“Gentlemen,” Zizka began when all were present. “Sigismund has occupied Kutna Hora and spent Christmas there, doubtless celebrating his great victory. He is deluded. We are far from beaten. I mean to advance on the town and offer battle before he can think of assaulting Prague.”
This met with groans of dismay, mixed with shouts of approval from the Táborite captains. They feared nothing, and couldn't wait for another stab at the Dragon.
“My lord, we don't have the numbers to face Sigismund in the open,” protested Lord Cenek, “we only escaped at Kutna Hora thanks to a miracle.”
Rather tactless, I thought, but Zizka showed no offence. “I know our enemy,” he rumbled, “I have long studied his character. Sigismund is a coward at heart. Nor is he much of a general. He only fights when all the odds are stacked in his favour. The man is incapable of coping with any sort of crisis.”
Zizka slapped his hand flat on the table. “Tomorrow at dawn,” he barked, “we make a sudden march from here, south, to Nebovid. Sigismund rates every man as craven as himself. He thinks we mean to retreat. An attack will be the last thing he expects.”
“Coward or not,” Cenek said gloomily, “he outnumbers us three to one. He also has Pippo Spano. The Italian is a brute, but a good soldier.”
“I say he will evacuate the town,” Zizka said confidently, “and run to save his miserable hide. We will march.”
Nobody dared to challenge the general once his mind was set. At first light the entire army set out, wagon wheels crunching over thick snow, long files of bedraggled infantry plodding under mackerel-grey skies, banners hanging limply in the still air. Our cavalry brought up the rear, as usual. I brought up the rear of the rear, waving fondly to my host's tearful daughter and wishing both King Sigismund and Jan Zizka to the lowest pit of Hell.
Zizka took it into his head to send on a few riders as scouts. My name, damn him, was among those chosen for the task. Thus, barely an hour after quitting my warm bed I found myself on the road, in blistering cold, at the head of twelve other frightened men. “Now we shall see if you can lead, Englis,” the general had said to me in Prague, and meant it.
We were ordered to ride to Nabovid, a village halfway between Kolin and Kutna Nora, to check it was still in friendly hands. The road was deserted, and we soon reached the huddle of timbered cottages, half-buried under a thick mat of snow.
The headman who came out to greet us, a crook-backed old fellow with a red nose and a thatch of white hair, wept as he clutched at my reins. “Come,” he whined, “come and see what they have done.”
Wondering, I climbed off my horse and followed him into the village. It was a poor place, smaller than Graz, and deep in mourning. I heard wails of lamentation inside the cottages, bitter tears, recriminations. The doors were all shut, and the only people in sight were a group of men, standing outside a little wooden church at the northern end of the street.
The men, rough peasant labourers, their eyes sore from weeping, parted to let us through. They said nothing as the headman ducked under the low door and beckoned at me to follow.
It was cold inside. A pallet, covered with a white cloth, had been set up at the far end next to the altar. Next to it stood an old priest, his head bowed in prayer. On the pallet lay the corpse of a young girl, no more than five or six years old. A grey cloth was wrapped around her throat.
“Magyars,” whispered the headman, his voice choked with grief, “six of the beasts rode into our village after dark last night. We couldn't stop them snatching the girl. They left her body in the woods for us to find.”
He looked at me with haunted, tear-filled eyes. “They used her first. Then cut her throat.”
My own throat had dried up. I swallowed, fighting for words. “Where are her parents?” I managed.
“With kin,” he replied bleakly, “the mother had to be stopped from drowning herself.”
I remembered the children slain by the raiders at Graz, and the look in Jana's eyes after her daughter was buried. I remembered the boys at Police, their naked bodies left to rot in the sun. I remembered the screams of Adamite children as Zizka's men nailed them to wooden crosses.
“Our enemies make war on children,” said one of the soldiers behind me, “we must avenge this crime, even at the risk of our lives.”
We all make war on children, I might have replied. We were all guilty.
Are you angry yet, John Page?
The voice rose from somewhere in the depths of my mind. It was followed by a spate of anger. Cold, focused rage, of the sort a man can use as a weapon. All my doubts melted away.
“What was her name?” I asked quietly.
“Anna,” he replied.
I looked down at Anna, so the details of her face would never leave my memory.
18.
Zizka was proved right. As soon as word reached Sigismund of the Hussite advance, he quit Kutna Hora and fled, straight back to Moravia. He ordered those Bohemian nobles who had joined him to stay behind and defend the town. Unsurprisingly, they refused to sacrifice themselves on behalf of such a cowardly master, and so Sigismund ordered Kutna Hora to be razed.
Our advance guard reached the town in time to douse the flames. They also found the German miners and their families gone. Knowing they could expect no mercy from the Hussites, the Germans had fled with the royalists. They had no food or winter clothes, and their stragglers, mainly women and children, died like flies. I saw their bodies strewn about like frozen leaves in the snow.
Sigismund was vengeful to the point of madness. He suspected the town councillors of treachery, and so had them tied to his baggage wagons and dragged along behind the army. Those who lacked the strength to keep up were hauled along the rough ground until their bodies were torn to pieces. Then they were cut loose and left to die.
“The Dragon has inflicted enough suffering,” declared Zizka, “now it is time to pay him back in kind.”
We gave chase, hoping to catch the royalists as they straggled towards the border, and destroy each part of their army in turn. Sigismund, if he had been half a man, could have turned and made a stand. True, many of his soldiers were mutinous, but he still outnumbered us three to one. Instead he gave command of his army to Pippo Spano and ordered the Italian to delay us while he scrambled to safety.
Pippo made an effort to earn his pay. He drew up his sullen troops on a line of hills near the village of Habry. It was a strong position, and blocked our route to Moravia. Zizka ordered the army to halt while he mulled over a plan of attack.
I approached the general and knelt before him. “My lord,” I said, “I beg you for command of the vanguard.”
“This is no time for vanities, Englis,” he replied distractedly, “I have a battle to fight.”
“Command of the vanguard, my lord,” I repeated, ignoring the glares of his officers. The anger I had felt inside the church at Nabovid still flowed inside me. I wanted to fight in the front line, and kill as many enemy soldiers as possible. Or be killed. For once, I didn't care.
“Go and rejoin Lord Cenek,” he ordered, “if you wish to die, there will be plenty of opportunity.”
Even in my anger, I knew better than to try his patience. I mounted and rode to find Lord Cenek. Zizka had placed him on the left wing instead of the reserve, directly opposite the Magyars.
“Welcome, Sir John,” Cenek said mildly when I saluted him, “you've come just in time for the sport.”
He jabbed his sword at the Magyars. They were strung out in skirmish order, next to long lines of pikemen in the enemy centre. I quailed at the sight of those sixteen-foot pikes, capable of skewering both horse and rider. The pikemen themselves were better furnished with plate armour than most of the Hussite knights. Pale winter sunshine reflected off their plumed helmets and steel breastplates, while their drummers kept up a steady, throbbing rhythm. The sound of death.
“Those men in the centre are Austrians,” said Cenek. “I recognise some of their banners. Solid, heavy fell
ows. Best avoided. Our job is to drive away the Magyars.”
“There's a lot of them, my lord,” I said doubtfully. Some six hundred Magyars faced us. Three times our number. They weren't our match in combat, perhaps, but they didn't need to be. Magyar ponies were swift, and their riders could retreat and shoot us down before we got within a spear's length.
“Those are Lord Zizka's orders,” replied Cenek, “when the wagons go forward, so do we.”
This was no good. I wanted revenge for the little girl killed at Nebovid. For all the children slain in this unholy war. Now Zizka was about to throw away his cavalry. He almost always fought defensive battles, and only risked an attack when the enemy least expected it, as at Kutna Hora. At Habry he was required to launch a head-on assault, in broad daylight, against superior numbers on high ground.
I remembered, all too well, when the Duke of Clarence tried to do the same thing at Baugé. This was Baugé all over again. Not again, I prayed. Not here. Not now. It seemed impossible. Clarence was a jealous buffoon who threw away his army and his life for reasons of sheer pride. Zizka, on the other hand, was one of the greatest soldiers of the age.
You will know from your studies, O Sultan, how even great generals make mistakes. My heart sank when I heard our trumpets signal the advance, and the armoured wagons on our left flank rumbled towards the Austrian pikemen. At the same time the Hussite guns, mounted on some rising ground, started to belch.
I drew my sabre and glanced at Cenek. He trotted forward, flipped down his visor and reached for his broadsword.
Before he could signal the charge, Pippo's entire right flank disintegrated.
It was an incredible sight. Without warning, every one of those six hundred Magyars wheeled their ponies and quit the field, galloping away at full speed. They went south, following Sigismund's line of retreat.
Moments later the Austrians started to run. Their orderly ranks melted away, banners and pikes and drums cast away like so much useless rubbish. As if by magic, a large part of the enemy host had ceased to exist. Sigismund's soldiers, sick of Bohemia and utterly disheartened by the flight of the Magyars, stampeded like a herd of frightened cattle.
Our troops, resigned to a hard and bloody fight with no certain victory at the end of it, watched the collapse of Sigismund's host in dumbfounded silence. The wagons ground to a halt. When it became clear that the retreat wasn't some clever Italian ruse, we started to cheer. The cheers rippled down the length of the Hussite army, joined with prayers of thanksgiving.
“God is our Lord! God is our Lord! Give all the Glory to Him!”
Thus cried the Táborite priests, and who could argue? For once I put aside my sceptism. A third of Pippo's army had fled without a blow being struck. The fear of God – or rather, of the Hussites, and we were God's warriors - drove them away.
Pippo, a mercenary to his boots, was not about to stay and fight a losing battle. He still had the numbers, but the rest of his army was starting to disintegrate. Gaps appeared in the enemy line as more men abandoned their posts. The rout became general when Pippo's standard was seen to move away from the field. Like his royal master, he preferred to keep a whole skin.
Cenek didn't wait for orders. “At them!” he shouted, “the quarry lies before us!”
He drove in his spurs and took off like a cannon-shot in pursuit of the Austrians. I went after him, flushed with excitement and bloodlust, veins pounding in my neck, heart thumping against my ribs. I dimly heard the shouts and bugles and drumming of hoofs as Cenek's cavalry galloped in our wake.
The red mist came down. My rage, bottled up for so long, was unleashed on the luckless bodies of the Austrian footmen. I slew them like animals, chopping down one man after another. Every time I killed, I screamed out a name.
“Anna!”
I don't know how many I slew. Fifteen, perhaps. My comrades were equally merciless. The tale of Anna's death had spread throughout the Hussite army, convincing our soldiers (if any needed to be convinced) that our enemies were the Devil’s get, vermin rather than men, and should be destroyed without pity.
My sword-arm grew weary. The red veil lifted from my eyes. Panting, soaked in blood, I gently slowed my overworked horse to a trot. Her flanks heaved, slick with sweat and bleeding from wounds inflicted by my spurs.
I looked south. Before me, half a mile away, lay the walled town of Nemecky Brod, held by royalist sympathisers. Near the town a river snaked past, crossed by a plank bridge. Beyond the bridge lay a clear route to the Moravian border.
There was barely enough space for four men to cross abreast. Sigismund's troops milled about on the northern bank, a crowd of terrified, panic-stricken men, fighting each other in their haste to cross. The king himself and his personal guard had got away, though he left all his rich baggage behind, along with the plunder he took from Kutna Hora and other Bohemian towns.
His wretched infantry were stranded. The strongest forced a way across, leaving their comrades behind. Some tried to escape across the river, which was frozen solid.
I arrived in sight of the town just in time to witness the final death-knell of Sigismund's army. The Magyars had stopped on the edge of the river. They had no chance of crossing the bridge, not while it was blocked by the infantry. Some dismounted and tried to lead their reluctant horses over the ice.
When they saw our banners, the Magyars stampeded onto the river. A few of the swiftest reached the opposite side, but the ice couldn't support the weight of so many men and horses. Fractures appeared in the great sheet of white. It creaked and splintered, and then suddenly broke. Hundreds sank into the freezing black waters, screaming in terror, fighting desperately to stay afloat. They fought in vain. The water was too cold, and nobody was going to drag them out.
I watched with grim satisfaction as they drowned. With luck, the men who killed Anna were among them. A passage from scripture came to mind.
“Now let God arise,” I said, “and let his enemies be scattered. Amen.”
19.
Zizka wasn't content with his victory. Furious at Sigismund's escape, he unleashed his blood-hungry army on Nemecky Brod. Some of the fleeing royalists had taken refuge inside the walls. Zizka wanted to make an example of them, and of the civilians for their treachery.
First he ordered his troops to say Mass, praising God for His divine mercy before they set about butchering their fellow men. I always felt slightly foolish and out of place in these mass devotions. The more devout Hussites often went into ecstasies. Driven temporarily insane by holy fervour, they rolled in the dirt, tore their clothes, drooled like rabid dogs.
I spotted Ralf among a mob of other ragged Táborites. His entire body trembled with passion as they bawled some Latin dirge. The sight of him made me shudder. The soft-spoken, handsome soldier and former troubadour I had known was quite gone, replaced by a dirty bearded fanatic.
The Táborites, worked up into a divinely inspired frenzy, were first up the ladders into Nemecky Brod. They tore the garrison to bits and flung open the gates, allowing the rest of our assault troops to pour into the town.
“Slay all the men,” was Zizka's stern instruction, “spare the women and children.”
My own bloodlust had cooled, so I went off to find a quiet spot by the river, with a flask of spiced ale to keep me warm. If anyone noticed my absence without leave, they didn't tell Zizka.
The massacre went on long into the night. I found some pity for the men trapped inside the town. They were not the Devil's servants, two-legged fiends in human shape, as the Hussite priests insisted. They were soldiers. Pressed into service, perhaps, or from small villages where soldiering was the only alternative to a life of drudgery. Many would have families. More widows, more orphans, more pointless misery.
Zizka had won his war. He might have displayed a little of Christ's compassion, and spared the garrison. Unlike Sigismund, that sadistic fool, I daresay he took no pleasure in ordering mass slaughter. It was a means to an end, nothing more. Another part of
his strategy. The fate of Nemecky Brod was a warning to his enemies. In future they might think twice before invading Bohemia.
It was dark when Ralf found me. He carried a lantern, and the mace hanging from his belt was smeared with blood up to the grip.
“Found you at last,” he said, setting down the lantern, “I thought you might have deserted.”
“It wouldn't be the first time,” I replied. He smiled. In stark contrast to his earlier frenzy, there was a relaxed air about him, an expression of smug contentment on his hairy, blood-spattered features.
“The good work is done,” he said happily, “Nemecky Brod has fallen.”
“It fell hours ago,” I retorted, “there was no need to slaughter all those poor devils. Zizka ought to have offered them quarter.”
Ralf's eyes glinted. “Quarter, for the men who raped and looted and murdered their way across Bohemia? For the agents of the Antichrist in Rome? I think not, John. We slay their bodies, and leave God to sift their souls.”
He stood very close, so close I could smell the foul taint of his breath. “Why did you seek me out?” I demanded, backing away.
“Only to talk,” he replied, “as old comrades should. I thought you might wish to swap tales.”
I swallowed my revulsion for him. “Come, then,” I said, “tell me how you got out of Nuremberg, and what became of our comrades.”
He nodded. “Shortly after you were smuggled out of Nuremberg, some traitor informed the city watch of Englishmen hidden inside the crypt of Schiller's church. Perhaps there was a Catholic spy planted among the Hussite sympathisers in the city.”
“Before we could get out, the church was attacked. Thomas and Henry made a fight of it, while I fled with Schiller. They caught him, the poor fool, but I managed to lose myself in the back streets. One of Schiller's loyal friends discovered me, and gave me shelter in his house.”
The Heretic Page 13
