The Heretic

by David Pilling

  The enemy vanguard was smashed all to bits, but thousands of Praguers were still packed inside the valley. Once the first shock had passed, some of these men swarmed forward to heave aside Zizka's wagons and clear the way for another assault on the hill.

  “The trick has failed,” I muttered. Zizka must have hoped the Praguers would lose heart after their vanguard was destroyed. Now a dozen of our precious wagons were gone, the enemy refused to flee, and our army stood exposed on the hill. There was nothing for it save flight or a futile last stand, back-to-back under the chalice until every one of us lay dead.

  I had to get Jana off the field. Left to herself, she would stand and fight until the end. The ghastly image of a sword thrusting into her belly, killing both her and the child, flickered through my mind. Yet I also had a duty to my men. Caught in a frenzy of indecision, I strained to pick out Jana's face among the Hussite infantry clustered under the walls of the fort. Guilt, love, terror and the desire for self-preservation clawed at my conscience and fought each other for supremacy. What in God's name could I do?

  God, or rather Lord Zizka, took the decision out of my hands. An almighty roar billowed up the flanks of the hill, almost bursting my eardrums and terrifying my horse. The beast whinnied and bucked and damn near threw me from the saddle before I got him under control.

  My nose and mouth were full of the stench of gunpowder. Below me the bottom half of the hill was entirely shrouded in white smoke, shot through with crimson gouts of fire. The echoes of the roar died away, replaced by the screams of men in terrible pain.

  “God and the Saints!” a Hussite yelled, his voice muffled by the clanging in my ears, “the wagons have exploded!”

  It was true. Gradually the smoke cleared and revealed that nine of the twelve wagons had detonated, one after another, enveloping the luckless Praguers in storms of of flying rock and shards of broken and twisted metal. The closest soldiers were torn limb from limb by the force of the explosion. Others were horribly burned and crippled. Their scorched bodies lay groaning among scattered heaps of smoking, blackened timber.

  “Christ save us,” I whispered. Zizka must have ordered the wagons to be stuffed full of bags of powder and caltrops under the top layer of stones. His gunners had cleverly inserted long pieces of match inside the powder, and set light to them before the wagons were unleashed. Three had failed to explode, but it hardly mattered. The damage was done.

  Dimly, through the fug inside my head, I heard Zizka's trumpeters sound the general advance. Our infantry poured down the hill, spearheaded by the Táborites. They roared a single name, over and over:

  “ZIZKA! ZIZKA! ZIZKA!”

  A young cavalryman, his face smeared with gore, shouted in my ear. “The Praguers are running, sir! Do we go after them?”

  I looked down and saw the Prague infantry fleeing into the woods. Panicked by the explosions and the wild charge of the Táborites, the rabble had given way to panic. Thank God. If they had stood their ground, there was more than enough of them to smother my decimated command and storm the hill.

  “Go, then,” I said, waving my men forward, “hunt them down. Kill.”

  My lads stormed down the hill at the gallop, whooping like madmen. They plunged into the woods and were quickly lost to view, though I could hear their exultant cries and the screams of their victims.

  I didn't go with them. Before me, in the bowl of the valley, I saw the great mass of the enemy host break up. Men threw down their arms and fled, desperate to escape the wrath of the Hussites and Jan Zizka, the unbeatable general with the Devil on his side. The allied generals were first to run, back to the safety of Prague or wherever the winds blew them.

  The battle was won, but I had just one thought on my mind. To the right, Zizka himself sat his horse, brooding sightlessly over the despair and destruction of his enemies. A few household esquires stayed with him. Otherwise the hill was bare of life. Even the guns were abandoned, their crews gone to join in the slaughter below.

  I swung my horse about and trotted over to the spot I had last seen Jana, standing among the front rank of our infantry. It seemed foolish to hope she might have stayed behind. My gentle spouse would be somewhere in the valley, dealing death even as new life grew inside her.

  Again she surprised me. I found her sat with her back against a gun-carriage, mace laid on the grass beside her, hands folded complacently across the swell of her belly as she watched the massacre.

  She smiled up at me, “Hello, John,” she said, “you are safe, then. God must have a sense of humour. Or perhaps he doesn't want our boy to lack a father.”

  “I saw you charge down the hill,” she added, “even the Táborites praised your courage. If only Jan Englis was as good a Christian as he is a soldier, they said. What a man he would be.”

  I let out a long, shuddering breath, unstrapped my helm and let it drop to the ground. My cheek throbbed with sudden pain. I raised my fingers to the wound and was surprised to find blood. Some Praguer, possibly that bearded clown with the spear, had cut open a nasty gash just under my right eye. In the excitement of the melee, I failed to notice it until now.

  “An inch or so higher,” said Jana, her voice full of touching concern, “and you would have lost the eye. I'm happy for you to emulate Lord Zizka, John. He is a worthy man. But there are limits.”

  I gave a hollow laugh, slid from my horse and plumped down beside her. She leaned on me, sighing happily as she rested her head against my armoured shoulder. Once again I felt a twinge of unease at her manner.

  Below us raged fire and death and slaughter. The valley had become a death-trap for the Praguers, overrun by our cavalry and butchered by our footsoldiers, cut down like wheat under the scythe. The Táborites in particular spared none, calling on God and praising Him to the heavens as they offered up a rich harvest of souls, slashing down men in their hundreds, cutting the throats of those who tried to surrender. The pick of the allied knights stood and fought doggedly, taking a cruel toll of our men before going down to death and hellfire, or whatever the Almighty had in store for them.

  Jana watched all this bloodshed with a sweet smile on her face, as other women might watch children at play. “They're at peace now,” she murmured, dabbing at the blood on my face with a clean cloth.

  “Who are?” I asked absently.

  “My husband and daughter. I lost them at Graz, and their souls have wandered in torment ever since. This victory will allow them to rest.”

  As I have said, she was more than a little mad. Only a damaged mind could have arrived at such a conclusion. The battle at Malesov, where Bohemian slaughtered Bohemian, fathers and sons and brothers slaying each other in an orgy of hatred, was a cause of pity and mourning rather than celebration. The souls of Jana's murdered family, assuming they were on hand to witness the debacle, surely wept at it.

  Over twelve hundred Praguers and their allies were slain, most of them in the rout. Zizka's clerks made a careful count of the dead, entering the names of the slaughtered nobles on sheets of vellum. Zizka ordered this roll-call of the dead so he could know how many of his political enemies had died, and how many escaped.

  When dusk came on, I went down into the reeking valley and picked my way through the slain, holding a scented cloth over my face to ward off the foul charnel house stench. Our poorer soldiers were busily looting corpses, stripping rings from fingers, tearing off costly pieces of armour, using their knives to lever jewels and gemstones from richly inlaid sword hilts. Crows flocked everywhere, cawing in delight as they pecked at juicy eyeballs and gulped down strips of human flesh. On the fringes of the valley, lurking among the trees, the grey shadows of wolves lurked, waiting for proper darkness to descend so they might feast in safety.

  I was looking for an old friend. After an hour or so I found him, lying on his back, limbs spreadeagled, the fingers of his right hand curled about a fistful of silken fabric. Nearby lay the ragged standard of Prague, torn from its pole. The giant figure of the black knig
ht, who had carried it bravely at the head of the Praguer vanguard, lay still nearby.

  Ralf and the knight had died on each other's blades. My former servant's head was split open by a sword-stroke, the contents of his brain pan emptied over the grass. His eyes were wide and glassy, brows still knotted in anger, mouth full of dried blood. The black knight's helm had come off and rolled away. Ralf's dagger was buried up to the hilt in the side of his neck.

  Jana, who had followed me, clasped my hand. “I'm sorry,” she said, shivering as she looked down at Ralf's body, “for your sake, not his. I hated and feared him, but he was your friend.”

  “Once,” I replied, more sharply than intended. I wanted to bury the memory of Ralf as I had known him, the handsome English mercenary with a lively yet secretive past, loyal as a mastiff, wise as Solomon. The bloodstained fanatic who lay at my feet had little in common with that man.

  “He wanted me to search for the truth of God,” I said, turning away, “now his search is over. I hope he liked what he found.”

  30.

  Immediately after the battle Zizka marched on Kutna Hora, where the citizens opened the gates to him and begged for the great warrior's forgiveness. News of his unlikely victory had already reached the city, carried by survivors of the shattered Prague host. Shortly afterwards the towns of Cesky Brod, Kourim and Nymburk, former allies of Prague, all sent envoys offering Zizka their submission.

  Malesov was Zizka's crowning victory. For the last year of his life, none dared to face him in open battle. His enemies, who remained legion, cowered behind the walls of their towns and castles, even when they enjoyed immense superiority in numbers. Zizka's long run of victories, all won against the odds, showed that mere numbers alone weren't enough to defeat him. None of the Bohemian nobles, or their allies among the German and Polish princes, could match him as a general. And they knew it.

  His next target was Prague. He marched slowly towards the rebel-held capital, gathering reinforcements on the way. The defeated Praguers still had friends. At the end of June a lone scout came galloping into camp with news that our old friend, Prince Korybut of Lithuania, had ridden into Prague with fifteen hundred Polish lancers at his back.

  “He declared himself the saviour of Bohemia,” the scout reported breathlessly, “and laid claim to the imperial crown itself. In return for destroying you, Lord Zizka, he wishes to be made King of Bohemia.”

  Zizka's raddled, hangdog face was impassive. “How did the Praguers respond to his claim?” he asked in a soft growl.

  “They welcomed the prince as a hero and granted him powers to govern the land as regent. The nobles stopped short of granting him the crown.”

  The general grunted. “Of course they did. Not even the Catholics want some arrogant Lithuanian princeling for their king.”

  “They need his money, though,” I said, “and his troops.”

  “Neither will save Prague,” replied Zizka, “ten thousand Polish lancers could not save the city from the wrath of God. I am God's instrument in this matter. His tool of vengeance.”

  My blood ran cold. I had heard similar words before, from King Harry of England, shortly before he allowed his troops to run amok in Caen. He called himself the Scourge of God, sent by Divine mandate to punish the French for their lack of faith. Zizka, it seemed, now saw himself as the scourge of Bohemia. His people had turned away from the teachings of Hus and fallen into darkness. It was his task to drive them back to the light. Those who refused to be driven would die.

  He gave stark warning of his intentions. As summer darkened to a chill autumn, the army marched on to a miserable, poverty-stricken little town called Libochovice. Here the citizens brought four captive monks before Zizka, claiming they had raped some local girls.

  “You are our master, Lord Zizka,” said the mayor, “none but you. Give us justice on these men.”

  “Justice they shall have,” replied Zizka, “burn these so-called men of God, and cast their ashes on fallow ground.”

  The monks wept and struggled and pleaded for mercy as they were dragged away. I pitied the wretches, who should (to my mind) have been granted a quick death. Nobody, whatever their crime, deserves to burn. It is the most hideous death, cooked alive in order to purify one's soul via the slow destruction of the body. Only a churchman could have thought of such a thing.

  Zizka's sentence was carried out. Funnels of vile-smelling black smoke rose into the sky as the army marched from Libochovice, our way lit by four human candles.

  More reinforcements, including flocks of Táborites, joined us before we reached Prague. There is nothing like victory to encourage recruitment. Our army swelled to almost thrice the number we had at Malesov, while the Praguers made no effort to bar our progress to the capital. They stripped the surrounding countryside of crops and livestock and drew all their forces inside the walls, ready for a long siege.

  I steeled myself for a massacre. Zizka had made it clear he was intent on purging Prague of dissidents. This was sweet music to the ears of the Táborites, who dreamed of washing the city clean with Catholic and Utraquist blood.

  “I will have no part in it,” I said to Jana, “even if Zizka orders me directly. To hell with his Regulations. Not once, save by accident, have I shed the blood of innocents.”

  “Perhaps God will persuade him to be merciful,” she said hopefully.

  “He hasn't so far,” I answered, remembering the fate of the Adamites.

  Perhaps the general's anger was feigned, meant to frighten Prague into surrender. There was a supple mind at work under his bluff military exterior, perfectly capable of gauging the weaknesses of his enemies, on the council chamber as well as the battlefield.

  Whatever the truth of his intentions, Zizka chose to negotiate with the Praguers rather than destroy them. After two weeks of siege a party of leading citizens, led by an eloquent priest named John of Rokycan, were allowed into our camp to begin the talks.

  When politicians argue, soldiers stand idle. Zizka had no use for me as a diplomat. I found myself frozen out of his councils with little to do save drill, daydream of England and lie abed with Jana.

  “Where shall we live, when the wars are over?” she asked me. It was a warm light in mid-autumn, and we lay curled together under my cloak outside our tent. Above us the midnight arch of the sky glittered with stars. I was in an unusually contented mood, thanks to a jug of wine and the warmth of her body. Anything seemed possible.

  “Wherever we like,” I replied drowsily, “the world is our plaything. Even the stars are in reach. Look, all I have to is reach out and grab one.”

  I extended one naked arm and curled my fingers into a fist. Jana laughed. She was much happier since the victory at Malesov and the death of Ralf, whom she had genuinely feared.

  The Táborites still made her nervous, but their influence seemed to be on the wane. They had lost several prominent leaders in the recent battles. Zizka, their former champion, ignored Táborite demands for an immediate assault on Prague. Even he, who rarely hesitated to slay in the name of God, was revolted by their desire to shed the blood of fellow Bohemians.

  “God grant our son is born into a land at peace,” said Jana, patting her belly, “and knows happiness and tranquillity all his days.”

  “Amen,” I said fervently. She was almost five months gone now, and the bump was noticeable under her loose smock. In my darker moments I wondered what manner of infant would spring from her loins. Half bastard-born English gentleman turned mercenary, half Bohemian peasant stock. He (or she) at least promised to be a fighter, and would need to be.

  The negotiations carried on into October. In the midst of the lull, while Zizka and the Praguers continued to hammer out terms, I received a visitor.

  I was alone in my tent, shortly after dusk. Jana, who understood my need for solitude at times, had made herself scarce. Outside all was peaceful. The pleasant sound of plainchant drifted through the Hussite camp, mingling with the low voices of men chatting around th
eir campfires, the whinny of a horse, the scrape of a sword on a grindstone.

  Comforted by these familiar noises, I lay at full stretch on my bedroll, composing verses in my head. It was over two years since I completed The Siege of Rouen, my only full-length work of poetry. I had spent much of the time since either fleeing or fighting for my life, with scarcely any leisure for private amusements. Now I tried to fit all my recent experiences, even the more unpleasant ones, into a new work.

  It was a struggle. I am no Chaucer, and whatever slight talent for rhyme I ever possessed had shrivelled up and died. The Hussite wars were to blame. They exposed me to the true nature of our species. It was an ugly revelation, guaranteed to kill the poetic streak in any man's soul.

  I was silently cursing my lack of wit and invention when a shadow flickered across the thin canvas wall of my tent, cast by the lantern hanging from a hook on the pole. The shadow of a man, grotesquely deformed by the dim half-light.

  An instant later I had rolled off the bed and was crouched on my haunches, dagger in hand, poised to spring at the newcomer.

  “No need for the blade, Sir John,” he said, holding up his hands, “I come as a friend. Perhaps the best friend you could wish for.”

  My unexpected visitor spoke good English with a pronounced German accent. He was short and slender, almost boyish in appearance. His pale fair hair receded from a slanting forehead, and his sharp, yellow-skinned face put me in mind of a ferret: long nose, thin lips, shrewd little eyes. The left eye had a slight cast to it. He was dressed all in black, not very clean, black gauntlets, black cloak and mantle, black boots. One delicate white hand rested flat on his breast, the other on the silver pommel of a dagger in a black velvet scabbard. A small, blood-red brooch in a gold casing, the only splash of colour on his person, fastened his cloak at the shoulder.

  He put a finger to his lips. “Don't waste time with questions. You may know me as Hans. I slipped into your camp undetected because your sentries are incompetent peasants who would struggle to spot a cow at ten paces.”