The crusade set off at the beginning of July, in the week after the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, crossed the border and marched into Bohemia, leaving corpses and conflagrations behind it. On the Wednesday before the Feast of Saint James, the crusaders, reinforced by men of the Bohemian Catholic Landfried, stopped at Stříbro, which was occupied by the Hussite Sir Přibík of Klenové, and surrounded it, battering it cruelly with heavy bombards. Sir Přibík held on valiantly and thought not of surrender. The siege dragged on; time passed. The Elector of Brandenburg Frederick became impatient. Why, this is a crusade! he roared, advising that they proceed without delay to march on Prague. Prague, he said, is caput regni: whoever has Prague, has Bohemia…
The summer of 1427 was unbearably hot.
And what, you ask, did the Warriors of God say to that? What of Prague, you ask?
Prague…
Prague stank of blood.
Chapter One
In which Prague stinks of blood, Reynevan is followed, and then—by turns—becomes bored by routine, is full of recollections and longing, celebrates, fights for his life and drowns in a feather bed. And all the while, Europe turns somersaults, gambols and frolics.
Prague stank of blood.
Reynevan sniffed both sleeves of his jerkin. He had only just left the hospital, and while there—as is usual in a hospital—blood had been let from almost everyone, boils were regularly lanced and amputations took place with a frequency worthy of a better cause. His clothing might have absorbed the smell; there’d have been nothing unusual about that. But his jerkin just smelled like a jerkin. And nothing else.
He raised his head and sniffed. From the north, over on the left bank of the River Vltava, came the smell of dried weeds being burned in orchards and vineyards. Moreover, from the river came the smell of mud and rotting flesh—the weather was hot, the water level had dropped considerably and the exposed banks and dried-out sandbars had for some time been supplying the city with unforgettable olfactory impressions. But this time it wasn’t the mud that stank. Reynevan was certain of it.
A light and changeable breeze was blowing intermittently from the Poříčí Gate to the east. From Vítkov. And the ground at the foot of Vítkov Hill might indeed have been giving off the smell of blood, since plenty of blood had soaked into it.
But that couldn’t be possible. Reynevan adjusted the shoulder strap of his bag and walked briskly down the lane. The smell of blood couldn’t be coming from Vítkov. Firstly, it was quite far away. Secondly, the battle had been fought in the summer of 1420. Seven years before. Seven long years before.
He passed the Church of the Holy Cross, making good speed, but the stench of blood hadn’t faded. On the contrary, it had had grown more intense. For now, all of a sudden, it was coming from the west.
Ha, he thought, looking towards the nearby ghetto, stones aren’t like soil; old bricks and plaster remember much, much lingers on in them. What they absorb stinks for a long time. And over there, outside the synagogue and in the streets and houses, blood flowed even more copiously than in Vítkov, and a little more recently. In 1422, during the bloody pogrom, at the time of the upheaval that erupted in Prague following the execution of Jan Želivský. Enraged by the execution of their popular tribune, the people of Prague had risen up to seek revenge, to burn and kill. The Jewish district, as usual, took the brunt of it. The Jews had nothing at all to do with Želivský’s death and weren’t in any way responsible for his fate. But who cared?
Reynevan turned beyond the graveyard of the Church of the Holy Cross, passed by the hospital, entered the Old Coal Market, crossed a small square and ducked into the gateways and narrow backstreets leading to Dlouhá třída. The smell of blood had faded into a sea of other scents, for the gateways and backstreets bore every imaginable stench.
Dlouhá třída, however, greeted him with the powerful and heady aroma of bread. As far as the eye could see, celebrated Prague bread and rolls lay golden and fragrant on bakers’ stalls and counters. Although he had breakfasted in the hospital and wasn’t hungry, he couldn’t resist and bought two fresh rolls at the first stall he came across. The rolls—called caltas—were shaped so erotically that, for a while, Reynevan wandered along Dlouhá třída in a dream, bumping into stalls, lost in thoughts that raged like desert winds about Nicolette. About Katarzyna of Biberstein. There were several extremely attractive women of various ages among the passers-by he bumped into and jostled, lost in thought. He didn’t notice them. He apologised absent-mindedly and went on, by turns chewing a calta and staring at it spellbound.
The stench of blood in the Old Town Square brought him to his senses.
Ah well, thought Reynevan, finishing the calta, perhaps that’s not so strange—blood is nothing new for these streets. Jan Želivský and nine of his companions were executed right here, in the old town hall, having been lured here that Monday in March. After that treacherous deed, the town hall floor was washed, and red foam streamed under the doors and flowed—it was said—all the way to the pillory in the centre of the town square, where it formed a huge puddle. And soon after, when the news of the tribune’s death provoked an outburst of fury and the lust for revenge in Prague, blood flowed along all the surrounding gutters.
People were walking towards the Church of Our Lady before Týn, crowding into the courtyard leading to its doors. Rokycana will be preaching, thought Reynevan. It’ll be worth listening to what Jan Rokycana has to say, he thought. It’s always paid to listen to Jan Rokycana’s sermons. Always. Particularly now, at a time when the current events are supplying subject matter for sermons at a simply alarming rate. Oh, he has plenty to preach about. And it’s worth listening to.
But there’s no time. There are more pressing matters, he thought. And there’s a problem. Namely, that I’m being followed.
Reynevan had become aware of being followed quite some time before. Right after leaving the hospital, by the Church of the Holy Cross. His pursuers were cunning, kept out of sight and hid themselves very adeptly. But Reynevan had cottoned on. Because it wasn’t the first time.
He knew—in principle—who was following him and on whose orders they were acting. Although it wasn’t especially important.
He had to lose them. He even had a plan.
He entered the thronged, smelly, noisy Cattle Market and mingled with the crowd heading towards the Vltava and the Stone Bridge. He needed to vanish and there was a good chance of doing so in the crowded bottleneck on the bridge, in the narrow corridor linking the Old Town with the Lesser Quarter and Hradčany, in the hubbub and crush. Reynevan wove through the crowd, jostling passers-by and earning insults.
“Reinmar!” One of the people he bumped into, instead of calling him a “whoreson” like the rest, greeted him with his baptismal name. “By God! You, here?”
“Indeed. Hey, Radim… What’s the bloody stink?”
“It’s clay and sludge.” Radim Tvrdík, a short and not very young man, pointed at the bucket he was lugging. “From the riverbank. I need it… For you-know-what.”
“I do.” Reynevan looked around anxiously. “I do, indeed.”