Zizka, the One Eyed

By Jim Fuxa

The quick temper of Jan Žižka, a one-eyed warrior, thrusts him into leadership of a revolution that will challenge the very foundations of medieval society. Could the love of a widowed queen help him overcome a devastating wound in time to stave off wave after wave of invading armies?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312145931

Book preview

Zizka, the One Eyed

ŽIŽKA

The One-Eyed

By

JIM  FUXA

A Historical Novel of

Revolution

in Medieval Bohemia

Žižka, the One-Eyed

Published by James R. Fuxa,

12123 Cove Ridge Lane, Cypress, TX 77433

Copyright © 2014 by James R. Fuxa

ISBN: 978-1-312-14593-1

This story is based on actual events and persons, but its characters, characterizations, incidents, locations, and dialogue are fictionalized or invented for purposes of dramatization. With respect to such fictionalization or invention, any similarity to the name or to the actual character or history of any person, living or dead, or any entity or actual incident is entirely for dramatic purpose and not intended to reflect on actual character, history, or entity.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Maps produced by James R. Fuxa

The cover depicts the head of the monumental statue of Jan Žižka on Vítkov Hill in Prague. This bronze sculpture by Bohumil Kafka is said to be the largest equestrian statue in the world. Photograph by Jaromír Dvořák, Jr., of Nový Bor, courtesy of Dr. Pavel Douša, Director of the Historical Museum of the Czech Republic National Museum (Národní muzeum).

To my family,

DIANN, ALEX, and JASON

Contents

ŽIŽKA   The One-Eyed

Cast of Characters

Maps

The Kingdom of Bohemia

Bohemia and Western Moravia

Prague and the Battle of Vítkov Hill

The Battle of Sudoměř

The Battle of Kutná Hora

The Battle of Malešov

Prologue

Part I – Revolution

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part II – Captain

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part III – Commander

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part IV – School of Night

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part V – Samson of God

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part VI – Intrigue

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Part VII – Civil War

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part VIII – Battle Drum

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Aftermath

Acknowledgments

To the Reader

Historical Notes

About the Author

Cast of Characters

John Hus, a heretic priest

Hussites (in order of first mention or appearance)

Sophia, Queen of the Kingdom of Bohemia

Jan Žižka of Trocnov, a squire

Šemík, his horse, and Libuše, his falcon

Jaroslav (Jaroš) of Trocnov, a squire and brother of Jan Žižka

Zuzana Kunstatu, lady-in-waiting to Queen Sophia

John Roháč of Dubá, a Bohemian baron

John Želivský, a priest and, later, dictator of Prague

Victor Boček of Kunštat-Poděbrady, a Bohemian baron

Hynek Boček of Kunštat-Poděbrady, a Bohemian baron and brother of Victor

Peter Zmrzlík of Svojšín, a Bohemian baron and mint-master

Prokop the Bald (or the Shaven), a warrior-priest

Peter Payne, a master at the University of Prague

John Hvězda of Vícemilice, a knight

Wenceslas Koranda, a rebel priest

Ambrose of Hradec, a warrior priest

Vlasta, a peasant woman and soldier

Michael Koudela, a peasant and servant to Jan Žižka

Hussite League of Lords (in order of first mention or appearance)

Diviš Bořek of Miletínek, a powerful and wealthy Bohemian knight

Heinrich Krušina of Lichtenburg, a Bohemian baron

Hynek of Kolstein, a Moravian baron

John Smiřický, a powerful and wealthy Bohemian knight

Hašek of Waldstein, a Moravian baron

Sigismund Korybut, a prince of Lithuania and Regent King of Bohemia

Dmitri, a Lithuanian cavalry officer

Jetřich of Miletínek, a Bohemian baron and brother of Diviš Bořek

Royalist or Catholic (in order of first mention or appearance)

Wenceslas IV, King of Bohemia and brother of King Sigismund of Hungary

Sigismund, King of the Romans (Holy Roman Emperor-elect) and King of Hungary

Martin V, Pope of the Roman Catholic Church

Čeněk of Wartenburg, a Bohemian baron and Lord High Burgrave of Prague

Ulrich of Rosenberg, a Bohemian baron

Conrad of Vechta, Catholic Archbishop of Prague, later a Hussite

Pipo of Ozora (Pipo Spano), General of King Sigismund’s armies

Albert V, Archduke of Austria

Bohuslav of Švamberg, a royalist Bohemian baron, later a Hussite military leader

Nicholas Divoký of Jemniště (alias Boleslav of Budějovice), a Bohemian baron

Branda of Castiglione, Cardinal of the Church and Papal Legate to King Sigismund

Others (mentioned in the story but do not appear as characters)

Charles IV (died before the story begins), Holy Roman Emperor and father of King Wenceslas and King Sigismund

Johanna, Žižka’s daughter and wife of Henry of Dubá

Henry of Dubá, a Bohemian baron and Žižka’s son-in-law

Władysław II Jagiełło, King of Poland and uncle of Prince Korybut

Witold, Grand Duke of Lithuania and uncle of Prince Korybut

Maps

The Kingdom of Bohemia in the 15th Century

Bohemia and Western Moravia in the 15th Century

15th Century Prague and the Battle of Vítkov Hill

The Battle of Sudoměř

The Battle of Kutná Hora

The Battle of Malešov

The Kingdom of Bohemia

Bohemia and Western Moravia

Prague and the Battle of Vítkov Hill

The Battle of Sudoměř

The Battle of Kutná Hora

The Battle of Malešov

Prologue

"Then one Czech stood up from the ranks of the knights,

a man most brave, one-eyed ..."

— Anonymous, ca. 1435

Žižka

Prologue

July 1415

He finally saw the thick wooden stake, a stark finger eight feet high, driven into a hillock, piercing the grey sky. Freshly cut wood was piled high around the terrible oak pillar, interspersed with tied bundles of sticks and straw. Additional faggots were stacked nearby.

A narrow path of bare, trampled soil had been left open in the wood pile. Through this gap the gaunt, bearded man could see the entire length of the stake down to the ground, despite the rim of his tall paper heretic’s hat threatening to fall over his sunken eyes. Ugly iron chain and manacles hung loosely from sturdy bolts.

The chains would come soon enough. For now, rope bound his wrists and circled his upper arms, keeping them tight to his body. He was surrounded by guards wearing kettle helmets and mail armor with swords in scabbards hanging from leather belts. They were watchful, methodical, but not unkind.

Priests with grim faces and grim black robes stood nearby, not to offer comfort, but to make certain the crowd would hear no false doctrine that day from the heretic whom they must send to hell.

The gaunt man couldn’t make out the faces of the other two, their features deep in the shadows of the hoods so that only the tips of their noses stuck out into the light. Their final preparations around the stake gave pause to the proceedings, gave him brief respite, time to pray and wait a little longer to meet his Maker.

He thanked God for the friends and followers who were here, a small island of supporters in a sea of spectators. Some of his friends cried, some begged that he be given a confessor. But the priests would hear none of that, not for a leader of heretics. The rest of the crowd of men, women, and children seemed more interested in the proceedings than in the reason for them, although occasionally one would shout, Die, heretic!

Beyond the onlookers across the small plain, a beam of sunshine pierced the clouds to brighten the town walls and towers and rooftops of Constance, a gleaming city in a grey landscape. Would heaven look like this, a bright white city amidst dull clouds? He felt he would soon know. The followers of the Antichrist couldn’t prevent him from entering God’s kingdom – only his sins could do that. The sunbeam disappeared to leave Constance engulfed again in an ashen hue.

Off to his left two priests tended a small fire, its orange flames swirling to fling glowing linen-ash up into a wisp of dark smoke. They worked well away from the hillock to avoid accidentally and prematurely igniting the stake’s large wood pile. The ashes were the remains of coarse paper from the gaunt man’s writings, his books and theses.

He glanced over his right shoulder toward the red and gold tent-like pavilion set on poles to shield dignitaries from sun or rain. Sigismund sat there, wearing a voluminous golden robe enshrouding his white tunic. Sigismund, the king who called himself Emperor.

He must forgive the king. He must. He prayed, Lord, my God, please forgive this man.

Sigismund glared at the gaunt man as if he had heard the prayer. He laughed through his reddish brown mustache and beard interspersed with strands of grey, while he turned to talk with a smiling, red-clad cardinal, a prince of the Church, seated next to him.

He must free his heart. He must not hate this king who had betrayed him. But it was so hard to forget that Sigismund had promised safe conduct to his Council at Constance so the gaunt man could explain and defend his orthodoxy, his crusade within the Church against its selling forgiveness of sins, its simony, its excessive wealth, its corrupt clergy. His so-called heresies.

Sigismund’s promise of safe conduct had been empty, meaningless. The gaunt man had been seized by the Church soon after he arrived in Constance-on-the-Rhine, then chained and half-starved in dank dungeons for months, first in a monastery and then beneath the archbishop’s castle. When the Council finally got around to it, he was put on trial in front of three bishops, whose harsh features glowered beneath tall silk miters embroidered with gold thread and clusters of jewels.

Of course, he hadn’t been allowed to defend himself. And he’d refused to recant. At the official degradation after his trial, Church prelates had removed his sandals, his priest’s garb and ornaments, even enough of his hair to obliterate his priestly tonsure.

And, so, here he was. Lord, he prayed, please help me free my heart, free it from hatred in my final moments.

The shadow-faced men in hoods finished arranging the straw-stick bundles and approached with knives. It was time, almost a relief after all these months. Fear gripped his heart, a heaviness in his chest. His legs grew weak. He fell to his knees and prayed. Prayed to remain steadfast, not recant or beg.

The men in hoods were at his sides where each grabbed one of his upper arms and jerked him to his feet. He felt the dust between his bare toes, like when he was a child. Strange, how every tiny sensation now seemed so ... acute.

The hooded men untied his ropes. They cut off his cleric’s dalmatic, the long-sleeved tunic, and his grey linen undertunic. Only his loincloth-like breeches remained, and, of course, the conical paper hat. He supposed he might have felt cold if not for the warmth of this July day, but it hardly would have mattered.

The hooded executioners forced the gaunt man, his knees almost buckling, through the path in the wood to the stake, where they jerked him around to face the red-gold pavilion. Each of them held one of his arms up as they secured him against the post by wrapping cold chain around his chest. They manacled his wrists behind his back and behind the stake. The iron pinched; perhaps he should try to focus on this insignificant pain, welcome it.

They looped more chain around his neck to a bolt in the stake, snug enough to immobilize him but not tight enough to choke. One of the hooded men laughed as he straightened the heretic’s hat. They stacked and leaned straw-stick faggots and pieces of wood around him, almost to his neck, and filled in the path behind them with more wood as they exited.

He knew he was lucky in a way. He had seen executions by fire. Death came more quickly if the wood was piled high around the prisoner. Victims chained to a stake on top of the wood pile burned from the calves upward and screamed far longer.

The gaunt man could still see over the wood and hear his friends who were crying and praying. He knew what he must do – he began to sing, in a quavering voice at first, then sounding like what he was, a man of conviction.

"Christ have mercy upon me,

Christ, Son of the living God,

have mercy upon me..."

His friends’ voices join his own while the hooded men approached opposite sides of his woodpile – for it was indeed his now – one to his right, one to his left, each with a burning firebrand. They circled the pile, touching the firebrands to the straw-wood faggot tinder. Smoke snaked upward from some of them, but no licks of fire yet. The air was damp, the straw moist, and the flames took their time while the gaunt man sang.

An old woman broke through guards spaced at the edge of the crowd, a woman grasping a few twigs in her bony hands, her eyes avoiding his own, her wrinkled face directed intently toward one of the wisps of smoke. He stopped singing. She ran up to a smoldering spot in front of him and threw the sticks onto it, first one handful, then the other. Was she a friend futilely trying to stoke the fire to end his suffering quickly? Or a vicious onlooker foolishly trying to hasten suffering’s onset? Either way, he was grateful for this final moment of humor.

He smiled at the crowd and said, Holy simplicity! One or two of them actually laughed.

The flames caught, the sticks crackled. The hooded men threw his shredded tunics onto the growing blaze. He grew warm, then hot, as he sang, loudly as he could, so all would hear. Smoke and cinders burned his eyes and made it harder and harder to catch breath for his song.

It began. The pain, such as he had never felt, first his shoulders and neck, then torso, then his head as he faced the sky and the paper hat burned his hairless scalp. He struggled against the chains, eyes closed tight against the flames, throat wheezing, trying to keep singing, breath becoming more and more precious. His song ended in a hoarse scream and final, futile gasp for air.

◊

The wood piled to the gaunt man’s neck did indeed speed him toward freedom from his agony and from his oppressors. So did his singing as the flames reached his lungs in their final gulps for breath. He choked as his throat contracted, and, ironically, he drowned in his lungs’ own secretions, their final attempt to ward off fatal injury. He was beyond caring as his feet and hands contracted from heat shock, his teeth fractured, his organs shriveled, his brain boiled, and his skull exploded.

Afterwards, the hooded men collected the scorched bones and the ash nearest the stake into buckets and dumped them into the Rhine. They turned and left, not bothering to watch the grey ash floating on the grey current in a grey dusk.

The gaunt man’s name was John Hus. His execution soon ignited a revolution that would change the Western World.

Part I – Revolution

June to July 1419

"And so then the people divided themselves ...

into two parties.

... And these began to abuse each other and struggle ..."

— Anonymous, ca. 1435

Chapter 1

Queen Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move a muscle. She took care not to disturb the huge animal, the largest she had ever seen, alive or dead – massive shoulders, long snout, two sets of yellow-white vicious-looking tusks like scythes curving up and back from its lower jaw. Its stubby legs were deceptive. She had once seen how fast a boar attacked and didn’t wish to do so again.

She hadn’t noticed it rooting for food in the early-morning haze. She spotted the grey highlights of its bristly black fur only after her riding companion reined in his horse and pointed into the shadows where the meadow met the forest.

Sophia whispered, Master Žižka, no.

It did no good. Squire Žižka, her bodyguard, had been the royal huntsman for years before his promotion, and his old instincts returned instantly. Her fear gave way to growing excitement as he dismounted, moving a finger-breadth at a time. He unhooked the yew longbow from his saddle and silently slid two arrows from their quiver. His muscles bulged beneath his tunic from the effort of stringing the laminated wood and bone weapon.

Žižka’s deliberate movements gained urgency. The boar went still, head up and alert, its beady, black, soulless eyes fixed on Žižka. Its right hoof pawed the ground once, twice, and he was off – straight toward them, its massive head lowered, spittle drooling down its tusks and spraying off their tips. How could something so ungainly, so clumsy-looking, move so fast?

Sophia calmed her nervous palfrey horse as Žižka’s mount stood alert and ready to move. His steed was a charger, a white war-horse used to danger.

Sophia breathed more quickly. Her pulse raced. The squire stood, legs spread for stability, gauntlet protecting his right forearm, the flax bowstring extended, sighting his target along the arrow with his left eye, his only eye.

Most men couldn’t master the longbow, and Žižka was no longer young. But he was full of vigor with strong arms and shoulders. He told her once that he grew up with the weapon.

He was ready to shoot as the boar charged, less than 120 paces away, within the weapon’s range for penetrating an enemy’s leather or mail armor, or a boar’s hide and flesh and bone. The animal burst from the shadows into the brightening sunlight, closing fast. What was Žižka waiting for? Where could he hit it? The beast was all head, coming straight at them, tusk, skull, beady eyes, no vulnerable body parts.

The waxed bowstring twanged. Sophia couldn’t remember the last time she felt so alive, so aroused, her heart racing. Žižka notched and released the second arrow as the steel head of the first hit the animal square in the forehead. The arrow stuck in its skull. The charging beast pulled up, startled. He shook his head and began to lower it to resume the attack. He was too late.

The second arrow hit during that brief moment when its chest was exposed, and the small, triangular arrowhead, designed to pierce mail armor, penetrated deeply into the animal’s flesh and bone. Blood mixed with spittle flowed from its mouth. The beast quivered, collapsed to its front knees, rolled onto its side still wheezing. It was only twenty paces away.

The squire tucked his brown tunic up into his belt to keep it out of his way, revealing blue hose tucked into his boots. He drew his sword with a hissing sound from the leather scabbard belted to his saddle and sprinted toward the prostate animal, then slowed to approach carefully from its backside, away from the still-dangerous tusks. He raised his sword high in a flash of reflected sunlight, both hands on the weapon’s grip, and drove the blade downward into the animal’s neck. Blood gushed with an acrid odor, and spasms ran through the boar’s body and legs. It went still, its eye open, lifeless.

Sophia squealed with delight, clapping her hands. She dismounted in a long-practiced maneuver, one that would entice by swirling her skirt to reveal a glimpse of linen hose. She stepped toward the man and his prey, lifting her skirt in front to keep it free of the meadow plants spattered with blood. Žižka, on one knee, breathed hard and smiled up at her through his full mustache. Drops of perspiration dotted his forehead despite the morning chill.

Sophia sat in a nearby patch of grass, smoothing her skirt over her legs. She’d known Žižka for many years at court and as her bodyguard, but he’d been little more than an ornament in the background. Today was different. She’d never seen him like this. She decided to tease him a little.

Some huntsman you are, Squire Jan Žižka of Trocnov. It took you two arrows to down that ugly beast. One should have done quite nicely.

Žižka laughed. "May it please Your Majesty, I was lucky. My second arrow arrived at the instant the boar pulled up. I might not have got off another, and those tusks could’ve opened my leg up to the groin.

After I lost my eye as a youngster, he continued, "the other children tormented me relentlessly. My brother tried to ease the taunting. He made light of it by jesting that having only one eye meant only that I must do all things twice. It’s been a joke between us ever since.

And so, Your Majesty, two arrows, two shots – all things twice.

Sophia’s practiced eye caught him glance at her bosom with his one good eye then raise it to meet her own. His eye was grey, almost blue, confident, as if it knew no fear.

She felt a little ... what? She was glad she’d worn her dark-green wool riding dress that showed off her figure, which was still admirable. Her dress complemented her auburn hair, a bit of which peeked out from under a white veil, as befitted a married woman.

Žižka slid a knife from a leather scabbard on his belt. He studied her face for a moment while he stood over the carcass, which lay with its mouth open and legs splayed. Sophia knew it was impossible for her, but, God, he was handsome standing like that, so sure of himself. He looked tough, mysterious, with the brown cloth covering his right eye-socket and circling up over his left ear like a headband around his near-shoulder-length hair. His hair once had been dark brown, but now it was lighter, greying at the temples, and his big mustache was entirely grey. She wondered if he would look younger if he shaved it off.

With your permission, Your Majesty, I must clean this animal before we return to Castle Křivoklát. Later, servants can skin the boar, butcher it, and salt its flesh, but the entrails must be removed now. This animal is too old to provide the succulent meat suitable for high gentry, but it’ll supply many meals for the servants and common folk.

This man was so callous, unrefined. Yet, she was attracted as well as repelled. Žižka was more real than her husband and her acquaintances in the Royal Court. Wenceslas could never slay a boar like this. He’d rather kill a deer chased into a trap by his servants.

Until his admiring glance a moment ago, it had never occurred to Sophia that Žižka might be attracted to her. But she was married, he was older, and they had far different stations in life. She had responsibilities. On the other hand, she could daydream, couldn’t she, while making love to the king? If that weakling ever regained his vigor.

I know why they call you ‘Žižka’ – ‘The One-Eyed’ – but how were you injured?

He stopped slitting the belly of the boar and looked up, studying her with that one intriguing eye – so strong, yet lonely and vulnerable. Perhaps he was trying to determine whether she was one of those who would taunt him. He pursed his lips and nodded to himself as if he’d decided she intended no harm.

When I was ten, my brother and I fought a gang of boys from a nearby village. One of their sticks jabbed my eye.

And the other children made fun of you?

You know how youngsters are. The taunting began with the boys who took my eye, calling me ‘Mole.’ Other names followed: ‘Cyclops,’ ‘Dim,’ too many to mention.

Sophia noticed anger building in his voice, his neck and ears growing red. This must be the beginning of the famous Žižka temper. She’d heard it caused him trouble many times through the years. She decided to change the topic.

But your brother helped you get through it all. What’s his name?

"Jaroslav. I can never repay everything he did to help me get through those years. But I did learn to repay those who taunted me. I learned to fight, to become strong. Before long the name-calling stopped, and I simply became known as Jan, ‘the One-Eyed.’ Jan ‘Žižka.’"

Sophia felt sick as Žižka returned to work with the boar. Blood gushed and guts spilled with a foul odor when Žižka slit open its belly and removed the entrails, throwing them to the side for scavengers.

The sight darkened her mood. The problems she was trying to forget during her morning ride flooded back.

She was in so much trouble. Her husband, Wenceslas, was furious with her, blaming Sophia for all his troubles. Her outspokenness for the Hussite cause had enraged the pope, just the excuse Sigismund, her own brother-in-law, might use to seize their kingdom. Pope Martin had even called her a heretic and issued a summons, which she ignored after what happened to John Hus. She had no allies. Even her own brothers had renounced her – Sophia’s native Bavaria would never again provide a haven.

She had an idea, let it grow for a moment so she wouldn’t lose it forever, then spoke before she lost courage.

Žižka, you believed in the preachings of John Hus, I know you did. I heard you pray and sing and voice your assent while you guarded me whenever I attended his services. Where do you stand now?

His eye studied her once again, piercing her very soul. It felt like an eternity before he seemed to make up his mind, even though it had been only a few moments.

"Your Majesty, I owe King Wenceslas a great deal. We’ve hunted together as companions. He’s even asked my advice on occasion.

"But the preacher changed me. His betrayal and death have united most of our people – nobility as well as townspeople and peasants. The Church must reform, and Sigismund must not have the Crown of Bohemia.

"What about you, Your Majesty? Where do you stand?"

Sophia was taken aback. It had been ages since any man cared how she felt about anything. How far could she trust this man? He could very well have mixed loyalties – to her husband who had brought him to court, but also to the Hussites.

She recognized this as a fateful point in her life, a moment that could save her or just as easily send her to the stake. She looked into Žižka’s eye, and she saw sincerity.

Sophia made up her mind. Žižka had risked everything with his answer, and so would she.

I agree with you. Wholeheartedly. But my position is precarious. Can I count on your help if I’m threatened, even by Sigismund or Pope Martin?

Žižka didn’t hesitate.

I’m only a squire, of little use against an emperor or pope, but I stand loyal to you, to the Hussite cause, and to Bohemia. He smiled. Not necessarily in that order.

Sophia laughed and felt tears well up, but she controlled them. She knew somehow that she could trust Žižka just as she trusted Zuzana, her lady-in-waiting. A squire and a young noblewoman – her only allies. That wasn’t much, but Sophia felt as if she had unburdened herself of an oppressive weight.

Sophia’s problems vanished for now, and her thoughts slipped back to the adventure of the boar. Žižka wiped the blades of his sword and knife with moss and slid them back into their scabbards.

How will you get the carcass back to the castle?

The excitement of the hunter returned to Žižka’s voice. "This boar must weigh at least five centner, probably more! It’s so heavy, I’ll tie a rope from my saddle to the front legs to drag it back, another reason the skin can remain for now. It’s only a short distance – we didn’t get very far this morning before we spotted him.

Do you need help mounting your palfrey, Your Majesty?

Absolutely not, she said as she stepped to her horse. She placed her foot in the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle, rearranged her skirt over her legs, then turned and looked down at her bodyguard with a mischievous smile.

I have just decided. When we are in the presence of others, you shall continue to address me as ‘Your Majesty,’ and I shall continue to call you ‘Squire Žižka.’ When we’re alone, however, you’re ‘Jan’ and I’m ‘Sophia.’ Is that clear, Jan?

Absolutely, Your Maj..., I mean, Sophia.

She felt good. This had developed into a splendid outing. But a shiver ran up her spine as they turned toward the castle. She had glanced back at the site where Žižka had killed the boar.

Dark blood stained the Bohemian soil.

Chapter 2

Žižka paused on Prague Bridge, a massive structure of sandstone blocks. The cool breeze blowing across the waves of the Vltava should be exhilarating on this warm summer day. The views of the city on both sides of the river usually lifted his spirits too, reminding him of the political power that had once invigorated Bohemia.

Not today. The wind sent a shiver up his spine, and the sights were depressing ... no, worse than depressing, ominous.

Downriver, Prague Castle dominated the city high on Hradčany Hill.  Windows of the palace peeked above the castle walls, the palace where Lord Čeněk almost daily persuaded King Wenceslas to make concessions to the emperor and the pope. Normally this mighty fortress was beautiful, its church spires and red roofs piercing the blue sky, its long expanse of white impregnable walls surmounting steep slopes, interrupted only by formidable towers. The castle wasn’t beautiful today, though. It was a foreboding stronghold controlling all of western Prague on the left bank.

Upriver, castle Vyšehrad surmounted a craggy bluff abutting the right bank to dominate southeastern Prague. It too was formidable. It too was royalist. Žižka could barely see its walls from here, walls that sloped inward so that projectiles from siege engines would glance off instead of hit square-on. Emperor Charles IV had moved his palace from Vyšehrad, the ancient and legendary seat of Bohemian monarchs, to Prague Castle, but he hadn’t ignored Vyšehrad’s fortifications.

Old Town and New Town Prague nestled in the eastern hills between the bridge and Vyšehrad. No sign of trouble yet, but it was only a matter of time. Old Town inhabitants were mostly German Royalists or Hussite conservatives. Folks in New Town were Czech commoners – craftsmen, shopkeepers, laborers – and radical. Any spark could set them at one another’s throats.

That spark might be struck today in New Town, where he was headed. The serenity of its expanse of red-tiled roofs, broken here and there by a wisp of smoke or a church steeple, belied the turmoil that might erupt.

Žižka dodged a horse and rider as he turned to resume crossing the bridge.

Uh, oh.

Two men stepped onto the bridge from the shadows under the arch of grey stone of the Old Town Bridge Tower, a miniature fortress defending the span’s eastern end. One of them, a baron, pointed at Žižka and spoke to his companion, a gruff-looking thug.

This was the only bridge in Prague across the Vltava, the arch under its east tower the only way into Old Town except by boat. Žižka was not about to turn around.

The nobleman was in his late thirties, with a large mustache, bare chin on a narrow face, and close-set, penetrating eyes. Brown hair hung straight to the base of his neck. Žižka noted the ballock dagger in a richly decorated scabbard hanging from the baron’s leather belt. He saw no other weapon.

Žižka took greater interest in the thug, who approached in quick, jerky strides on bandy legs, his eyes fixed on Žižka. He looked menacing – barrel chest, massive shoulders and arms, gnarled hands with big thick fingers – and ready for trouble in a chain-mail tunic and brown doublet, its frayed sleeves sewn with patches that probably covered cuts made by enemy blades. His head was bare, hood thrown back. No armor protected his legs, just yellow hose and low-top boots. He drew a hand-and-a-half sword from a leather scabbard on his belt, where a dagger also hung.

The nobleman approached more slowly than his comrade, content to stay back and watch.

Žižka wore no armor, just a black tunic down to his boots with slits up its sides. The slits freed his legs for riding horses, but they also would allow the footwork he might need in the next few moments. He unfastened the tunic’s top two horn buttons so his arms could swing without hindrance.

The thug drew his sword and stepped forward with a leering grin beneath a brown mustache which reached to the jaw-line in his oval face. Unshaven jowls and chin added to his menacing appearance.

Žižka grasped the heavy wooden handle of his favorite weapon, a mace, which he carried on a thong looped over his shoulder. He slipped the loop off his shoulder and raised the weapon’s heavy oval iron head, which was the size of a large fist with stout, finger-width spikes projecting all around.

Well ..., if it isn’t Jan Žižka, said the thug, the very wretch we’re looking for. Maybe I should slice that fine mustache right off your ugly lip. Let’s see if an old man like you can still fight.

He approached aggressively, alternately tightening and loosening each hand on the grip of his hand-and-a-half sword, seeking a comfortable grasp. The fourth finger of his right hand ended in a little club – the last joint was missing. The nails of the two adjacent fingers were deformed, probably from the same injury to his hand, which had healed long ago. The deformities wouldn’t hamper his swordsmanship.

Žižka wished he had brought his sword. He preferred a mace on the battlefield, because he could swing it or punch it to break bones through chain armor, which would mostly stop a sword from stabbing or cutting. He could stun a man wearing a helmet or knock a knight in plate armor off-balance. Without a shield, however, his mace was at a disadvantage in a one-on-one fight against a swordsman.

Holy simplicity, you old fart, Žižka retorted as he edged toward his opponent, gripping the mace with both hands, with his left side slightly forward so that his good eye faced his foe. I’m surprised his lordship there would tolerate the likes of you.

The thug raised his sword and leaped forward with a sweeping downstroke. Žižka swung his mace up just in time to block the sword’s cutting edge, which stuck lightly in the handle. He tried to twist his mace, hoping the stuck sword would twist with it and loosen his opponent’s hold. But the blade wasn’t embedded deeply, and it came free, solidly in the thug’s grip.

Give it up, Žižka. I’ll bide my time then strike from your right. You’ll never see it coming.

They moved lightly, circling to the right. Žižka dodged the thug’s jabs with his footwork and blocked sword strokes with his mace. He looked for an opening to punch or swing his truncheon. Hitting just a hand or forearm would disable a swordsman.

He felt encouraged – the thug might be tiring. But he too was breathing harder, and his right shoulder, which had been giving him trouble for a couple of months, was beginning to hurt. His opponent would make his move soon.

It came quickly. He feinted to Žižka’s right then swung at his left side. Žižka blocked the stroke, left hand and shoulder down, right up, but the thug’s thrust was only another feint. Before the stroke was completed, while his mace was out of position, the sword swung up and around into a downstroke. Žižka had seen this ploy before. He was ready. He raised his mace with both hands to block the blow. The sword again buried its edge in the oak handle, more deeply this time, and Žižka instantly twisted it sideways, pulling the thug slightly off balance as he refused to loosen his grip. Before he could regain his balance, Žižka pushed mace, sword, and thug to the bridge side-wall.

See, Jan ... it’s as I’ve told you ... many times, the thug panted. I dislodged my sword the first time it stuck in your club, but not the second. You must do all things twice.

It’s good to see you, Jaroš, said Žižka. Welcome to Prague.

The nobleman ambled over to them, laughing. Enough already, Jan. You too, Jaroslav. I declare a draw – more important matters await. For two brothers who haven’t seen each other for a year or more, you have the strangest way of greeting one another. I don’t know how you always manage to stop your strikes a finger-width shy of injuring flesh in these little jousts.

The brothers threw down the two weapons and embraced, pounding each other on the back before they sat, backs to the side-wall.

Jaroslav said, Well ..., at least you haven’t lost the knack of countering on your left.

But it’s a sorry sight that you haven’t learned to beat a man on his blind side, said Žižka. He looked up at the nobleman.

Welcome, John Roháč, sit down, while we catch our breath.

The baron frowned, as if he didn’t want to soil his garments, then shrugged and sat. Unlike most highborn, he wore sensible clothes – light-blue doublet ending at mid-calf to reveal leather boots and a dark-green cowl with its hood thrown back to leave his head bare.

Žižka and Jaroslav had known Roháč for years. He wasn’t a pretentious sort, so they could dispense with addressing him as Lord. Roháč was related to the Lords of Dubá, one of the greatest baronial families, but he came from a branch of lesser wealth and splendor.

Have you heard anything of Johanna and Henry, John?

Your daughter and my cousin are happy together.

They haven’t given me a grandchild yet? Johanna is running out of time.

Sorry, Jan, no grandchildren.

Žižka was glad to be related to Roháč, even so distantly. John was a determined, loyal, moral person, and a good friend.

Jaroš, are Agnes and Aunt Anna well?

Jaroslav was quick to smile. Yeah ..., but they won’t leave Trocnov. As always, our sister takes care of Old Auntie, who shows no sign of slowing down. Did you know she still does chores around the house? How old is she by now, eighty-five? Ninety?

Who knows?

Agnes is still ... quiet, keeps to herself. She’s never gotten over being raped by that monk, may he suffer forever in hell.

Where we sent him, said Žižka, just like Ulrich’s German henchmen, who tortured and beheaded our brother.

Jaroslav’s face darkened, much like Žižka’s own thoughts. Jaroslav stroked his mustache, and they both went silent for a moment.

Well … Agnes and Anna keep their religion and politics to themselves, Jaroslav continued. Ulrich of Rosenberg and his cutthroats don’t bother them.

Young Ulrich remains a staunch royalist, then, like his father before him?

Yeah ... but our sister and aunt don’t seem to be living under threat in his domains, at least not yet.

Roháč changed the subject.

Let’s be off, you two. Hurry! To see what happens with Father Želivský’s procession. It should’ve begun by now.

Jaroslav asked, What’s all the excitement?

You’ve been gone too long from Prague, answered Žižka. Three weeks ago, King Wenceslas finally fell under the spell of Čeněk, the Lord High Burgrave. He purged all Hussites from public offices in Prague, even the burgomaster and councillors of New Town. Anti-Hussite royalists rule the city, mostly Germans. Mass processions and communion in both kinds are forbidden. Not only that, Wenceslas banned Hussites from teaching in the schools and from worshiping in all but three churches in the entire city.

Jaroslav looked shocked. Three? There must be ... what? A hundred churches in Prague. And Prague is mostly Hussite.

There’s more, added Roháč. Word went out – a radical priest, Želivský, will lead a protest this morning. He’s supposed to give Communion in both kinds at morning Mass to defy the Church. If I know him, his sermon will be fiery, meant to incite the people against the king’s royalist magistrates and Wenceslas himself. The service should be over by now. Then he’ll carry the Sacred Host at the head of a procession through the streets all the way to New Town Hall.

No one knows what’ll happen, said Žižka. Prague, especially New Town, is like a hornets’ nest stirred up by Želivský. I don’t think royalist and Church officials will tolerate his insolence.

The three men hurried beneath the arch of the bridge tower and wound their way through twisty Old Town cobblestone lanes, narrow canyons between high stone walls. They hurried past Bethlehem Chapel, where Hus had condemned the corruption of the Church. Constructed early in the reign of Wenceslas, its stone was not yet discolored by the city’s soot like the other buildings.

Prague’s many taverns were closed on Sunday, or he and Roháč might have had to drag Jaroslav along.

They crossed a scar in the city, a scar that was disappearing to become a street. The Old Town wall had been dismantled and the moat filled in after Charles IV had enlarged Prague. The massive walls of New Town now formed most of the outer defenses of the city on this side of the river. The grand stone houses of Old Town gave way to plain buildings made of wood or clay.

A low roar of hundreds of voices grew into a cacophony. The flank of a boisterous crowd appeared after the street angled to the right toward a large square called the Cattle Market.

Žižka hesitated. His companions took another two steps before they stopped and turned.

Jaroslav asked with a puzzled look, Well? What’s wrong, Jan?

He paused then replied, It’s easy to say I believe in revolution against Church and Empire. It’s easy to say I’ll turn against a king who yields everything to the pope and to imperial royalists. But it’s not that simple, now that revolution might be around that corner. Wenceslas raised me to his court. He treated me like a companion for years. I owe him. If I enter Cattle Market, I might be turning my back on him forever.

Maybe so, said Roháč. But he should’ve knighted you after you fought for years in guerilla bands to help him keep his throne.

Yeah … it seems to me, said Jaroslav, Wenceslas is the one who’s turned his back. He’s forced all of us to choose between God and king, between a free Bohemia or a country in chains.

I suppose so, but I don’t know if I’m ready for trouble.

Jaroslav shook his head and smiled at Roháč, who winked in reply. They knew him too well, thought Žižka, perhaps better than he himself did.

He strode onward, parting his two companions, who fell into step at his sides. They entered the square and turned left, pushing their way through the crowd until they saw the center of the excitement – Father John Želivský in front of the New Town Hall.

New Town Hall was a three-story white building with a red roof interrupted by three gables whose facades looked like stair-step triangles. Four enormous triple-windows commanded much of the second level. Construction of a square stone tower had begun at the building’s right-front corner, which was not a corner at all, but angled as if it had been sliced off. The building’s friendly appearance would change to one of menacing authority when the tower was completed.

Several men glowered from the second-floor windows, some angry and arrogant, some looking worried. Three wore gold chains of office with bejewelled medallions identifying them as either burgomaster or councillor. The other glares came from local royalist burghers. They wouldn’t normally meet on a Sunday – this must be an emergency session.

A rank of men-at-arms stood at attention in front of the building, sweating in chain armor and staring through eye slits in the deep brims of their round-skull kettle helmets. They wielded deadly halberds – seven-foot shafts headed with a piece of steel forged into an axe blade opposite a menacing hook, topped by a long, vicious spike. Each soldier also carried a sword and knife in sheaths.

Look, Žižka