The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Yes.” The widow clasped her hands at her waist. “Sir Knight—but you’re not a knight, are you? Can you tell me what is going on? Can it be true that Jan Hus is a heretic? Surely he would not have condoned your unnatural masquerade—”

  “Jan Hus has nothing to do with this,” Anika answered, standing. She pulled a pair of flat leather slippers from the trunk and placed them on her feet. They were too long; her heels would be blistered by the time she returned, but it couldn’t be helped. “I was orphaned, and an evil nobleman sought to take advantage of me. As a woman, I had no means of escape. As a knight, I earned my freedom. Jan Hus is my friend. He neither condemns nor supports my knighthood. But I will do all I can to support him.”

  Anika turned and lifted her arms, inviting Fida’s inspection. The widow sank onto a bench against the wall and crossed her arms, staring at Anika as if she had suddenly sprouted horns. “You make a very pretty woman,” she said, her round face melting into a tentative smile. “But you will have to do something about your hair. No woman goes about with her hair shorn like that.”

  “Have you a veil?”

  “I have a hat.” She rose from her bench and pulled a rolled hat from a box under her bed, then reverently offered it to Anika. “The black veil on the back will cover any wisps that peek out,” she said, helping Anika push her stubborn locks under the brim. When the veil was adjusted, the widow stepped back and pinned Anika with a long, silent scrutiny.

  “Well?” Anika asked, impatient to be on her way.

  The widow nodded. “You are a very pretty woman, my dear. I don’t know what you intend to do, but you are very well dressed for whatever part you must play.”

  “I intend to go to the hearing,” Anika said, pulling the long black cloak around her shoulders. She tied the strings at her neck, then carefully pulled the wide hood up over the cumbersome hat.

  She paused at the doorway. “Hide my armor; I will come for it later. And if any ask you what lady left your house after noon today, tell them Lady Anika of Prague paid you a visit.”

  Anika found her way much easier than she had imagined. In such an august gathering of men—bishops, scholars, priests, cardinals, prelates—a woman, especially a pretty one, elicited such surprise that no one thought to detain or question her. She marched boldly up the wide steps of the episcopal palace, then calmly asked a guard where the hearing for Jan Hus was taking place. The guard, probably as stunned by her effrontery as by her presence, merely pointed down a long corridor.

  Anika blended as well as she could into the sea of dark robes until she spied a pair of open doors. A long table had been set up inside, and she could see Lord John and Jan Hus standing before the table.

  Her heart pounding, she eased into the room and took a low seat against the wall, willing herself to be as inconspicuous as possible. But a cold knot formed in her stomach when she recognized the voice and face of the man presently addressing her master and her friend.

  “Many complaints against you have been forwarded to us from Bohemia,” Cardinal D’Ailly was saying, his eyes burning into Hus.

  “I have come freely to the council and freely to this room,” Master Hus answered, standing straight and tall. “And if I am convicted of error, I will gladly accept instruction.”

  “It is well spoken,” another cardinal answered.

  Anika watched with acute and loving anxiety. Deliberately or not, the cardinal had misunderstood Hus’s words. Master Hus wished to be convinced by reason and the Scriptures, but the council would want him to bow blindly to their authority.

  “What they call instruction I would not wish on my worst enemy,” Anika murmured, clenching her hands as a pair of guards took hold of Hus and Lord John and led them out through a far door. Jagged and painful thoughts moved restlessly through her brain as she rose from her seat, trying to follow them with her eyes.

  In spite of the emperor’s pledge and the pope’s promise, Hus was a prisoner. Anika’s base suspicions had proved true, while Hus’s optimistic hopes had proved false.

  A long, brittle silence filled the room as the two prisoners exited, then the cardinals at the table leaned back, crossed their arms, and cast sly grins at each other.

  “Ha!” D’Ailly cried, rising to his feet. He clapped his hands in simple delight, mindless of the observers in the room. “Now we have him, and he will not escape us till he has paid the uttermost farthing.”

  While Anika coiled into the shadows and watched in horror, the overconfident cardinals rose to their feet and began to dance about the room in mindless merriment. One priest, John Reinstein, stood and shouted his objections, but the din of celebration overwhelmed his voice.

  Late in the afternoon, the council sent word that Lord John of Chlum, having done no wrong, might depart to his camp. Still in her woman’s dress, Anika spied a pair of guards escorting her master to the street. She rushed forward, mindful that she was playing a role before a crowd rife with spies and informers.

  “Lord John!” she cried, hurrying to his side.

  Startled by the sound of her voice, he glanced up. Anika lightly placed her hands upon his arms and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss, an affectionate salute that would not be misinterpreted.

  “Kafka?” he whispered when her lips brushed his cheek.

  “Lady Anika of Prague,” she answered, pulling away so he could read the message in her eyes. “I have crept today where no knight of Chlum could go, my lord, and I have much to tell you. But stay with me now, and let me act the part of a nobleman’s daughter.”

  He nodded in a barely perceptible movement, then took her hand and gallantly linked it through his arm. “Walk with me to the widow’s house,” she whispered, modestly lowering her eyes before the prying gaze of a guard who had watched her greet her master. “And I shall unfold the tale to you there.”

  While the cardinals celebrated downstairs, Baldasarre poured wine and drank a toast to his new comrade, Vasek. “The fox is caught,” he said, pausing to sip the red wine. He smacked his lips appreciatively, then gestured to the country chaplain. “Try it, my friend. The vintage is a good one. Even the priests serving mass don’t taste anything this fine.”

  A commotion out in the hall broke his concentration, and Baldasarre heard a loud and angry voice rise above the babble of his guards. Vasek, the foolish chaplain, went pale in one instant and scurried toward the water closet in the next.

  The doors to the chamber suddenly burst open. Startled, Baldasarre spilled wine onto his cassock, then looked up to scowl at the fool who dared disturb his privacy. He recognized the man before him: the Bohemian noble, Lord John of Chlum. Tonight the nobleman was red faced with anger, his hair tousled by the wind, his eyes smoldering with fire.

  “Who let him in?” Baldasarre demanded of his servants, jabbing a finger toward John of Chlum.

  The nobleman ignored the gesture. “What of your promise to Jan Hus?” he said, bitterness edging his voice. “He has today been arrested.”

  Baldasarre lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I am powerless in the matter.”

  “You are the pope! Whether rightly or not, you wield power enough to have this man released!”

  “I am helpless,” Baldasarre continued, idly stirring his wine with his finger. “My brethren the cardinals, as you know, have more authority than I. They are quite beyond my control.”

  Through narrowed eyes, Baldasarre watched the man carefully. John of Chlum was in an Old Testament mood now, unwilling to turn the other cheek, unable to play the games of power and position.

  “You—” John of Chlum lifted an accusing finger toward Baldasarre, “you will pay for this. In this life or the next, you will pay for this treachery.”

  “You forget,” Baldasarre countered gamely, “that as the pope I hold the keys to heaven and hell. I decide who pays—in this life and the next.”

  Their eyes locked in open warfare for a moment, anger hanging in the air between them like an invisible dagger. Then John of Chlum whirl
ed and stalked away, probably to vent his anger in the apartments of a succession of cardinals.

  But it wouldn’t matter, Baldasarre thought, dipping his finger into the wine again. He ran his wet finger across his lips, then smiled at the cowardly chaplain who peered from behind the door to the water closet.

  “Come out,” he told the little man. “You have done nothing worthy of shame.”

  “I only wish I could agree with you,” Vasek croaked, his face red and blotchy with humiliation as he crossed the room to resume his seat.

  Baldasarre shot him a twisted smile. “Have no fear. As long as you please me, you’ll enter heaven. Eventually.”

  “My poor lord John.” The chaplain’s eyes bore a tinge of sadness and regret. “He is so caught up in this matter with Master Hus. I fear he has been deceived, and yet I know him for an honest and godly man—”

  “That is why you must return to his camp,” Baldasarre answered, setting his cup on the table at his side. “You will be of more use to God there than here. Go back to Lord John of Chlum, act as my eyes and ears. And if your master and his comrades plan anything that would injure our cause, report immediately to me.”

  Vasek the chaplain looked up, his eyes like black holes in his pale, unhappy face. But he nodded in agreement, and Baldasarre leaned back, content with the knowledge he had enlisted another spy.

  The next morning, Anika rose from her place in the straw at the knights’ camp and took a quick inventory of her women’s garments. After returning to the widow’s house, the woman had helped Anika dress again in her armor but had insisted that she keep the gown, cloak, and hat. “You do not know when you will need these things again,” Fida had whispered, a strong note of approval in her voice. “I don’t know how you did it, child, but I applaud the service you have done Master Hus. I am pleased to know you.”

  The garments were now wrapped in an oilcloth and hidden at the bottom of a trunk filled with kitchen supplies. Anika thought she would be able to find them again if needed, and if someone else stumbled upon them she would not necessarily be exposed. Anyone in the camp could have placed them there.

  One of the knights had slain a buck in the nearby forest, so after a brief breakfast of roasted venison, Anika looked up to see an armored knight in blue galloping down the pathway leading to their camp. “Master John!” the knight called, his voice muffled through his visor.

  Lev caught the man’s foaming mount. Then the knight dismounted and removed his helmet. Anika recognized Manville, who had been sent into town to keep watch over Hus.

  “They removed him in the night!” Manville shouted, hurrying toward the canopy under which the master had breakfasted with Anika and Novak. “They took him from the episcopal palace to the house of the precentor of the cathedral. Hus is closely guarded.”

  Lord John took in Manville’s harried appearance in one swift glance. “Did you see them move him?”

  The knight nodded. “Aye, my lord. I have been so long in returning only because I was not able to find a mount until I reached a stable on the outskirts of the city. All I had to do was speak the name of Master Hus, though, and the smithy there gave me his own mare and wished me Godspeed.”

  “When you return the horse, give the man my thanks,” Lord John answered. Without thinking, he lowered his gaze until it met Anika’s, and she thrilled to think that he considered her a comrade. “What do we do now?” he murmured, almost speaking to himself.

  “I cannot believe they will keep him at the precentor’s house for long,” Anika answered, her mind racing. “If he was a threat in the widow Fida’s house, the threat will not be removed as long as he remains in Constance. There are too many here who love Jan Hus, and those who fear him will not rest if he sleeps behind the city walls.” She took a deep breath and moved her gaze into his, seeing nothing else. “They mean to kill him, my lord,” she said simply, tearing the words from her soul. “They are evil men, servants of Lucifer himself.”

  “Anika!” He spoke her female name without thinking, and she blinked in surprise. Manville would think he had made a mistake, but she felt her heart turn over at the realization that he not only saw her as a comrade, but as a woman.

  Abruptly he pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I will not give up while breath remains in my body.”

  Anika

  Twenty-Eight

  The Bohemians passed the winter of 1414–15 in the darkest possible circumstances. Lord John and the knights of Chlum remained encamped outside Constance, not willing to return to Bohemia while Hus remained in prison. While they waited, the knights grew bored and restless, and many fell ill with diseases brought on by the cold, harsh weather.

  Anika knew the nobles worried about matters back home. Both Lord John and Lord Venceslas had left their estates in their stewards’ capable hands, but some things even a steward could not handle. With a pang of sorrow Anika recalled that Lord John had left his youngest son behind. Svec would be several months older by the time they returned, precious time that could never be recaptured in the child’s life.

  But Jan Hus fared far worse than his fellow Bohemians. After one week in the precentor’s house, where he was closely guarded and allowed no visitors apart from council representatives, guards moved Hus to a Dominican monastery situated on a small island in the center of Lake Constance. When Anika first learned that Hus had been transferred to the graceful building near the water, she wept in relief, but her relief turned to despair when she learned Hus had been cast into the dungeon of a round tower only a few feet from the monastery sewer and the water’s edge. In this dank and dismal place he remained for over two and a half months. Not until a noxious fever seized him did news of his pitiable condition reach those who prayed for and worried about him.

  “The pope,” Lord John told his Bohemian allies one afternoon when he had returned from another fruitless round of meetings with the pope’s emissaries, “does not want Master Hus to die a natural death. They tell me Master Hus was at death’s door, but the pope sent his own physician to restore our friend to health. On the doctor’s orders, Hus has been removed to a more healthful cell and treated with greater humanity.”

  While the physicians worked over Jan Hus’s body, prelates scoured his soul. After the doctors left Hus’s cell each morning, witnesses from the council entered the small chamber and worried the preacher with complex questions. Once when Hus lay at his weakest, his mind wearied by fever and unrest, they brought fifteen witnesses who peppered him with sly questions, hoping to catch him in some mistake or heresy.

  The attack against Hus advanced on a third front, as well. The council appointed three prelates to investigate and report on Hus’s public statements. Michael de Causis and Stephen Palec drew up a series of accusations based on Hus’s treatise on the church, De Ecclesia. Hus’s beliefs, as set forth in this document, were a declaration of independence for the individual believer in Christ, for he effectively reduced the cumbersome system of priestly rule to rubbish. Hus stressed that faith, not connection with the Roman Catholic body, was the true basis of membership in the spiritual Church of Christ. And he steadfastly maintained that human distinctions of clerical rank paled to insignificance when considered in the light of Christ’s admonition that “whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.” The concepts of De Ecclesia frightened the cardinals, and with the aid of Palec and Michael de Causis, the commissioners twisted some of Hus’s statements and fabricated others to make the document appear heretical.

  And yet, through all his trials, Jan Hus did not slip or falter. He did ask for help, begging that he might be allowed to employ an advocate for his defense, only to hear that a man accused of heresy had no right to expect the protection of the law.

  In the end, the council members had only lies and misrepresentations with which to accuse him. Peter Mladenovic, Lord John’s secretary, kept a careful account of the proceedings as news trickled out and wrote that the final formal accusations against Hus, fort
y-four articles drawn from De Ecclesia, were totally misleading. “These have been falsely and unfairly extracted from the book by Palec,” he wrote in his journal, “who has mutilated some sentences at the beginning, others in the middle, others at the end, and who has also invented things that are not contained in the book at all.”

  For months, Anika and the other knights helped Lord John and Lord Venceslas of Duba attempt to free the Bohemian preacher. The nobles wrote countless letters to the emperor and badgered cardinals in their offices, trying to rouse all of Constance in Hus’s defense. Their efforts were fruitless, but when Emperor Sigismund finally arrived in the city at the end of December, a ray of hope dawned. Anika knew Lord John placed great faith in the emperor—after all, Sigismund had provided Hus’s safe conduct, and was King Wenceslas’s brother. He should prove to be an ally.

  For a day or two, Lord John’s hopes were fulfilled. After his arrival, Sigismund sent a message commanding the cardinals to release Hus according to the terms of the safe conduct. But his demand was refused. “Faith need not be kept with a heretic,” the cardinals replied, “since he has none.”

  Though sick, weak, hungry, cold, and often burning with fever, Hus was not forgotten or abandoned. In spite of the vigilant spies who surrounded him, Bohemian visitors managed to smuggle letters in and out of his prison. One of Hus’s jailers, a man called Robert, proved particularly helpful, and Hus often referred to him in his letters as “that good man” and “the faithful friend.” Despite the preacher’s physical weakness, he wrote almost daily from his prison cell. When his letters reached friends encamped outside Constance, they were copied, translated, and spirited away to those who prayed for him in Bohemia.

  In one letter addressed to Lord John, Hus asked for a Bible. Anika could almost see him as he wrote, his hands trembling upon the parchment, his eyes still blazing with faith and a hint of mischief: