Ernan O’Connor’s words proved to be prophetic—the price of rebellion was high. Three days later Anika and her father were hard at work in the shop when Petrov appeared again, his white hair disheveled and his eyes blazing.
“They have captured those who led the rebellion,” he announced, panting as he came through the door. “Three students were arrested this morning and taken to the town hall. The magistrates sided with the pope’s men and have already sentenced the young men to death.”
“Surely not!” Anika’s father rose from his seat as if propelled by an explosive force. “The magistrates should not act alone. The king must be consulted.”
“The king is away.” Petrov’s expression was tight with strain. “Runners went at once to Master Hus, of course, and I expect he will appeal the council’s decision. But rumors are flying as thick as flies through the streets, and if they are not stanched—”
“We will see a bloodbath,” Ernan finished in a flat voice. In one swift gesture he threw a light piece of linen over his parchments, then moved toward the door.
“Father.” Anika placed the lid on her ink horn with a light tap. “Surely you don’t expect me to stay here? I could help you.”
“The streets are no place for a young woman if trouble is afoot.”
“But Master Hus needs help. And you often tell me that a man who will not go to the aid of a friend is no man at all.”
“You forget, wee bird, that you are not a man.”
Anika sighed, thinking she had lost her bid for freedom, but then her father looked at Petrov. “Things are quiet now?”
The older man nodded. “Master Hus has begged his people to remain calm. For now, at least, the streets are at peace.”
The copyist turned to his daughter. “Hurry then, lass, and don your cloak. Master Hus will need cool heads and supportive voices around him now.”
A mob of university masters and students had clogged the street outside the town hall by the time Anika, her father, and Petrov arrived. The guards allowed them into the building solely because Petrov insisted that Ernan O’Connor was Master Hus’s personal scribe. With Petrov behind her, Anika followed her father through a crowded chamber that smelled as if the air inside had been breathed too many times. As the three of them slid into a tiny space at a far corner of the room, they heard Jan Hus giving an impassioned defense of the three young men who had led the rebellion against the sale of indulgences.
“I do not approve of their course of action,” Hus was saying as Anika stood on tiptoe to watch the proceedings, “but their actions are the outgrowth of my teachings, so I alone must bear the blame. Do not hold the rashness and boldness of youth against them, magistrates, but free them under my authority. I will meet with you later, and we will discuss what must be done to repair any damage. But do not carry out this sentence of execution, I beg you. By all that is holy and true, look to the light of God in your heart and reconsider your sentence.”
A guard at the door shouldered his way to the front of the room, then whispered in the chief magistrate’s ear. After a moment, the magistrate’s face reddened, then his mouth spread into a thin-lipped, anxious smile. “I hear there are more than two thousand of your people outside,” he told Hus, his dark eyes widening in accusation. “You cannot expect us to make an unbiased and sound judgment in such a situation. If we do not rescind our verdict according to your wishes, the mob outside could tear this place apart.”
“My esteemed friends,” Hus answered, tenting his slender hands beneath his chin, “I am opposed to violence. The peaceful people outside are concerned for truth and goodness, so you have no reason to fear them. I ask only for your word that you will forestall the execution until a committee can reconsider this action and consult King Wenceslas when he returns.”
A silence fell upon the gathering. Then the quartet of magistrates murmured to one another. Anika felt a trickle of sweat run down her forehead; the heat of the crowded room was stifling.
“We agree, Master Hus,” the chief magistrate finally said. “We will postpone our judgment. Go outside, tell your people to disperse. They must depart to their homes at once.”
Sunshine broke across the preacher’s face. Smiling his thanks, Hus lifted his hands to heaven for a moment, then turned and nodded toward familiar faces in the crowd. Anika saw him smile at her father and Petrov, then the striking preacher’s gaze caught hers.
What compassion filled Jan Hus’s eyes! No wonder he had been able to charm the magistrates out of a death sentence! With her heart overflowing in awe and wonder, Anika followed her father out of the town hall and joined the others in praise and thanksgiving. A tragedy had been averted.
The distant sounds of wailing broke the gray stillness of the next morning. Dropping her quill pen, Anika rushed to open the door, then beheld a gruesome parade: a dozen women holding bloodstained aprons and scarves to their weeping eyes, several men carrying broken bodies upon makeshift litters, others bearing woven baskets covered with crimson-stained cloths.
“What has happened?” The cry echoed up and down the street from late risers and merchants opening for business. “Who has died?”
“The three students,” came the reply from a score of voices. “Beheaded!”
One woman, seeing Anika’s startled gaze, stopped to tell the tale. “At sunset, scarcely an hour after the magistrates’ promise to Master Hus, they killed them. The council mocks us and would have concealed their crime, but the washerwomen found the bodies in the courtyard.”
Anika felt a hand on her shoulder and looked back to see her father standing behind her, his hat on his head, ready to join the procession. Without speaking, she gathered her scarf from a basket by the door and slipped it over her hair, then followed her father.
Plodding forward in the spontaneous procession, Anika tied the scarf under her chin, her vision still colored with the memory of Jan Hus’s victorious smile and the concern in his eyes. He had believed the magistrates, the church’s pawns, and they had utterly betrayed him.
Behind her, someone began to chant the mass for the martyrs, and Anika lifted her voice, joining in. At one fine house a noblewoman with a basket of expensive linen rushed out to shroud the bodies; other women along the way dipped their handkerchiefs into the bloody baskets, creating a holy relic of blood and linen.
Anika watched silently, knowing she needed no relic to remind her of this dark day. The heaviness in her chest felt like a millstone she would carry with her always. Her shoulders drooped, her pace slowed. For a bewildering moment she felt that she was mourning her own death, for something in her, some fragile element of trust and faith, was gasping in a dying breath, and she could do nothing to save it.
The magistrates had lied and murdered. They had flagrantly deceived Jan Hus. If they would lie to a man of God, what prevented them from lying to the common people?
The women’s keening wails rose and fell, cycling through cries of sorrow into screams of horrified anguish. And through the roaring din, Anika held her hand over her heart and wondered what sort of evil would next visit her city.
All of Prague waited to see what Jan Hus would do to retaliate. “He will take his case before the king,” Petrov predicted, while Anika’s father thought Hus might finally urge his followers to armed action. But the preacher did nothing. Overcome with grief for the three young men, he retreated into his small house for several days, then appeared to preach a funeral sermon in the students’ memory.
On the Sunday following the martyrdom, Hus preached as usual in Bethlehem Chapel but did not mention the tragic events of the past week. Hus’s enemies, Petrov whispered during a lull in the service, were saying that he had been frightened into silence.
But Anika had copied thousands of the preacher’s words, and she knew him better than either Petrov or her father did. She suspected Master Hus entertained neither fear nor anger, but he realized hundreds of soldiers now patrolled the streets of Prague, alert to any sign of trouble. If Hus uttere
d one word of vengeance or even hinted that retaliation might be a proper course of action, more innocent blood would stain the stones of the city streets.
And so he said nothing but led the service as usual.
“Do you think the king will continue to side with Jan Hus, or will he be forced to support his magistrates?” Petrov asked as the three walked home from church.
Anika turned to study her father’s reaction. She had wondered the same thing. “There is no way we can know,” Ernan answered, clasping his hands behind his back in a thoughtful pose. “The king loves Jan Hus, but Wenceslas is a temperamental man, subject to moments of fury. And Master Hus has never been afraid to make enemies of those who stand against Christ. Do you remember his friend Palec? I heard he and Hus recently held a debate over the sale of indulgences. Palec thought the sales ought to be allowed under the pope’s authority, but Hus stands firmly against them. At the end of their confrontation, Palec left the hall, his face set in anger, and Hus said, ‘Palec is my friend, truth is my friend: Of the two it is only right to honor truth most.’”
A scowl flitted across Petrov’s lined face. “Master Hus had better be careful. Palec is not without influence.”
“Neither is truth,” Ernan remarked gamely. “And I find I must agree with the preacher. For how can a man receive pardon of his sins from a pope, a bishop, or a priest? Scripture says that God alone can forgive sins through Christ, and he pardons the penitent only.”
Anika brightened, recognizing words she had recently penned. “Master Hus has asked us to set forth his convictions on placards for church doors,” she explained, glancing up at Petrov, “for he intends to debate anyone who would say it is permissible for the Holy Father to sell permission to sin.”
“Anika, you must be fair,” her father remonstrated, lifting his hand. “The Church does not regard indulgences as giving a soul permission to sin. In theory, indulgences are to be granted only to the repentant and are to cover only the element of penance which requires good works.”
“But people do not make such fine distinctions,” Anika argued. “They see the indulgences as covering all the elements of repentance and penance. They want to give their money to the church, then live like the devil and experience no consequences for their behavior.”
“Your daughter’s tongue and mind are as sharp as my sword,” Petrov remarked, a gleam in his faded eyes. “She looks like a woman but talks like a monstrosity, Ernan O’Connor. Women should not debate such matters! Did Hus not tell you the girl would be better served by learning to cook and sew than by reading and writing?”
“A friend does not gloat,” Ernan answered gruffly, slipping his arm around Anika. “Especially when he is right.”
“Father!” Anika cried, feigning disdain.
Bending down, her father planted a loud kiss on her cheek. “And though I may have erred, I’ll take a bright and literate daughter in place of an idle and foolish one any day. I would place odds on Anika in a debate against the archbishop, for she has learned all that Master Hus teaches, having copied most of his books and sermons herself—”
At that moment the sound of galloping hooves and a shouted warning cut through the hubbub of the street. A carriage barreled through the narrow boulevard, scattering women and children, men and servants. Petrov flung out his arm to shield Anika, nearly knocking her from her feet. A few paces beyond her the carriage lurched into a puddle in the road, throwing up a mud shower. Much of the grime, Anika noticed in dismay, flew into her father’s face.
Anika had often been impressed by the power of her father’s temper; in him dwelt a white-hot rage that harmlessly expended itself after a few blustery moments and then vanished without leaving a trace or bearing a grudge. His temper erupted now, flaring toward the occupants of the offending carriage. Later, looking back, she would think that if a hundred carriages had passed them, ninety-and-nine would have continued without stopping, heedless of the cries and calls of the common folk in the street. But this was an unusual carriage and its owner a most notorious nobleman.
The vehicle had not gone twenty paces past them when the groom pulled the horses to a halt. The restless team pawed the ground, unable to understand why they had been halted during what should have been a routine trip through a street of tradesmen, a small row of shops shuttered to observe a holy Sunday.
Anika shivered, but not from the cold. A window blind in the carriage rose and a pair of dark eyes peered forth.
“Ernan,” Petrov warned in a dark voice as he wiped mud from his sleeve, “perhaps we should return home by another street.”
“I’ll not be backing down when I’ve done nothing wrong.” Ernan said, lifting his chin. He strutted forward a few steps. “’Tis a bit odd, don’t you think, that a man and his daughter can’t even walk down their own street without nearly getting run over?”
“Father,” Anika called, her adrenaline level rising. “Sir Petrov is right. A book I want to read is waiting at home. Let’s be away now.”
Oblivious to their cries, Ernan O’Connor strode forward like David to meet Goliath. With mud still clinging to his face, he stalked to the side of the carriage and planted himself by the doorway, his hands on his hips, his eyes snapping with righteous indignation.
“Never fear, child,” Petrov murmured, placing his hand on Anika’s shoulder. “Your father can handle himself.”
To Anika’s horror, the carriage door creaked and opened. At once Lord Laco’s imposing figure filled the opening, while in the two windows Anika recognized the faces of Cardinal D’Ailly and the obstinate youth she had seen weeks ago at Bethlehem Chapel.
She felt a sudden chill. Surely the bloody events of the past week had conspired against them. These men, especially the cardinal, would be in no mood to hear protests from a man known to be Jan Hus’s ally.
“Have you something to say to me, sirrah?” Lord Laco’s stentorian voice echoed through the street. “Why stand you gaping up at my carriage?”
“I should think you have something to say to me, sir,” Ernan answered. Despite her fear, Anika felt her heart swell with pride. What Ernan O’Connor lacked in stature and wealth, he more than made up in boldness and courage.
“You have urged your groom to drive the horses at a dangerous pace through the city,” Ernan went on, pounding the air with his broad fist. “Last week two children were struck by a reckless carriage just like this one. Now my face bears witness to the proximity of your carriage wheels. How could I be bathed in mud if your driver wasn’t reckless? You must caution him—there are ladies and children on this street.”
“Ladies?” Lord Laco’s thick lips twisted into a cynical smile. Pointedly, he looked directly at Anika, then returned his gaze to her father. “I see no ladies. I see only an ignorant peasant girl, a broken-down old man, and a heap of Irish scum. So if you take care to remain out of my way, we shall not impede your progress any longer.”
“Father—” The youth who had humiliated Anika in church tugged on the nobleman’s sleeve. Lord Laco retreated into the coach for a moment, then returned to the doorway. When he spoke again, his tone was almost contrite. “I beg your pardon, Ernan O’Connor. My son has just reminded me that I have good reason not to be harsh with you.”
“Me, sir?” Ernan frowned.
“Yes.” Lord Laco’s tone became as smooth and sweet as butter. “You have a comely daughter, sir, who seems old enough for proper employment. My son would like to hire her as a chambermaid. She will be well treated, of course, and housed on my estate.”
“Me daughter,” Ernan answered, drawing himself up to his full height, “will serve no man but her husband. She will remain with me until she is married.”
Lord Laco smiled benignly, as if dealing with an ignorant and temperamental child. “Better a chambermaid in a castle than wife to a peasant, my friend. I believe you are underestimating the honor I would like to bestow upon you. Half the fathers in Prague would surrender their daughters to me in an instant—”
“Then I’ll be wanting you to count me among the half who would resist you,” Ernan interrupted, frowning with cold fury. “Me daughter will remain with me.”
Lord Laco shrugged slightly, then turned to the cardinal, who had watched the entire episode with an impatient frown upon his face. “Your Eminence,” Laco said, his smile oddly out of place on a countenance like his, “we seem to have reached an impasse. Since this is the Lord’s holy day, I submit this situation for you to resolve.”
“I see here,” D’Ailly replied in a bored tone, his fat fingers curving under his chin, “a stubborn and rebellious father who would defy not only God, but his earthly masters as well. In this hour he has stolen your lordship’s time, your energy, and your attention. He has also openly defied your authority …” the cardinal’s eyes flitted toward the open windows where residents were watching with undisguised curiosity, “before a large section of the populace.”
Laco drew his lips in thoughtfully. “Have you a verdict, then?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Anika felt the cardinal’s eyes fall upon her, and at the touch of his gaze she felt an instinctive stab of fear.
“We know this girl’s father associates with Jan Hus. You would be committing an act of mercy to take her from his polluting influence. In your house, she would be safeguarded by the true Church.”
Icy fear twisted around her heart as the cardinal’s dark eyes smiled at her.
“My verdict is that you have every right, even a duty, to take the girl.”
“No,” Anika whispered in a small, frightened voice. Surely this was a dream, it could not be happening—
“So be it.” Lord Laco turned toward a pair of knights who rode behind his carriage. “Take the girl from her father, and bring her to the castle. If you encounter resistance …” at this he looked directly at Anika’s father, “use your swords.”
“You can’t do this!” Anika heard her father roar.
Laco eased himself back into the carriage, then leaned across his son and gave Anika a dry, one-sided smile through the window. “If you find the cardinal’s judgment unfair, call a magistrate.”
The Silver Sword Page 6
