All of those claims were genuine.
Hearing Polish spoken, a passing Praguian spat on the ground.
“My, they really don’t seem to like us,” observed Jerzy Skirmunt, in his comical accent. “Why’s that? How odd.”
“I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss.” Żyrowski stuck out his chest, displaying the silver horseshoe of the Czewoja arms to the street. Like every Pole, he subscribed to the ridiculous view that as a nobleman, even though a totally impoverished one, he was equal in Bohemia to the Rožmberks, Kolovrats, Šternberks and all the other wealthy families put together.
“Perhaps you couldn’t,” said Skirmunt, “but it’s still odd, my dear.”
“The people are astonished.” Radim Tvrdík’s voice may have been calm, but Reynevan knew him too well. “Astonished to see armed knights carelessly making merry at a tavern table. These days. Times being what they are…”
He trailed off in accordance with the custom. But the Poles weren’t in the habit of observing customs.
“Meaning when the crusaders are marching on you, eh?” Żyrowski chortled. “With a great force, wielding fire and sword, leaving only scorched earth behind them? And any moment—”
“Quiet,” Adam Wejdnar interrupted him. “I shall reply thus to you, m’Lord Czech: your reprimand is misplaced. For the New Town is indeed quite empty, for when, as you said, those days came, the New Town followed Prokop the Shaven in great numbers to defend the country. So if any New Town citizen were to scoff at me, I’d keep my counsel. But not a soul went from here, from the Old Town. That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“A great force is coming from the west,” repeated Żyrowski. “The whole of Europe! You won’t hold out this time. It’ll be your end, your demise.”
“Ours,” repeated Reynevan with a sneer. “But not yours?”
“Ours, too,” Wejdnar replied morosely, gesturing for Żyrowski to be quiet. “Ours, too. Regrettably. It turns out we made a rotten choice of sides in this conflict. We should have listened to what Bishop Łaskarz said.”
“Aye and I should have listened to Zbigniew Oleśnicki,” said Jan Kuropatwa, sighing. “And now we’re stuck here like beasts in a shambles waiting for the butcher to come. May I remind you, gentlemen, that a crusade the like of which has never been seen is heading towards us. An army of eighty thousand men. Electors, herzogs, counts palatine, Bavarians, Saxons, soldiers from Swabia, Thuringia, the Hanseatic towns, on top of that the Landfried of Plzeň—why, even some mavericks from overseas. They crossed the border at the beginning of July and besieged Stříbro, which will soon fall; perhaps it already has. How far is Stříbro from here? Just over twenty miles—they’ll be here in five days, by my reckoning. It’s Monday today. On Friday, mark my words, we’ll see their crosses outside Prague.”
“Prokop won’t stop them; they’ll defeat him in battle. They are too numerous,” said Żyrowski.
“When the Midianites and Amalekites attacked Gilead,” said Radim Tvrdík, “they were like grasshoppers in their multitude, and their camels were as numberless as the grains of sand by the sea. But Gideon, commanding barely three hundred warriors, defeated and dispersed them. For he was fighting in the name of the Lord of Hosts with His name on his lips.”
“Yes, yes, indeed. And the shoemaker Skuba defeated the Wawel dragon. Don’t mix fairy tales up with reality, m’lord.”
“Experience teaches us,” added Wejdnar with a sour smile, “that if the Lord takes sides, it is usually with the more powerful army.”
“Prokop won’t hold back the crusaders,” Żyrowski repeated pensively. “Ha, this time, m’Lord Czech, even Žižka himself wouldn’t save you.”
“Prokop doesn’t have a chance!” snorted Kuropatwa. “I’d wager anything. This host is too mighty. Riding with this crusade are knights from the Jörgenschild, the Order of the Shield of Saint George, the flower of European knighthood. And the papal legate is reportedly leading hundreds of English bowmen. Have you heard, O Czech, of English bowmen? They have bows the height of a man, shoot from five hundred paces and from that distance pierce armour and puncture mail as though it were linen. Why! Such archers can—”
“Do such archers,” Tvrdík interrupted calmly, “stay upright after being struck over the head with a flail? Various fine men have come here, the flower of knighthood of all descriptions, but thus far none of their heads has withstood a Czech flail. Will you take a wager on that, m’Lord Pole? I, mark you, state that when an Englishman gets whacked on the head with a flail, that Englishman won’t bend his bow a second time, because that Englishman will be a deceased Englishman. If there’s any other result, you win. What shall we wager?”
“They’ll crush you.”
“They’ve already tried,” observed Reynevan. “Last year. On the Sunday after Saint Vitus’s day. At Ústí. But you were at the Battle of Ústí, Sir Adam.”
“Aye,” admitted the Wielkopolanin, “I was. We were all there. You, too, Reynevan. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
“No. I haven’t.”
The sun was beating down mercilessly and visibility was poor. The dust cloud kicked up by the hooves of the attacking knights’ horses was mixed up with the thick gunpowder smoke that had filled the entire inner square of the wagon fort following the salvo. Suddenly, the crack of breaking wood and triumphant cries rose above the yelling of the soldiers and squealing of horses. Reynevan saw men in flight spilling from the smoke.
“They’ve broken through,” gasped Diviš Bořek of Miletínek loudly. “They’ve rent open the wagons…”
Hynek of Kolštejn cursed. Rohač of Dube tried to bring his snorting horse under control. The face of Prokop the Shaven was set hard. Sigismund Korybut was very pale.
Yelling, armoured cavalry poured out of the smoke, the knights falling upon the fleeing Hussites, knocking them over with their horses, smiting and hacking any men who hadn’t managed to shelter in the inner square of the wagons. A wave of heavy cavalry poured into the breach.
Then suddenly fire and lead spurted from cannons and trestle guns; hook guns rattled, handgonnes roared and a thick hail of bolts rained from crossbows into the throng compressed and crowded in the breach, straight into the faces of the riders and horses. Riders crashed from their saddles, horses tumbled over, men with them. As the cavalry teemed and swarmed, another salvo exploded into the mass with even deadlier effect. Only a handful of cavalrymen rode into the smoke-filled inner square and they were immediately felled with halberds and flails. At once, the Czechs flooded out from behind the wagons with savage cries, catching the Germans by surprise with a sudden counter-attack and driving them from the breach in an instant. The breach was immediately barricaded with wagons, to be manned by crossbowmen and flailmen. Cannons roared again and hook-gun barrels belched smoke. A monstrance raised above the wall of wagons flashed bright gold and a standard bearing the Chalice gleamed white.
Who are the Warriors of God
and His law!