“My plan, Englis?” he husked, “my plan is to fight. Fight to the last battle, the last man, the last breath in my body.”
“Always, to fight. Until the end.”
27.
The final months of that year, fourteen hundred and twenty-three, were spent on the march. Only fools fight in winter if they can help it, but the steadily worsening conditions made little difference to the Bohemians. All parties, driven by festering hatred and a belief that God favoured them over the others, were happy to fight even in the midst of gales and snowstorms.
My memory of the campaign is largely one of painful marches over icy roads and a series of confused battles. The rival armies stumbled about, losing more men to frostbite than the enemy. Zizka ravaged the estates of two Bohemian knights, Puta of Castalovice and John of Opocno, former Hussite loyalists whom he suspected of hiring an assassin to kill him. We burned their villages, killing or driving out the peasants. Christmas was spent in camp, with myself and Jana curled up together under piles of woollen blankets inside our tent.
In early January, the season of snows and darkness, Jana told me she was pregnant. The news, though not unexpected, struck me dumb at first. When the shock wore off, my joy was boundless.
“God has granted us another chance at life,” Jana whispered as I held her tight.
From bliss to hell. A few days after, a battle was fought at Skalice. It was a brutish, confused affair, fought in sleet and cold and semi-darkness, and ended in another bloody victory for Zizka. We lost far too many men, and I advised him to retreat to Tábor for reinforcements.
“No,” he barked, “if I turn back now, my enemies will say I run away. We go on. With the Lord's help, we shall conquer.”
His brief flicker of weakness, if such it was, had quite vanished. The old indomitable soldier was back, and it was possible to believe he might yet win through.
My optimism was destroyed at Pilsen, a major stronghold for the Catholics in Bohemia since the start of the war. Fresh from his victory at Skalice, Zizka decided to put an end to this stubborn nest of rebels.
The siege ended in disaster. Our troops, shivering in their thin tents, sickened and died like flies, and every attempt to storm the walls met with bloody repulse. Alarmed by the camp fever raging through his army, Zizka raised the siege and withdrew.
The Catholics inside Pilsen sent horsemen to harry the retreat. They cut down our stragglers, seized a few baggage wagons and even made off with a field gun. In the haste of our withdrawal, some of the wounded were left behind. They dropped and died in the snow, where their frozen corpses were eaten by carrion birds, gangs of wild dogs, and those eternal predators, the wolves of winter.
Zizka returned to Oreb. There was a blessed lull in the fighting, as the winter snows melted away and a fair spring came to Bohemia. Our army had a chance to grow strong again. My leg continued to mend, and my wife and I were granted a little more time together.
Those happy, sunlit days are treasured in my memory. Jana, whose thoughts were full of our impending baby, was the happiest I ever knew her.
“This child is our redemption,” she said earnestly. I knew what she meant. She had left one family buried in the soil outside Graz. Finally, so I hoped, the shadows of the dead had lifted from her.
“Yours, perhaps,” I said with a smile. “I fear I'm beyond redemption.”
She laughed at the weak jest. I thought again of my son in Normandy, and wondered if I would ever be free of guilt.
Our happiness ended with the onset of summer. Zizka finally swallowed his reluctance and marched on Prague, only to find two massive armies, one of Praguers and the other a coalition of Utraquist and Catholic nobles, blocking his path.
Confident in their numbers, they decamped and advanced swiftly on our little army. Desperate for refuge, Zizka fell back to Kostelec on the River Elbe. Our enemies moved quickly to surround the town and turn their guns on the ancient stone walls.
Night fell shortly after we straggled into Kostelec, cloaking the hostile forces that everywhere swarmed around us. They allowed us no sleep, blowing trumpets and clashing cymbals all through the hours of darkness, even as their guns tore great holes in the crumbling ramparts.
“Come the morning,” croaked Zizka in a strained council of war held inside the mayor's house, “they will attack from all sides.”
His esquire rolled out a rough sketch of the town's defences. “We shall set up barricades near the gates,” he went on, “the townspeople shall help, at swordpoint if need be.”
“My lord,” I ventured, “we don't have the numbers to defend every part of the wall. Our men are tired, as well as rotten with sickness. Far better to pull back and build barricades in the streets. Make the enemy pay for every step of ground.”
He rammed the end of his dagger into the table. “Let them have the walls?” he shouted, “never! Once the enemy get inside we shall be trapped, like rats in a barrel. All they need do is starve us out.”
Silence greeted this outburst. I stared at my reflection in the polished steel of his blade. My face was horribly distorted by the metal, yet a proper mirror would have shown little improvement. The wound in my leg still throbbed, and I had lost an alarming amount of weight in recent weeks. I looked like a ghost, pale and red-eyed, my shaggy beard now almost entirely grey.
Who is this old man? I wondered. Did my father look thus, on the eve of his final defeat at Najéra?
The voice of Lord Hynek, one of the few nobles to remain loyal to Zizka, broke the silence. “My lord,” he said, “let us speak plainly. We cannot hope to hold Kostolec. Our only chance is to break through the enemy lines, as you did at Kutna Hora.”
He traced his finger across the map. “I know a ford over the Elbe,” he said, “shallow enough for our wagons to cross in safety. If we go, now, under cover of darkness, we may yet escape the trap.”
Zizka said nothing for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he threw back his greying head and uttered a shout of laughter.
“God has blessed you with wisdom, Hynek,” he cried, “the wisdom He once granted me, before old age slowed my wits. Here I am, thinking of barricades and other such nonsense – to what end? A hopeless last stand in the marketplace? No, my friends, we are not fated to die here. Let the enemy have Kostelec, and welcome.”
He was exultant, and insisted we all kneel and join him in prayer. I couldn't kneel, thanks to my bad leg, and so remained upright. We muttered prayers, the guns boomed outside, and the enemy generals smacked their lips in anticipation of an easy victory. Zizka, they thought, would soon be their prisoner, and sent off in an iron cage to King Sigismund in Hungary.
Thanks to Lord Hynek, the old fox once again outwitted his pursuers. In the early hours of the morning, while it was still pitch-dark, our wagons lumbered out of the eastern gate and splashed across the ford, guided by Hynek's scouts. I led my cavalry in the wake of the armoured columns. Since Lord Cenek's defection, Zizka had placed me in charge of the Hussite horse.
Our breakout met with little resistance. The ford was lightly guarded, and at the first sight of our wagons the enemy sentries took to horse and fled. We rolled over their flimsy tents and ploughed on east, hugging the southern bank of the Elbe. My cavalry, tasked with guarding the rear, followed the column at a fast trot. I was the last man at the tail-end of the army, nervously watching over my shoulder for any sign of pursuit.
The night was hot and dry, our way lit by a full moon. We struggled on in a more or less straight line, always keeping the river to our left. A few miles ahead lay the castle of Podebrady. The lord was friendly to Zizka, and our army could rest awhile behind its strong walls. This was just another temporary respite. We couldn't go on forever, scrambling from one safe haven to the next. At some point Zizka's well of tricks would run dry.
I might have escaped, quit the army then and there, and made off under cover of darkness. Saved my skin. It would be a lie to pretend the ignoble thought didn't flash through my mind.
If not for my pregnant wife, I might well have run. Zizka's cause was lost, and no mercenary with an ounce of sense dies for his employer if he can help it.
The lord of Podebrady rode out to meet us before we reached his castle. He brought reinforcements with him, a few hundred spears and mounted sergeants, which cheered our troops a little.
He also brought bad news. “The Praguers and their allies are shadowing you,” he told Zizka, “their army marches parallel with yours, on the northern bank of the Elbe.”
A groan passed among our officers. Zizka turned his blindfolded head towards the river. Somewhere beyond the northern bank, hidden by clouds of dawn mist, the enemy was stalking us.
I shivered. Now I knew how a deer felt, or a wild boar, when the hunting horns blew and the hounds closed in.
“Twenty thousand,” Lord Podebrady said quietly, “or thereabouts. My scouts only had time for a quick head-count.”
“Twenty thousand,” repeated Lord Hynek, his voice heavy with dread, “all fresh, fit and well-supplied. We must not give battle.”
All of us looked to Zizka. To my horror, he seemed at a loss, chewing his lower lip and fiddling absently with his reins.
“Withdraw,” he said at last, “withdraw. Nothing else to be done.”
Footsore and dispirited, we marched on to the castle, which loomed over the northern side of the Elbe. As soon as our army had crossed, Zizka had a sudden change of heart and ordered us to turn about and cross back again. Baffled, angry, exhausted to the point of collapse, grumbling every step of the way, we obeyed. Zizka's stern discipline, his iron grip over the minds and bodies of his troops, held firm.
There was plenty of discontent. Even the priests were starting to look doubtful. Despite my wretched, saddle-sore state, bad leg aching fit to burst, I was amused to see Zizka's confessor glance anxiously at the sky.
“Has God vanished?” I asked him. In return he gave me a filthy glare. I risked a flogging for such blasphemy, but none of Zizka's marshals were in a mood to enforce the Regulations.
The army plodded on, following the road south-west, through fields of young crops and swathes of dark green pine forest. Stuck in the reserve, I couldn't ask Zizka his intentions. We were headed towards Kutna Hora, the scene of his only defeat. It seemed a bad omen.
At last I could stand the mystery no longer, and galloped to the front of the column. Zizka was resting his old bones inside a wagon, so I approached Lord Kynek, who had command of the vanguard.
“Where in hells are we going?” I hissed, “does Zizka even know? Surely to God he can't mean to hole up in Kutna Hora. The cursed place is full of Germans. What if the gates are closed against us?”
Hynek looked at me with stern disapproval. “The general is Lord Zizka to you, Englis,” he said primly, “in reply to your question, I don't know. Zizka has not confided his plans to me. I suspect he's looking for somewhere to make a stand. He knows this part of the kingdom better than most. Get back to your post.”
Before the day was out Zizka gave orders for the army to swing south. We halted for the night in open country and pitched camp inside the wagon-square. I shared a frugal supper with Jana, holding her close while my men sang and prayed around the supper fires. Their voices were soporific, and after a time I fell asleep against her shoulder.
I sank into the pit of dreams. A boy's face, pale and frightened, gazed out at me from the window of a monastery, his features distorted by the stained glass. He screamed and vanished. I tried to reach out for him. My hand passed through empty air. The monastery was instantly consumed by fire. A stench of roasting meat filled my nostrils. I looked down and cried out in horror as I saw my hands were burning. I was chained to an iron stake in the marketplace of Nuremberg. The mob jeered and chanted and spat at me, and a fat bishop with Ralf's face sighed and asked why I should wish to eat Christ the Redeemer?
My body burned away and released my soul to wander through the ruins of Prague. The streets were empty, with a wooden cross nailed to every door and window. Naked Adamites writhed on the crosses, chanting Ye Who Are Warriors of God. Blood flowed from their wrists and ankles, impaled by iron spikes.
I spotted two children, laughing as they ran away from me down the street, hand-in-hand. I ran after them. My feet were heavy as lead weights, and the cobbles under me dissolved into slush and mud, soaked through with the blood of dead soldiers.
“Wait!” I shouted, “don't leave me here. Take me with you.”
Their laughter, high and mocking, rang like church bells in my ears. They stopped and turned to beckon at me. A boy and a girl, almost identical in age and appearance. Brown-haired, thin and elfin, with green eyes and wicked grins, their mouths filled with sharp little teeth.
I was drowning in the gory slush. “Help me!” I pleaded through a mouthful of blood. The children laughed again. The gold flecks in their eyes grew larger and larger. The golden orbs flashed fire at me. I shrieked in agony as I burned all over again, every inch of my skin melting and peeling away. The blood choked me before I could burn. The ground closed over my head. I was lost in suffocating darkness.
“John.” Jana's voice, urgent in my ear. Her hand shook me awake. “John, for God's sake be silent.”
My eyes flickered open. I lay flat on the grass beside the embers of the fire, bathed in cold sweat. My heart pounded like a drum.
“Hush,” whispered Jana as I tried to speak, “you cried out in your sleep.”
“He's possessed,” grunted a man's voice, “why else would he scream like that about hellfire and suchlike? The Devil has entered his soul.”
I cursed inwardly. Some of my men were also sat around the fire. They had seen me writhe in the grip of a nightmare. Heard me scream in fear. Half the camp had probably heard it.
I pushed Jana away and sat upright. “A bad dream, that's all,” I said, trying to sound offhand, “the cheese we had for supper is to blame, not the Devil.”
The speaker didn't look convinced. Nor did his mates. They were a typically superstitious lot of peasants, convinced Satan was everywhere at work, burrowing his way like a maggot into the corrupted souls of dishonest men. Even after two years of loyal service, many Hussites still looked on me with grave suspicion. To them I was still a foreign hireling, little more than an adventurer, and always would be. In their eyes I was a bad Christian who fought for money rather than God. There were rumours that I hoarded wealth taken from Hussite campaigns, and hid the booty in hidden chests scattered about the kingdom.
In truth I did have a few small boxes of gold hidden away, secreted in Prague and Caslav and other places. Only I, and my trusted servant Nicholas, knew where they all were. I had lost faith in the Hussites, who seemed intent on tearing each other to pieces rather than humbling the Catholic church. No matter how many victories Zizka and his generals won on the battlefield, Rome would win in the end. One small kingdom without allies couldn't hope to defy the might of the Pope forever, much less reform the whole of Christendom.
I had started to plan for a future outside Bohemia. Jana was part of that future, of course, so long as I could persuade her to leave the country.
For now, my fate was still bound up with Zizka's. At dawn the wagons continued to roll south through an early morning haze, tinged with gold. After ten miles or so a column of footsoldiers tramped into view, marching under a tattered red banner emblazoned with the chalice. Reinforcements from Tábor, mixed with a few professional troops brought by a loyal Hussite noble.
“Hail Zizka!” they bawled, brandishing their flails and awlpikes and fighting clubs, “hail the Soldier of God!”
One of the Táborite leaders, an emaciated fanatic in a tattered shawl and bits of rusted mail, barefoot and barelegged, his face plastered in scabs, looked oddly familiar. Under the grime and the sores and the matted layers of hair, he was just about recognisable. Ralf, my one-time servant.
He was much thinner since I last saw him, beside the river at Nemecky Brod, and was clearly a sick man, in body a
nd mind. The extreme piety – madness - of the Táborites had swallowed him up.
“John Page!” he bawled, his feverish, red-rimmed eyes fastened on me. “I said we would meet again. The Lord spares us both for a reason. Have you given yourself entirely to Him?”
Embarrassed, I walked away. The sound of his cracked laughter followed me. “Wriggle on the hook, old friend!” he yelled, “you are a tool of the Lord, and He will not let you go!”
Jana was terrified by Ralf's presence. “Don't let him come near me,” she pleaded, “I cannot bear to look into his eyes. His soul is rotten.”
“He'll keep his distance,” I assured her, “or I'll cut off that unsightly beard and stuff it down his throat.”
A thousand Táborites had marched from their headquarters in the southern hills to reinforce Zizka. Our little army was still outnumbered over four to one by the Praguers and their allies, so we continued to retreat south.
The enemy pursued us at a leisurely pace. Why hurry? Everything was in their favour. Other than a few diehard Hussite strongholds, the whole of Bohemia was on their side, including the guilds, the towns, and the majority of the nobles. Sigismund hovered on the Moravian border, waiting to hear of Zizka's inevitable defeat and capture. Doubtless his blood tingled at the thought of the hated Bohemian general, who had defied and humiliated him on so many occasions, paraded through the streets of Buda in chains. Afterwards Zizka would be burned at the stake, like Jan Hus before him, and his ashes cast into a river.
At last, on a sweltering day in early June, we arrived at the place Zizka had in mind. A thickly wooded hill, surrounded by marshy ground, overlooked by a deserted wooden fort at the summit. Before the hill lay a narrow valley, through which ran a stream. The dusty road we marched along cut through the valley, over the hill, passed under the walls of the fort.
“The hill of Malesov,” said Lord Hynek, shading his eyes to look up at the fort, “the general has chosen well, as ever. We shall deploy on the slope, forcing the enemy to come at us via the road. The only other option is to hack their way through the woods.”
The Heretic Page 18