forward, children! Have at them!”

“Stop.” A resonant and imperious voice reverberated from the vestibule. “Stop, I said.”

Prokop the Shaven entered the church, accompanied by Královec, Little Prokop, Jaroslav of Bukovina and Urban Horn. Their steps thudded and rang out, echoing menacingly as they walked down the nave. The torches cast malevolent shadows.

Prokop came closer, examined and assessed the situation with a rapid, stern glance. On seeing his expression, the sling shooters lowered their heads, all of them vainly trying to hide behind Krejčíř’s coat-tails.

“But, Brother, you see…” mumbled the preacher. “These men—”

Prokop the Shaven interrupted him with a gesture. Quite firmly.

“Brother Bielawa, Brother Drosselbart.” He summoned them with a similar gesture. “If you would, there are some things we must talk over before we set off. As for you, Brother Krejčíř… Be gone from here. Be gone and—”

He broke off and glanced at the sculpture.

“Find something else to smash,” he added a moment later.

An ox lowed; a goat bleated. Smoke hung low, creeping towards the bulrushes by the stream. A wounded man, just sewn up by the barber-surgeon from Sobótka, moaned and groaned. The Minorites glided among the refugees like wraiths, on the lookout for symptoms of a possible epidemic. God sent those monks, thought Dzierżka. They know about epidemics, they’ll spot one, if necessary. And they aren’t afraid. If it comes to it, they won’t run away. Not them. They don’t know what fear is. The humble and silent fortitude of Francis lives on in them.

The night was warm, it emanated spring. Somebody was praying aloud nearby.

Elencza, asleep in Dzierżka’s lap, moved and whimpered. She’s tired, thought Dzierżka. Exhausted. That’s why she sleeps so restlessly. That’s why she’s being tormented by nightmares.

Again.

Elencza groaned in her sleep. She was dreaming of fighting and blood.

A black aurochs on a gold field, thought Reynevan, looking at a shield half-stuck into the mud. The technical description of that coat of arms is: d’or, au taureau passant de sable. And that other coat of arms on that shield, barely visible under caked-on blood, with red roses on a slanting silver strip, is described as: d’azur, à la bande d’argent, chargée de trois roses de gueules.

He wiped his face with a nervous movement.