“They’re coming!” Piotr the Pole gasped out to Královec. “They’re coming, Brother! That German Reynevan was telling the truth. They’re coming! A host of knights, some thousand horse! Silesian eagles on their banners, also the emblems of Opava! They’ve entered the valley, they’re not far from Kłodzko! They’ll be here before dawn!”

“Will they strike?” asked Jan Kolda. “They were planning, as at the Battle of Kratzau, to strike the marching column—when they see that we’re at readiness, will they attack?”

“God alone knows,” replied Královec. “But in any case, we have no way out, we must wait. Let us pray, Warriors of God! Our Lord, Who art in Heaven…”

It was cold and a fine, dry snow had begun to fall.

“What village lies ahead of us?”

“Mikowiec, Your Grace. And beyond it will be Schwedeldorf—”

“It is thus time! Time! Bring the banners forward! The banners shall lead the charge!”

The standard bearers moved through to the front. The first banner to stand before the army was that of Ziębice, with its half-black, half-red eagle. Beside it rose up the bishop’s banner, bearing black eagles and red lilies. Beside it gleamed the white and red of Opava’s standard. Beside it the Świdnica banner: black eagles and a red and white chequerboard. And the black eagle of Wrocław.

The commanders stood alongside Jan of Ziębice in his Milanese armour. The young Wenceslaus, heir of Opava, Duke of Głubczyce. Mikołaj Zedlitz of Alzenau, Starosta of Otmuchów, with a gold clasp on a red shield, leading the bishop’s regiment. The bishop’s marshal, Wawrzyniec of Rohrau. The Starosta of Grodków, Tamsz of Tannenfeld. Deputy Starosta Hinko Stosz, commanding the Świdnica contingent. Jerzy Zettritz, the Commander of Wrocław, easy to spot with a red and silver aurochs’ head in his arms.

“Onwards!”

“Your Grace! Young Kurzbach, from the foray!”

“Come here, come! And speak! What tidings? Where are the Hussites?”

“They lie…” answered the young knight with three gold fish on his shield, still mounted. “They lie outside Stary Wielisław—”

“They aren’t marching?”

“No. They’ve made camp.”

The commanders muttered. Hinko Stosz swore. Tannenfeld spat. Jan of Ziębice reined his horse around.

“It matters not!” he shouted. “It matters not!”

“Your spy has clearly betrayed us, Duke,” Jerzy Zettritz declared dryly. “We’ve lost the element of surprise. What now?”

“It matters not, I said! We strike!”

“Against the wagenburg?” mumbled Wawrzyniec of Rohrau. “Your Grace… The Czechs are at readiness—”