The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Then thus shall it be,” he said, regarding her with a speculative gaze. “You shall spend the night in prayer, as any squire would, and if on the morrow you feel that God would have you join us in knighthood, you shall take a vow of fealty. But you shall not swear to serve me for life. You shall instead swear to serve me as long as I serve Jan Hus, the preacher of the gospel you cherish. And when I wish to discharge you from your vow, you must relinquish it.”

  Her face fell in disappointment. “I have taken a vow of my own and cannot deny it. If you discharge me before my own vow is fulfilled, I shall have to continue in this knightly path.”

  “But not as a knight of Chlum.” John rested his chin upon his fingertips. “You can accept my conditions, or you can return to Prague.” His conscience smote him as he spoke, for he would never willingly cast a penniless young woman into the streets. Maybe she would not know he was bluffing.

  Her delicate face shone with courage and determination as she lifted her head. “As you wish, my lord,” she said, bowing. “I will swear whatever you command.”

  Sinking back in his chair, John motioned for Novak to take her away and prepare her for the night-long vigil. And as he watched them go, he congratulated himself on finding an answer to a difficult quandary. He was, he thought, either one of the most clever men in Bohemia … or the most foolish.

  Anika now found herself on the brink of joining an elect company of valiant men who vowed to follow the ideals of chivalry: to be brave and loyal, to be faithful to the king, to defend the Christian faith, and to protect widows and orphans, the old and the weak. For over four hundred years knights throughout the European kingdoms had pledged their lives to their masters and sealed the agreement by the giving and receiving of a kiss, a visible sign of peace and loyalty. In return for a lifetime of service, a knight was trained, fed, lodged, and provided with weapons.

  As her mentor, Novak was responsible for seeing Anika through her induction. After escorting her from the lord’s chamber, he led her to a small room dominated by Lord John’s wooden bathtub. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “You must cleanse your body as well as your soul this night,” he said, pulling his eyes away in a rictus of embarrassment. He thrust a bundled garment toward her. “And there is this, for after. Remove your armor, cleanse yourself, dress in this, and go up to the chapel. Lord John and Vasek will meet you there.”

  Anika took the garment from him and placed it on a chair, then slowly closed the wooden door behind Novak. If she were male, this room would undoubtedly be filled with jesting squires and knights eager to “baptize” her into a new life, but Novak had forestalled that possibility by bringing her straight from the lord’s chamber into this lavatory. She would be knighted on the morrow, but her comrades in the garrison would know nothing of it until sunrise.

  After shedding her armor, hauberk, and gypon, the shirt worn under all garments, she turned a spigot that brought cold water from the cisterns on the roof, then climbed into the barrel-like tub. She gasped at the first shock of coolness, and then laughed, a tender little sound that seemed strangely out of place in this private and ceremonial act. But why shouldn’t she rejoice? She had fooled them far longer than she had thought possible. And Lord John obviously admired something in her character, else he would have demanded that she leave when he first learned of her deception.

  She scrubbed her skin until it was pink and tender, then pulled the plug and watched the water swirl out through a pipe that led to the moat. The memory of Novak’s words brought a wry smile to her face: If you take a man and woman and tell them to wash as well as they can, which water bucket will be fouler? The man’s. For if you wash clay, you make mud, and if you wash a bone, you make no such thing.

  The water swirling away between her toes seemed clean enough, but Anika knew it was invisibly polluted with her old life. From sunset on the morrow she would no longer be Anika of Prague, but Sir Kafka, knight of Chlum, sworn to serve the gospel and avenge those who had died at the hands of corrupt priests, chief among them Cardinal D’Ailly.

  After climbing out of the tub, she picked up the bundle Novak had thrust toward her. It contained two garments: a new white robe, simple and elegant, and another long-sleeved gypon which felt wonderful against Anika’s clean skin. Over the gypon she draped the sleeveless robe, which fell in elegant pleats to her ankles.

  One small parcel remained inside the bundle, and Anika’s eyes filled with tears when she opened it. Inside lay fresh cotton strips and straw. Novak, despite his protestations, did believe in her, and he had proved it by providing for her womanly needs. The tender gesture touched her, and she smiled.

  She pulled on her soft leather boots, then finger-combed her wet hair, realizing with dismay that it had grown over the tops of her ears. She would have to ask one of the kitchen women to cut it again, but she would no longer worry about the white streak near her temple. It no longer held any power as an identifying mark, for her old life had been completely washed away.

  After piling her filthy old garments in a pile for the washerwomen, she paused by the doorway and took a deep breath. The iron hinges on the heavy door screeched in protest as she pulled it open, then she climbed the winding stone staircase that led to the chapel and murmured a prayer: “Holy God, Almighty Father, help me keep the vows I am about to make.”

  Just as Novak had said, Lord John and the chaplain, Vasek, were waiting when she entered. Lord John refused to look at her, but simply gave the chaplain a curt order: “Begin.”

  Anika advanced to the altar and sank to her knees at the simple iron railing. “Do you, Squire Kafka, wish to vow your life in the service of God and this family?” the chaplain asked, his voice cracking with age and disuse.

  “I do.”

  She thought she heard a soft, strangled sound coming from Lord John, but she ignored it, watching instead the graceful movements of the chaplain’s hand as he traced the sign of the cross before her wide eyes. “Then spend the night in prayer, cleansing your soul as you have cleansed your body. And may the Lord reveal his will to you and lead you in the way of everlasting life. Amen.”

  “Sepera in Deo, quoniam adhuc confitebor illi: salutare vultus mei, et Deus meus …”

  As the chaplain droned on, Anika closed her eyes and mentally translated the Latin text: “Trust in God, for I shall yet praise him, my Savior, and my God.”

  And as she lifted her thoughts toward heaven above, she tried not to think about the handsome man standing behind her, the one to whom she was vowing her life … and to whom she was striving not to lose her heart.

  Twenty-One

  John clasped his hands and bowed his head, trying to pretend that this squire was like all the others. How many squires had he taken into his service? Thirty? Forty? He loved them all, as a father loves a son or one brother loves another, but he was finding it difficult to love this one … like the others.

  He found himself studying her soft profile. In some ways she was very womanly, yet there was an attitude of determination about her that fascinated him. The very air around her seemed electric as she joined the chaplain in prayer, and John felt an unwelcome surge of excitement as he contemplated those green eyes, that fair skin.

  What had initially been an interesting experiment had become a reality beyond his control. Other noblemen of his acquaintance would surely have ordered the girl away or imprisoned her for her impertinence, but he could not bring himself to hurt her. What made a girl abandon everything a woman ought to be in order to strive for an impossible goal? What thoughts filled that impish and unorthodox brain? And why did he feel compelled to explore it further?

  Part of her attraction lay in her sheer unconventionality, he knew. And in the most honest part of his soul he had to admit that even under a layer of dirt and a mail hauberk, Kafka was beautiful. The features which made a rather pretty boy combined to create a stunningly beautiful woman, and when she had first entered the chapel, flushed, damp, and rosy, he had to avert his eyes entirel
y lest he find himself staring at her.

  Chaplain Vasek, he thought, feeling a wry smile lift the corner of his mouth, would find that a little too interesting.

  John lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. ’Twas only her vitality that attracted him, the very uniqueness of her situation. He knew few men who made vows as fervently and followed their dreams as doggedly as she did. She was quite singular, this young woman, but she could prove useful in the days ahead.

  He leaned back, suppressing a sigh. She could be useful … or she could be a torment. Only God above knew which.

  She was supposed to spend the night in prayer, but an hour after the chaplain and Lord John departed, Anika felt her thoughts wandering as her eyes lifted to the night sky above. The sun had set while she bathed, and outside the chapel window the stars blazed like gems in a sky as black as the grave.

  Could her father see her now? Could Petrov? And would they approve her actions? Petrov, she thought, would have been proud of the way she tripped Manville’s horse. She knew just where to apply the point of her lance, and though she was far weaker than the seasoned knight, a warrior was only as strong and swift as his war-horse. When you are at a disadvantage, forget your weakness and find your strengths. Petrov’s insistent voice rang in her mind, and her blood soared with unbidden memories—Petrov teaching her how to parry, how to feint, how to look right and move left, how to feign an injury so the enemy grew bold and overconfident.

  In a surge of recollection, another beloved voice touched her inner ear: Men will carry swords until they learn to carry the cross. With memory’s kind and loving eyes she saw her father’s face framed in the chapel window, his humorous, kindly mouth, the age lines about his lips and eyes, muting his strength with gentleness.

  Would he have approved her plan of vengeance? Somehow she didn’t think so. Ernan O’Connor had been a righteous man, unable even to nurse a grudge.

  “Father God, help my father understand,” she prayed, her eyes flitting over the stars in the night sky. “In the war between right and wrong, we cannot afford to be neutral. We must fight; we must defend ourselves and our right to the truth. Please, Almighty God, let him understand.”

  On and on she prayed, recalling those she had loved and lost, until the stars began to fade behind a blue velvet sky.

  The sky was pure blue from north to south, with no more than a little violet duskiness lingering in the west when John stepped onto the portico of the castle. The knights, whom Novak had summoned, stood in a circle as they had the day before, but all signs of curiosity had vanished from their faces. As far as they knew, another squire had been tested and proved himself worthy to join the knights of Chlum Castle. Though the squire’s curtailed test had been unusual, those with inquiring minds had been satisfied with the simple answer that Kafka’s ingenious approach to unseating Manville was proof enough of his worthiness.

  Now the knights stood arranged by rank in a formal circle, ready to witness the dubbing of yet another squire, a link in the chain of an endless succession of knights who had ridden into Chlum Castle as boys and had grown to manhood within its walls. Except this one, John thought, staring fixedly at the slender sword in his hands, had never been a boy and would never make a man.

  In a moment she would descend those chapel stairs, kneel at his feet, and swear allegiance to him, his wife (if he ever took one), and his cause. He would promptly assign her to Master Hus, in part because it would remove her from his continual thoughts, and in part because if the preacher had known her in Prague, he might recognize her and persuade her to give up this ridiculous quest. If Hus discovered her identity, John was certain the preacher would waste no time finding her a suitable position with a godly family in Prague. John would have asked for the preacher’s help yesterday, but Hus had locked himself in a solitary tower room to spend the day in fasting and prayer.

  At a silent signal, the knights before him laid down their swords, uncovered their heads, and knelt in the sand. John knew without being told that she had appeared behind him. The trumpeters at his side lifted their horns and blew a long, resounding note. Then the chaplain raised his hands and opened the ceremony with a brief prayer in the Bohemian tongue.

  John heard the soft swish of her garments as the smooth cap of her hair appeared in the corner of his eye. He looked to his right hand where Novak stood and saw the older knight staring, a gleam of incredulity in his eyes.

  John looked down when she knelt at his feet. Upon the red carpet, with her white robe gleaming like snow in the sunshine, she pressed her small hands together in an attitude of prayer and lifted her eyes to his.

  She raised her eyes to find Lord John watching her. Did he resent her, this man who would be her master for days to come? She had exchanged father and guardian and mentor for his protection, and she would like to believe that he at least thought fondly of her.

  His dark brown eyes seemed to soften. “Do you wish, without reservation,” he asked, gentleness in his voice, “to become my servant?”

  “I wish it.” Her voice was shakier than she would have liked.

  He bent forward then and pressed her hands between his own, then lowered his head until it hovered just above hers. “I seal your vow this day,” he said, his own voice simmering with emotion, “with a kiss.”

  She closed her eyes as his warm lips lowered to meet hers. Her first kiss. Her heart slammed into her ribs as an unexpected tremor shook her. She felt a rush of pink stain her cheek—would he see it?

  Leaving her breathless and shaken, Lord John straightened and motioned to Novak, who stepped forward with Kafka’s sword.

  “Swear,” Novak demanded.

  Anika struggled to remember the words of the oath she had committed to memory: “I promise by my faith that from this time forward I will be faithful to Lord John of Chlum and will maintain toward him my homage entirely against any man, in good faith and without—” her gaze flew upward, meeting Lord John’s, “without any deception.”

  He knew who and what she was. And still he accepted her.

  Taking the sword from Novak, Lord John handed it to the chaplain, who murmured a blessing in Latin, then returned it to the master.

  Lord John held the blade aloft for all to see, then lightly touched Anika on the right shoulder, then the left.

  The bond was forged.

  The chaplain stepped forward, a silken blue surcoat spread across his upturned hands. Anika fastened her eyes on the gold cross emblazoned in the center of the garment and felt her heart soar.

  John took the surcoat, held it up for all to see, then dropped it over Anika’s head. As the silky fabric fell around her, she lifted her gaze again to her master’s.

  “Go now, fair knight,” he called, his voice ringing with command. “Be brave and upright, that God may love you.”

  As her heart pounded in an erratic and joyous rhythm, Anika stood, bowed to Lord John and Novak, then flew off the carpeted platform toward the stallion waiting just outside the knights’ circle. As the others cheered, she mounted the war-horse, caught the lance Lev tossed her, and made a mock run toward a dummy someone had strung up on a pole.

  It was all in show, good fun for men of war, a chance to show off all she had learned. As she lowered her head and spurred her horse, she knew many of the others were thinking that she might never use these skills again. After all, the knights of Chlum Castle had enjoyed peace for over twenty years.

  But they were ignorant; they gave no more thought to the current state of affairs in Bohemia than to what they would eat for dinner. They had not listened to the supper conversations of Lord John and Jan Hus; they had not read the papal bulls and Hus’s appeals.

  They did not know, as she did for a certainty, that war loomed beyond the horizon.

  Jan Hus

  Twenty-Two

  And seeing the multitudes,” Anika whispered under her breath, “he went up into a mountain. And when he was set, his disciples came unto him. And he opened his mouth, and taught
them saying, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit.’”

  “What are you mumbling about?” Lev asked, looking up at her with frank admiration. Ever since she had passed her test and earned the blue and gold surcoat of a knight of Chlum, he and the other squires had treated her with a reverential deference.

  “Look at Master Hus,” Anika said, jerking her chin toward the place where the preacher stood. “Denied a church, he will make a temple of the fields and flowers themselves. And throngs gather to hear him, just as they surrounded our Lord during his ministry.”

  “They are curious, that’s all,” Lev dared to contradict her. “They want to see the great preacher of Prague for themselves, the teacher who dares to defy an order of excommunication.”

  “It’s more than that,” Anika answered softly. “Look at their faces, observe their eyes, see the deep affection they hold for him. He cares enough to come and call them from their homes, fields, and workshops, and they are listening and learning. No matter what their reasons are for coming, they will not forget the truths they have heard here today.”

  Lev did not reply but ambled off to find less lofty conversation. Anika crossed her arms and let her eyes rove over the crowd, watching for trouble. For weeks she and the other knights had been accompanying Hus on these excursions into Husinec, Hus’s birthplace, and other small villages of southern Bohemia.

  When he was not preaching, Jan Hus closeted himself in a small chamber of Chlum Castle and called for Peter Mladenovic, Lord John’s private secretary. With Peter’s help Hus wrote long letters to both his friends and his opponents, patiently explaining his views, extolling the virtue of the Scriptures, and encouraging those who sought the truth.

  Lord John and other sympathetic nobles urged the indefatigable preacher to rest, but Hus seemed not to know the meaning of the word. When the wet spring weather prevented him from venturing out to preach, he applied the pen to his thoughts, scribbling in a hasty shorthand on a wax tablet, which Lord John’s secretary transcribed onto parchment.