Strangely, there wasn’t a guard or a soldier to be seen at the Svatohavelská Gate. This was absolutely astonishing, considering that the gate and the bridge over the moat were the main link between the New Town and the Old, and that relationships between the quarters had been tense enough to justify the gate being manned by an armed guard. But there was no sign of the sentry and the gateway stood open. Encouraging anybody to enter. Temptingly. Like a trap.
The streets beyond Saint Gall’s, which were usually crammed with stalls, were also nearly empty and a strange silence hung over the Fish Market. And the Old Town Square looked deserted. Two dogs, one cat and about thirty pigeons drank water from a puddle under the pillory in peace and harmony, not even looking back at the few passers-by hurrying around the edge of the square.
The globes on the spires of the Church of Our Lady before Týn glistened from the recent rain. The town hall tower shone like a golden trident.
The astronomical clock on the town hall tower grated as usual, tolled and indicated something—as usual, no one really knew what, why or how accurately. And judging from the sun’s position, it was only a little after Terce.
Flutek was waiting in the House of the Golden Horse, in the same room as before, this time, though, without the hanged man.
Standing by the window, the Taborite spy was listening to reports from various men, some of whom looked like agents and some of whom didn’t. He saw Reynevan. And grimaced at the sight of Samson.
“You’re here.”
“I am.”
“You didn’t bring a crossbow,” Flutek remarked sourly. “Perhaps it’s better. You might have shot something. Must that moron of yours be here?”
“No, he mustn’t. Go downstairs, Samson. And wait.”
“Stand there,” Flutek instructed him after Samson had left. “By that window. Stand there, say nothing and watch.”
He stood there, said nothing and watched. The town square was still empty. Beside the puddle under the pillory, one of the dogs scratched itself, the cat licked itself in the region of its tail, broadly speaking, and the pigeons toddled around the edge of the water. A horn sounded somewhere near Týn Yard and the Church of Saint James. A moment later, another was heard from the east, from the ransacked Church of Saint Clement, the former Dominican monastery.
An agent rushed into the room, out of breath. Flutek listened to his report.
“They’re coming,” he announced, going over to the next window. “A force of about five hundred horse. Did you hear, Reinmar? They mean to capture Prague with five hundred horse, the fools. They mean to seize power with five hundred, the conceited asses.”
“Who? Will you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Rats leaving a sinking ship. Go over to the window. Have a good look. Look closely. You know who you’re looking out for.”
The dogs suddenly fled from the pillory, swiftly followed by the cat. The pigeons flew up in a flapping cloud, frightened by the approaching clatter of horseshoes. A cavalry regiment was approaching from the south, from the moat and the unmanned Svatohavelská Gate. Soon the horsemen—including heavy cavalrymen—began to pour into the square, clanking and rattling.
“The Kolín force of Diviš Bořek,” said Flutek, recognising the livery and emblems. “Půta of Častolovice’s men. The lordlings of Jan of Městečký from Opočno. The knights of Jan Michalec of Michalovice. The cavalry of Lord Otto of Bergow, the Lord of Trosky. And at the head?”
At the head of the regiment rode a knight in full armour, but without a helmet. His white tunic bore a coat of arms—a golden lion rampant on a white field. Reynevan had seen both the knight and the crest before. At the Battle of Ústí.
“Hynek of Kolštejn,” Flutek announced through clenched teeth. “From the Štěpanice line of the Valdštejns, from the great house of Markvartic. A hero from Vyšehrad, currently Lord of Kamýk and Hejtman of Litoměřice. He’s come a long way, from greatness to treachery. Look around among his companions, Reynevan. Look closely. Something tells me you’ll see an acquaintance.”
The Old Town Square reverberated with the thud of horseshoes; clattering and clanging echoed against the frontages and rose above the roofs. Hynek of Kolštejn, the knight with the lion, reined in his grey horse before the portal of the Old Town Hall.
“Sacred peace!” he roared. “It is time for sacred peace! Enough blood, violence and crime! Release the captives! Release Sigismund Korybut, our rightful lord and king! Enough rule by bloody cliques! An end to violence, crime and war! We bring you peace!”
“Sacred peace!” The horsemen took up the slogan in unison. “Sacred peace! Pax sancta! ”
“Folk of the city of Prague!” bellowed Hynek. “O capital of the Kingdom of Bohemia and everyone loyal to the kingdom! Join us! Lord Burgermeister of the Old Town! Gentlemen councillors! Join us! Come to us!”
The doors of the town hall didn’t even budge an inch.
“Prague!” screamed Hynek. “Free Prague!”
And Prague replied.
Shutters banged open, crossbow stirrups and prods peeped out alongside the barrels of hook guns and handgonnes. Suddenly, in unison, the Old Town Square vanished in a deafening thudding of shots, in smoke and the stench of gunpowder. A hail of lead balls and bolts rained down on the soldiers crowded into the square. The screams, roars and yells of wounded men and the neighing and wild squealing of mutilated horses exploded and rose. The horsemen teemed chaotically, bumped into each other, fell over and trampled on any men who fell from their saddles. Some of them immediately urged their horses to a gallop, but there was no escape. The streets had quickly been barricaded with beams and fenced off with chains stretched across them. Bolts rained down from the barricades as soldiers ran into the Old Town Square from all sides, from Iron Street, from Michalská Street, from Dlouhá třída, from Celetná Street and from Týn.
The horsemen, protecting each other with shields, herded together in a huddle in front of the town hall. Hynek of Kolštejn tried to restore order, his voice growing hoarse from yelling. But the firing hadn’t let up, balls and bolts still raining down from the windows of the houses surrounding the Old Town Square—from the Unicorn, the Red Door, the Lamb, the Stone Bell and the Swan—from windows, roofs, hallways and gateways. One after the other, knights and esquires tumbled from their saddles onto the ground; horses fell, kicking.
“Good,” Flutek said through clenched teeth. “Good, Praguians. Keep it up! Oh, you won’t get out of this alive, Lord Kolštejn of the Valdštejns. You won’t survive.”
As though Hynek of Kolštejn had heard, his regiment suddenly split into two units. One, with around a hundred horses and led by a knight with a silver and black shield, galloped towards the Church of Saint Michael. The other, with Hynek leading, rode at the mob attacking from Dlouhá třída.
Reynevan lost sight of the first unit and could only gather from the yelling and clanking that the horsemen were trying to force their way through the barricades and hack a path to the bridge and the Lesser Quarter. He did see Hynek’s unit plough into the armed townspeople, cut down the front rank and break up the next. And saw them stopped by the third, skewered on a wall of gisarmes, spears and pitchforks. The Praguians stood firm, undismayed. There were too many of them. They were strong. Confident.