“The whole of Europe, they say—”
“Not all of it.”
“Eighty thousand armed men—”
“Bullshit. Thirty, at most.”
“But they’re saying—”
“Reynevan,” Flutek calmly interrupted. “Think about it. Do you think if things were so dangerous, I’d still be here?”
They said nothing for a while.
“As a matter of fact, any moment now things will become clearer,” said the head of Taborite intelligence. “Any moment. You’ll hear.”
“What? How? Who from?”
Flutek quietened him with a gesture and pointed at the window, then signalled for him to listen carefully. The bells of Prague were speaking.
The New Town began. The Virgin Mary at Trávníček was first, followed soon after by the Emmaus Monastery, a moment later by the bells of Saint Wenceslas’s Church at Zderaz, joined by Saint Stephen’s, then Saint Adalbert’s and Saint Michael’s, and after them the melodious bells of Our Lady of the Snows. A moment later, the bells of the Old Town began to sound, first Saint Giles’, then Saint Gall’s and finally the Church of Our Lady before Týn. Then the bell towers of Hradčany: Saint Benedict’s, Saint George’s and All Saints’. Finally, the cathedral bell sounded; the most dignified, the deepest, the most brazen, spreading over the city.
The bells of Golden Prague were singing.
There was a terrible confusion and crush in the Old Town Square. People were teeming outside the town hall, pressed up against the gates as the bells tolled on. Caught in the pandemonium, people were pushing each other, shouting over each other, waving their arms; all you could see were sweaty faces flushed with effort and excitement, open mouths and feverish eyes.
“What’s happening?” Reynevan caught a tanner stinking of tanning pickle by the sleeve. “News? Any news?”
“Brother Prokop defeated the crusaders! At Tachov! He beat them hands down, crushed them!”
“Was there a regular battle?”
“Battle?” shouted a character who had clearly just run from a barber, face still half-covered in foam. “Battle? They fled! The papists ran! For their lives! In panic!”
“They left everything!” bellowed an impassioned apprentice. “Weapons, cannons, goods, provisions! And fled! From the Battle of Tachov! Brother Prokop victorious! The Chalice victorious!”
“What are you saying? Fled? Without joining battle?”
“Aye, aye! And cut to ribbons by our boys as they ran! Tachov is encircled, the lords of the Landfried surrounded in their castle! Brother Prokop is belabouring the walls with bombards—it’ll soon fall! Brother Jakubek of Vřesovic is harrying and routing Sir Heinrich of Plauen!”
“Quiet! Quiet, all of you! Brother Jan is coming!”
“Brother Jan! Brother Jan! And the councillors!”
The town hall doors opened and a group of men came out onto the steps.
They were led by Jan Rokycana, parish priest of Our Lady before Týn, short, with a noble, if not to say otherworldly, look. And quite young. The principal ideologist of the Utraquist revolution at that time was thirty-five, ten years older than Reynevan. Walking beside his now-celebrated pupil and gasping for breath was Jacob of Stříbro, university master. Half a step behind walked Peter Payne, an Englishman with the face of an ascetic. Then came the Old Town councillors: the powerfully built Jan Velvar, Matěj Smolař, Václav Hedvika and others.
Rokycana stopped. “Brother Czechs!” he cried, raising both hands. “People of Prague! God is with us! And God is above us!”
The roar of the crowd first intensified, then subsided and quietened down. The church bells stopped ringing in turn.
Rokycana didn’t lower his hands. “The heretics are vanquished!” he cried even louder. “They who desecrated the Holy Cross by placing it—at Rome’s instigation—on their contemptible armour! They have been punished by God! Brother Prokop is victorious!”
The crowd roared in unison and cheered. The preacher hushed them.
“Though the hellish hordes gathered here,” he continued, “though the bloody talons of Babylon were stretching out towards us, though once again the wrath of the Roman Antichrist threatened the true religion, God is above us! The Lord of the Heavens raised His hand to annihilate the enemy host! The same Lord who drowned Pharaoh’s army in the Red Sea, who forced the innumerable army of the Midianites to flee from Gideon. The Lord, who during the course of a single night employed His angel to defeat a hundred and eighty-five thousand Assyrians—that same Lord of the Heavens struck fear into the hearts of our foes! As the army of the blasphemer Sennacherib fled from Jerusalem, so the terrified papist rabble fled in panic from the Battles of Stříbro and Tachov!”
“As soon as the devilish servants saw the Chalice on Brother Prokop’s pennants,” chimed in Jacob in a high voice, “when they heard the singing of the Warriors of God, they bolted in panic to the four points of the compass! They were as chaff scattered on the wind!”
“Deus vicit! ” yelled Peter Payne. “Veritas vincit! ”
“Te Deum laudamus! ”
The crowd roared and howled. It was so loud, Reynevan’s ears hurt.
That evening, the fourth of August 1427, Prague thunderously and splendidly celebrated the victory. Praguians reacted to the weeks of fear and uncertainty with spontaneous festivities. They sang in the streets, danced around fires in squares, made merry in gardens and courtyards. The more pious celebrated Prokop’s victory at impromptu Masses, said in all of Prague’s churches. The less pious had a choice of a great variety of other forms of merriment. Everywhere, in the Old and New Towns, in the Lesser Quarter, which was still largely ashes, in Hradčany, almost everywhere, innkeepers celebrated the triumph over the crusade by treating anyone who wanted it to free alcohol and food. Throughout Prague, bungs and corks popped out of barrels and fragrant smells of cooking drifted from gridirons, spits and cauldrons. As usual, the crafty innkeepers took advantage of the situation—under cover of generosity—to rid themselves of stock that was in danger of going off and any that had spoiled long before. But who cared! The crusade was vanquished! The danger had passed! Let’s make merry!
People made merry the length and breadth of Prague. Toasts were drunk in honour of the doughty Prokop the Shaven and the Warriors of God, wishing confusion on the crusaders who had fled from Tachov. In particular, it was hoped that the leader of the crusade, Otto of Ziegenhain, the Archbishop of Trier, would croak on the way home or at least fall ill. Hastily composed couplets were sung telling how the papal legate Henry of Beaufort soiled his britches at the sight of Prokop’s banners.
Reynevan joined in the celebrations in the Old Town Square, then moved on to the Bear Inn in Perštýn near the Church of Saint Martin in the Wall with a large crowd of revelling strangers. Then the merry fraternity travelled to the New Town. Gathering up a few drunks on the way from the cemetery of Our Lady of the Snows, they headed for the Horse Market. There they visited in turn two taverns: the White Mare and Mejzlik’s.
Reynevan trailed faithfully after the company. Genuinely delighted by the victory at Tachov, he felt like celebrating and having fun and was worrying less about Scharley. The route suited him, for he lived in the New Town. But he abandoned the plan to go to the apothecary shop in the House at the Archangel in Soukenická Street where he expected to meet Samson Honeypot. He feared compromising the secret location and exposing the Czech alchemists and mages to being unmasked. And even worse. And there was a risk. He briefly glimpsed the grey shape, grey hood and grey face of an agent several times in the merry crowd at the White Mare. Flutek, it turned out, never gave up.