The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  An unruly mob waited outside the assembly hall, but in the midst of the gathering she spied Lord John’s handsome profile. She threaded her way through the crowd until she reached his side, then smoothly slid her arm under his.

  “Well met, my lord,” she said, tilting her head. “I hope you will vouch for me so I may enter.”

  His eyes grazed her with a look of mingled amusement and admiration. “Lady Anika of Prague, is it?” he murmured, leading her forward as the doors opened and the crowd surged toward the building. “I thought you might appear today.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she answered, tearing her eyes away from his face. By heaven above, she had not thought this action through. In the light of his words the other night, he might think she had donned this dress just to please him.

  “I wanted to see my friend Master Hus,” she said, lowering her voice as she offered an explanation. “This disguise seemed to be the best approach.”

  “Disguise? Since when does a woman wear a kirtle to disguise herself?”

  She frowned at the laughter in his voice. “You know my meaning. And if you will vouch for me and let me enter on your arm and sit at your side, we shall soon be done with this. I will return this kirtle to the widow Fida as soon as our venture here is finished.”

  “Whatever you wish, Lady Anika,” he said, his smile now utterly without humor.

  By the trial’s appointed hour, the sun had not come forth from behind whatever dark cloud God sent to hide it, and lamps had to be lit in the assembly hall when the hearing resumed. Anika felt her stomach churn with loathing when Cardinal D’Ailly, the self-professed “hammer of heretics,” took the center chair to preside over the proceedings. He stood and lifted his hand, ready to bestow an invocation upon the gathering, but halted in midgesture, staring toward the doors at the rear of the room. Anika swiveled her head in time to see the emperor Sigismund himself stride forward. As an astonished silence fell over the group, he took a seat near the front of the room, apparently eager to observe and approve the trial.

  Recovering quickly, Cardinal D’Ailly began the proceedings. After an opening prayer, an accuser again read the articles against Master Hus. Anika listened in rapt concentration as Cardinal D’Ailly began to smite the preacher with pitiless, hardhearted logic. But Hus, ever the scholar, defeated each point of contention with a scriptural quote and example.

  Then, to Anika’s horror, a prelate summoned a panel of witnesses. Through their testimony D’Ailly attempted to show that Hus depended entirely upon Wyclif’s writings, for the views of that Englishman had already been condemned as heretical. Hus attempted to explain that he did not blindly approve all of Wyclif’s teachings, but each time Hus opened his mouth, the cardinals interrupted with loud cries.

  Prelates read eight additional articles of accusation. At the mention of Hus’s appeal to his Savior, Jesus Christ, the assembly broke into loud jeers and mocking taunts. Anika stared at the cardinals’ proud, stubborn faces, and in a breathless moment of insight, she understood why they hated Hus.

  The council was jealous. Jealous of Master Hus’s allegiance to Jesus Christ, and possessive of its own supremacy. Hus supported only one authority, that of Jesus Christ as revealed through Holy Scripture, and the council earnestly desired that preeminent position. These cardinals had pulled a pope from his ecclesiastical throne, but they would not allow themselves to be usurped. “Not by Jan Hus, not by the Scriptures, not by the blessed Lord himself,” Anika murmured to herself.

  As the day ended, Cardinal D’Ailly advised Hus to submit to the council. “If you do this,” he said, an oily tone creeping into his voice, “you will best consult your safety and your standing.”

  The entire room jerked in startled amazement when the emperor’s hand slammed down upon the arm of his chair. “There you have the answer,” Sigismund cried, leaning forward to stare at the exhausted Hus, who had stood throughout the entire day of examination. “If you will but admit the council’s supremacy in all matters of faith, your situation will be eased. Recant, Master Hus. I will grant no protection to any heretic who is obstinately determined to hold fast to his heresy, so I counsel you to fling yourself on the council’s grace—the quicker the better, lest you fall into a worse plight.”

  “This I cannot do.”

  Anika jerked her head toward Hus, not certain she had heard him correctly. A wise man would have obfuscated the issue, suggested some sort of compromise, or murmured something about needing time to reflect. Surely Hus had spoken without thinking.

  “I am willing to amend my teaching if it can be shown to be false according to the Scriptures,” Hus said, the point of his beard grazing his robe as he lowered his head. “But if no man can prove the error of my ministry, then I cannot resign the truths I understand.”

  “Please, Jan!” John Reinstein, the priest who had journeyed with them from Prague, stood from his place in the assembly. “Please, for the sake of our Lord and his church, do not allow this issue to divide us!”

  Hus smiled at the priest’s concern, but his countenance reflected a distracted, inward look, as though he listened to something far off that only he could hear. “I cannot,” he repeated, his voice like steel, “resign the truths I understand.”

  Rigidly holding her tears in check, Anika sat as still as a statue while the guards led Hus away.

  John was not surprised when Anika found him again the next morning. Her delicate features were composed, but her face was pale and her eyes wide, as though she had passed a sleepless night.

  John had not slept, either. Another midnight messenger had brought a letter from Master Hus, the text of which lay as fresh in John’s mind as if he had just read it:

  To the good Lord John of Chlum and my friends in Constance:

  Would that I knew how the bearded Jerome, who refused to obey the counsel of friends and return home, is faring!

  Since they have my book, I no longer need this paper. Save the copy of the first articles with the proofs. Should there be need of proving some of the articles, note it there. Among them will most likely be the article, “A virtuous man, whatever he does, does virtuously.”

  I am now suffering with toothache. At the castle Gottlieben I suffered with vomiting of blood, headache, and the stone. These are the punishments due for sins as well as the signs of God’s love toward me…

  “Well met, Lord John,” Anika murmured, slipping her arm through his in a companionable manner. He knew she did it merely to convince any spy that they were equals and old acquaintances, but she did not know her touch stoked a steadily growing fire. He had been unable to think of any other lady since realizing that his squire was more woman than any of the females he knew. Her commitment and passion for truth inspired his heart in a way no other woman could, but he could never let her know the depth of her effect on him. She was determined to follow her own path, and he was duty bound to let her.

  “Will it end today?” she asked, glancing up at him.

  “I cannot imagine that the trial will continue much longer,” he answered, averting his gaze from the silky expanse of her neck. What a weakling he was, allowing himself to be distracted by temptations of the flesh while his best friend endured a trial for his life.

  The crowd surged into the room, and the players entered as they had the day before. An air of isolation clung to Hus’s sword-thin figure when the guards brought him in. John felt his heart contract in pity for his friend.

  Cardinal D’Ailly wasted no time before launching his attack. Thirty-nine articles of accusation, collected by Michael de Causis and Stephen Palec, were read out. Article by article, Hus’s accusers tried to show that the reformer had written against priests, the selling of indulgences, the pope, official doctrine, and the organization and administration of the Church.

  Lord John found one point particularly interesting. They charged Hus with saying that no outward sign and no work of man could grant a man membership in the Church of Christ, but only the electing grace of God
. Hus freely admitted the charge and illustrated his point by saying that Judas Iscariot, who did not have this electing grace, was not part of the body of Christ even though he possessed every outward sign and demonstrated the same deeds as the other disciples.

  “Bravo, Jan!” John muttered under his breath. “Good thinking!”

  But the council simply ignored his logic. They moved on to other arguments, accusing Hus of celebrating mass while under the ban of excommunication and preaching against priests who committed scandal.

  “And what of this?” D’Ailly shrilled, pointing to another document on the table before him. He held it aloft as if Hus could read it from across the room. “You have written that if the pope, a bishop, or a prelate is in the state of mortal sin, he is not a pope, bishop, or prelate.”

  Hus’s eyes, sharp and assessing, never left D’Ailly’s face. “True enough. He who lives in a continual state of sin cannot rightly be a king before God, as is shown by the book of Samuel, chapter fifteen, verse twenty-three. There God, through Samuel, said to Saul, ‘As you have rejected my word, I reject you from being king.’”

  John caught his breath. Hus’s response, though bold, was not the most prudent thing a man on trial for his life could say to men he had accused of sinning. D’Ailly flushed crimson, then smiled with satisfaction and looked toward the emperor’s chair. When he found Sigismund’s chair empty, the smile vanished.

  “The emperor has stepped out into the hall,” Anika whispered, following John’s gaze.

  D’Ailly murmured something to his aides, and immediately two prelates left the chamber. The gathering waited in silent expectancy for three or four minutes, then the emperor returned, escorted by the two prelates. With one brow raised in inquiry, he resumed his seat.

  “Your highness,” D’Ailly said, smiling in false humility, “we thought you would find this part of the trial particularly interesting.”

  Hus, completely aware of all that went on around him, did not flinch from speaking his mind. “Yes,” he went on, meeting D’Ailly’s steely gaze with his own, “unworthy rulers should rule no longer. Look at this council’s own example—if John XXIII was truly and deservedly pope, why was he deposed?”

  Again, Hus scored a point in his defense, and again D’Ailly ignored him. John Reinstein took advantage of a lapse in the proceedings to stand and give an impassioned defense of Hus’s work in Prague and at Bethlehem Chapel, but D’Ailly quickly dismissed that priest’s opinions and declared Reinstein out of order. A prelate read more articles; D’Ailly disregarded more of Hus’s explanations. Over and over a few brave and sympathetic cardinals urged Hus to recant his teachings, and over and over the Bohemian preacher refused to relent.

  John shifted in his seat, a tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shooting through him when D’Ailly turned and spoke to the council members. As the cardinals huddled in discussion, John cut a glance toward Anika. The customary expression of good humor had vanished from the curve of her mouth, the depths of her eyes. Her delicate features had hardened in a stare of disapproval, and he felt a strange lurch of recognition in her expression. She had worn the same look when she told him she had sworn vengeance … upon Cardinal D’Ailly.

  He pressed his hand to his chin and looked away. This day might hold tragedy for Anika as well as Jan Hus. The anger and bitterness in her young heart would only be fed by the fires of execution. If the council condemned Jan Hus, Anika might never learn to forgive.

  Finally Cardinal D’Ailly announced the council’s threefold decision: First, Hus should humbly declare that he had erred in all the articles cited against him; second, he should swear not to teach them in the future; and third, he should publicly recant these beliefs.

  The cardinal, his lips curving in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile, then gave Jan Hus two options: He must humbly submit to the council, which, in consideration of Emperor Sigismund and his brother, King Wenceslas of Bohemia, would treat Hus with humanity and kindness. In punishment for the scandal he had caused, Hus would be imprisoned for life in a Swedish monastery, in a cell that was to be walled up, leaving only a small opening through which food and drink could be handed to the prisoner.

  “Should you not wish to submit and instead choose to defend your views,” D’Ailly finished, “a hearing will not be refused you, but you will thus act at your greatest peril.”

  “I do not wish to maintain any errors,” Hus replied, his expression grim as he faced the council, “but I cannot say that I held erroneous opinions which I never did hold. I beg that I might be allowed to express my views regarding the accusations made against me.”

  His request was met with indignant sputtering and much whispering. A few of the more sympathetic council members called out that he should recant, and even the emperor leaned forward and urged Hus to disavow his heretical views, even if he had never held them.

  “No, your Highness,” Hus answered, bowing his head in respect. “This I cannot do.”

  Beside him, John heard Anika release a muffled sob.

  The guards strode forward to claim their prisoner, and Jan Hus turned to walk through the crowd. Too shaken for words, John stood and reached out, grasping Hus’s hand and holding it firmly until a guard reached forward and broke the fragile human contact.

  John sank back into his seat, an inexplicable feeling of emptiness at the center of his soul. He was dimly aware that Anika’s hand lay upon his arm, and he found comfort in her touch, knowing that she loved Hus as much as he did.

  As Hus left the room, Sigismund stood to address the assembled prelates. “Hus should be burned alive,” he announced, not mincing his words and apparently not realizing that Bohemian nobles remained in the chamber. “Even if he recants, he should not be allowed to return to Bohemia. He is dangerous; he and his kind must be destroyed. Wherever bishops find others holding similar views, they should punish the offenders so this heresy might be destroyed root and branch. This council should make an end of Hus’s secret friends and followers, especially his disciple Jerome, who is now in your custody.”

  John let out a choked, desperate laugh as his mind reeled in shock and amazement. He and his friends had placed so much faith in this emperor, and yet Sigismund had just proclaimed that anyone who agreed with Hus should be punished—including, apparently, John of Chlum, Venceslas of Duba, even King Wenceslas and Queen Sophia, the noble lady and anonymous friend who had given so much of herself and her fortune to advance Hus’s cause.

  John lowered his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the torment of the past few weeks. Perhaps Anika was right. War might indeed loom in Bohemia’s future. And right now, John had to admit, vengeance would certainly taste sweet.

  Thirty-One

  To Lord John of Chlum, dearly beloved friend in Christ!

  Lord John, most gracious and most faithful supporter, may God be your reward! I beg you, do not leave until you see the end consummated. Surely you would rather see me led to the fire than to be so craftily stifled! I still cherish the hope that the Almighty God may snatch me from their hands on account of the merits of the saints. Greet all our friends in the kingdom, requesting them to pray God for me that if I am to remain in prison, I may humbly expect death without apprehension.

  My hope in the Lord is ever firm.

  I thank all the barons, knights, and squires of the kingdom of Bohemia, and particularly King Wenceslas and the queen, my gracious lady, that they have dealt affectionately with me, have treated me kindly, and have striven diligently for my liberation. I thank also King Sigismund for all the good he has shown me. I thank all the Czech and Polish lord who steadfastly and firmly strove for the truth and for my liberation; I desire salvation for all of them, now in grace and afterward in everlasting glory. May the God of all grace guide your life in the health of soul and body to Bohemia, that serving there the King Christ, you may attain the life of Glory! Written in prison, in chains, the Friday before the Feast of St. John the Baptist.

  Jan Hu
s

  Jan Hus spent the last month of his life engaged in two activities: answering members of the council who urged him to recant, and writing letters to his friends and supporters. The sympathetic cardinals, fearing that Hus’s martyrdom would worsen the already strained relations between the council and the kingdom of Bohemia, pestered the preacher every day.

  By night Hus wrote of his trials. Robert, his faithful jailer, conveyed the messages to Lord John, who gave them to Peter and Anika so that copies might be made and carried to Hus’s supporters. Anika worked more diligently than she ever had in her life, but often she would have to begin anew, for she found herself watering the parchments with her tears as she moved her pen over the smoothed page.

  Her hand actually trembled as she copied one of Hus’s last letters. Having these things before your eyes, Hus wrote, do not allow yourselves to be terrified into giving up the reading of what I have written or into surrendering your books to be burned. Remember what our merciful Savior told us as a warning in Matthew 24, that prior to the Day of Judgment ‘there will be so great a tribulation as has not been from the beginning of the world and never will be afterward.’ Remembering that, dearly beloved, stand firm! The council will not come from Constance to Bohemia! I think that many of that council will die before they wrest your books from you.

  The books. Her hand trembled with the rueful acceptance of a terrible knowledge. If the council had its way, all that would remain of Jan Hus were his books and letters—documents she had helped produce, that she could continue producing for as long as she lived. Many of Hus’s original works had been burned in the fire at the bookshop, but Lord John had copies in his chamber, and Lord Venceslas of Duba undoubtedly had others.