The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Hus’s constant employment of Lord John’s secretary brought an unexpected opportunity into Anika’s life. With Peter Mladenovic unavailable, Lord John found himself in need of a secretary, so Kafka was summoned from the garrison to handle her master’s correspondence and recordkeeping. Lord John also brought her copies of Hus’s latest letters, asking her to translate them into French or Latin, depending upon the parchment’s intended audience.

  Anika felt a silken cocoon of euphoria wrap around her when she picked up a quill again. She loved to write and was thrilled to help further the cause of reformation. As she penned the preacher’s words, she saw herself as a tiny spark that would help ignite a much-needed revolution.

  Any and all customs, Hus wrote, which have been introduced contrary to Christ’s law are naught but man’s law and should therefore be put down. Christ has presented the light of his truth to the apostles, but for nearly one thousand years men have systematically clouded that light with legalistic rules, unscriptural doctrines, and false teachings.

  At the lord’s dinner table—where Sir Kafka was now invited to sit—Anika heard from visitors that a literal war of words was being waged in Prague by the two opposing parties. Books and pamphlets flooded the streets and the university, and citizens were quick to take sides. The reformers sympathetic to Hus were known as “Wyclifites,” because Hus’s teachings were similar to Wyclif ’s, while the opponents of reform were unflatteringly dubbed “Mohammedans,” because they supported their man-made doctrines with violent actions.

  “Support of our cause is on the rise, and I believe we shall prevail,” Lord John recently told his dinner guests. “A royal decree from King Wenceslas has just instituted a new method for making appointments to the Council of Prague. For the first time the council shall consist of Bohemians, not foreigners, and those who attempted to destroy Bethlehem Chapel will be silenced. Our people will finally be encouraged to hear the gospel in their own tongue, without the trappings of Romanism.”

  Yes, Anika reflected, the future looked bright for their cause. Favoring Hus, King Wenceslas listened to complaints from the Roman clergy with a bemused smile. The majority of Bohemia’s barons now sided with Hus, and in recent days even the common people had come to treasure the preacher from Prague as a national prophet.

  Now, as she watched, half a dozen yellow butterflies circled the preacher as if he were a gift from heaven, while behind him a brilliant sunset blazoned the western sky. The crowd would soon be begging him to stay through the night, but Lord John had expressly forbidden any overnight journeys. Hus took his life in his hands every time he ventured from the safety of Chlum Castle, and Lord John was not willing to risk either his knights or the preacher in order that a few more words might be shared.

  Insects whirred from the tall grasses around Anika, and she looked up, startled by Hus’s silence. The preacher had stopped speaking and bowed his head, lifting his hands to bestow peace upon the dozens of people who clustered around him. From the corner of her eye, Anika saw Novak give the signal to move forward. They would politely escort Hus to the master’s carriage and set him back on the road to Chlum, and all would be in order.

  Anika exhaled a long sigh of contentment as she moved away from her post. Bohemia loved her son, Jan Hus. And Hus loved Bohemia enough to win her people to Christ.

  The next afternoon, as the procession from Chlum made its way to the castle of Lord Venceslas of Duba, Anika deliberately let her horse slow until she rode abreast of the preacher’s carriage. Hus sat within, his eyes glued to a copy of the Scriptures in his lap, his finger running quickly over the pages of script.

  Anika pulled slightly left on the reins, willing the horse to move closer. Was Hus reading one of her own copies? She thought she recognized the writing.

  The preacher must have sensed her presence. “Is that you, Sir Kafka?” he asked, not lifting his eyes from the page.

  Anika felt an unwelcome blush creep onto her cheeks. She was not yet accustomed to hearing the other knights address her as “sir,” and the name sounded particularly odd coming from her father’s friend.

  “Yea,” she murmured, keeping her voice low.

  Hus turned just enough for her to see the suggestion of a smile on his newly tanned face. “Do you know what I am reading?”

  “The Scriptures, sir.’

  “Not just any Scriptures, my friend. These were copied by a most unusual girl I knew in Prague. Her name was Anika.” He lifted his face then, his dark eyes piercing the distance between them. “I am surprised you have never heard of her. She was a most talented young woman, as skilled in languages as you are. And, like you, she was quick with a pen.”

  Amid the creak of saddles and the rhythmic plodding of horses’ hooves, his velvet voice wrapped around Anika’s conscience, causing her to look away.

  “If you’ll excuse me for noticing,” the preacher went on, a coaxing note in his voice now, “your eyes and hair are very much like hers. But she was an innocent, full of hope and light, while it is easy to see that you, Sir Kafka, have seen things to turn a man’s soul dark.” He paused, and when she turned to look at him again, his brows lifted. “What, little bird, would cause your soul to grow dark? Fear? Sorrow?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. Turning her gaze from Hus’s compassionate face, she stared mindlessly over her horse’s head. Little bird! Of course he knew. Though she had tried her best to avoid him, Jan Hus was an astute man. When had he realized?

  When she was certain she could speak without her voice breaking, she looked across at the preacher again. “How did you know?”

  He gave her a boyishly affectionate smile. “I am not as wise as some men, nor as observant as others. I must confess that I did not recognize your face, voice, or form—but your writing, Anika, is like none other. The first day I saw a copy of my letter to Lord Venceslas of Duba, I recognized your handwriting and style. You can imagine how surprised I was to discover that a knight in Lord John’s castle was as fine a copyist as any in Prague.”

  His smile suddenly vanished. “The night you read the letter telling us of Petrov’s death, I knew for certain. Your love for the old man shone on your face, and I realized I had found you. Sir Petrov said you had gone to an estate in the country, and there you were. Not as a chambermaid, but as a defender of the truth.”

  She stammered in surprise. “But you said nothing.”

  Through the carriage window, he tipped his face to the warmth of the sun. “I knew you were in danger from Laco—a danger that still exists, I believe. And since God and Petrov had approved your plan, how could I object? While it is not a course of action I would recommend,” he said, surveying her with kindness in his eyes, “it seems to be one which agrees with you. Lord John is a godly and noble master—”

  “No one could be better,” she interrupted, feeling a dire need to explain herself. “And I have been useful to him. I worked hard, Master Hus, to prove myself.”

  “I am certain you did.” His arched brows flickered a little. “Was your work well done and pleasing to our Savior? You have not deceived your master, have you?”

  Her blood ran thick with guilt. “At first, Master Hus, I confess I did. Not in words, but in … actions. But now he knows who I am, as does Sir Novak. And Petrov did not lie when he brought me here. We strove to tell the truth always, to be honest and pure.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He looked down at the road, the breeze ruffling the hair around his tonsure, then looked up and released a short laugh touched with embarrassment. “It is strange, isn’t it, how God works? I never dreamed I would be an itinerant preacher, and you doubtless never dreamed that you would ride in armor with a sword at your side. But here we are, and who can say that God has not worked in our lives?”

  She smiled back at him, more than a little relieved at his attitude. She had never thought it possible, but Jan Hus understood her.

  “Are you happy?” he asked, his voice fading away to a hushed stillness.

&
nbsp; “Yea, Master Hus, I am.” She lifted her chin to feel the sun on her own face. Why shouldn’t she be happy? She lived in one of the most noble estates in the country and served a lord as godly as he was handsome, with eyes as fresh and clear as the morning skies.

  Hus nodded, one hand absently pulling on his pointed beard. “Good. But remember, my child, happiness is not our goal in life. We are to find our happiness in following the will of God. And while it is possible that God wills for you to be here and be a knight, I do not think he intends for you to deny the womanly qualities with which he has blessed you.”

  Anika shrugged to hide her confusion. “I have sought God’s will, and this is where he led me. And I have sworn to serve Lord John as he seeks to serve you and the gospel.”

  “Even so, Sir Knight,” Hus answered, a dark and troubled tone to his voice, “I am sure there will come a time when you will want to lay down your sword. When that time comes, do not resist the impulse. God speaks in a quiet voice, too. And his will lies in surrender.”

  His eyes suddenly filled with remoteness. “I never told you this story, Anika, but it bears repeating now. Do you remember when I was summoned to Rome?”

  “Of course,” she answered, shifting in the saddle. “You were right not to go.”

  The preacher shrugged. “I had my reasons, and they were good ones. But, deep inside, I refused to go to Rome because I was afraid. Pope John intended to kill me, and I did not want to die.” His words, murmurous and uninflected, ran together in a soothing rhythm. “I forgot even the things I had learned as a student. Once, when I was reading the story of St. Lawrence, someone asked if I would have the courage to be roasted alive in an iron chair as Lawrence was. I didn’t know, so I placed my hand on the fire in the coal pan, firmly holding it there until one of my companions drew it away.”

  Anika listened in horrified amazement, but Hus’s eyes had focused on some distant point of the horizon as his thoughts journeyed back through time. “I only wished to test whether I should have sufficient courage to bear but a small part of the pain St. Lawrence endured,” he whispered, his hand clenching and unclenching in his lap. For the first time, Anika noticed that a scar marked his right palm. “That courage was what I lacked when I was summoned to Rome. I should have been like Paul; I should have gone and joyfully counted the cost.”

  “You were right not to go,” Anika insisted again. “Think of the hundreds of people who are receiving the gospel now. None of them would have heard if you were not here to preach to them.”

  “God could use these stones, if he willed it so,” Hus answered, gesturing to the rocks beside the road. “The truth, my dear Anika, is that I was unwilling. God has convicted me, and now I am ready. Whatever summons I receive, I will obey. For God’s will lies in surrender.”

  Hus’s eyes had drifted toward the horizon again, and Anika had the feeling he was no longer speaking to her at all, yet his words had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

  Puzzled by his abrupt change in mood, she nudged her horse, trotting forward in the procession.

  In an effort to help Hus and bring peace to Bohemia, in the spring of 1413 King Wenceslas called together a synod between the two contending religious parties. The opponents of reform, who believed they finally had the troublesome Hus on the run, stood firmly against any sort of compromise. Steadfastly on the opposite end of the debate, the proponents of Hus’s ideas demanded that Hus be allowed to appear before the synod to speak in his own defense—a demand which was adamantly refused by the other side.

  After making no progress toward peace, the synod adjourned.

  Anika was surprised that Master Hus seemed undaunted by the synod’s failure. The preacher went about his work as if nothing had happened, often humming as he wrote and singing hymns as they rode to various villages where he would preach. Finally overcome by curiosity, Anika slipped into his private study and asked the reason for his cheerful countenance when defeat continually frustrated the reformers.

  “This is not defeat!” he answered, his mouth opening in pretend horror. He dropped his pen upon the desk and lifted his hands in dismay. “My dear Kafka, how can you look at us and see defeat? Examine the men who come here from Prague—they carry copies of the Scriptures to Lord John’s dinner table; they are examining God’s Word for the first time in their lives. Men who once blindly accepted whatever the priests told them now question things they have heard all their lives.”

  “Is it wise to question so much?” Anika asked, frowning. “After all, God is God. Who are we to question him?”

  “We are not questioning God, my dear knight,” Hus answered, loosely draping his arm across her shoulders. “We are searching for truth, asking questions, waiting for answers. If my religion is true, it will stand up to all my questioning; there is no need to fear. We should question our beliefs continually—not God himself, not Christ our Lord, but what other men tell us about God and Christ. Otherwise we are little more than the frozen statues you see in so many churches.” He released her shoulders and picked up his pen again, then smiled in the calm strength of knowledge. “I am delighted to hear that men are questioning and seeking answers in the Scriptures. At last the sleepers are shaking off their slumber.”

  As spring passed into summer, Hus’s opponents abandoned their plans to stop his work in Bohemia. The king was Hus’s friend, and Hus served as Queen Sophia’s Father Confessor. The university brimmed with scholars who found merit in Hus’s scholarship and nothing but virtue in his character. While the nobles supported him, the common people revered the preacher who left his elegant stone church to share the truth of faith and salvation in their fields.

  By the time autumn’s chill winds blew over the mountains, Hus felt safe enough to return to Prague. He decided to celebrate his homecoming on the Lord’s Day and wanted nothing more than to enter the walled city and proceed directly to Bethlehem Chapel to address his congregation.

  Anika felt her heart leap when Lord John and Novak chose her to travel with the contingent that would escort Hus back to Prague. She had not been inside the city of her childhood since Petrov’s death. Though she had said farewell to her old life, something deep within her yearned to see the spot where her father’s bookshop had once stood.

  They set out on a warm October day splashed with brilliant sunlight and canopied by a clear blue sky. Flaming colors lit the trees on distant mountains, and the horses moved at a brisk pace, as if they sensed that time was short and winter was coming. The miles flew by, and Anika was surprised at how quickly they arrived at the city gates.

  Had a lifetime passed since she left this place? She had left Prague a frightened, insecure girl but was returning now a fully sworn knight. Though she could not reveal herself to anyone who might remember her, she felt as if the city itself somehow welcomed her and drew her to its breast.

  Hiding behind the safety of her armor and concealing helmet, she joined ranks with her companions and rode in a close formation around Hus’s carriage until the vehicle stopped at the threshold of Bethlehem Chapel. A riotous crowd awaited the long-lost preacher, and so many hands reached out to touch and welcome him that Anika worried about his safety. But Hus displayed no fear, plunging boldly into the mass of humanity which carried him along to the pulpit.

  Anika hesitated at the edge of the throng. The other knights of Chlum had positioned themselves at the entrances and windows of the crowded building, but something called Anika away from the familiar church. There would be no time after the worship service to obey her heart’s bidding, so she quietly turned and walked down a side street, away from the clamor of the gathering.

  A thick gray veil hung over the city, an obscuring autumnal mist of chimney smoke compressed by low-hanging clouds. An almost unnatural silence prevailed in the streets, and Anika wondered if the entire city had turned out to line the walls of Bethlehem Chapel. This boulevard, which she had walked so often with Petrov and her father, usually rang with the laughter of children and t
he scolding of their mothers. Now there was no movement in the street, not even the whisper of a sound.

  Like gauzy scarves from a lady’s wardrobe, curls of smoke crossed the rooflines of houses that loomed against the sky. She had never thought Prague depressing, but now, accustomed as she was to the open vistas surrounding Lord John’s estate, the narrow cobblestone roads seemed cluttered with timber-and-daub houses and tarp-covered carts. The street where her father and she lived seemed to be only a succession of darkened doorways and shuttered shops.

  She stopped before a new structure that had been built upon blackened foundation stones. The fresh wood gleamed bright and new, a startling yellow against the dingy gray of the other weathered buildings. She lifted her visor to stare unimpeded at the bit of earth she had once called home.

  There was nothing left. Not a single monument or sign or indication that her father and she had lived in this place, slept over these stones, dreamed beneath this section of sky.

  She turned slowly, almost afraid to look over at the small structure that had been Petrov’s house. To her surprise, she found that it had not changed. The door hung partway open, and the shutters wore a patina of dirt, but at least something remained of her previous life.

  As if moving in a dream, Anika walked toward the tiny house. There was no light or movement within, but a rectangular sign advertising a tobacconist hung over the door. The memory of a similar sign ruffled through her mind like wind on water, and she walked forward and turned the sign over. On the other side a proud hand had written: Ernan O’Connor, Copyist. The paint had weathered and the letters faded, but at least this sign had survived the fire, probably knocked loose when the fiends set her father’s bookshop ablaze and destroyed a lifetime of work. A pain squeezed her heart as she thought of her father hunched over his table, a pen in one hand, a straight edge in the other. He had taught her so much about books, and books had taught her about the world.