The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Sobbing in relief, Anika turned and scrambled away on her hands and knees, dirt and gravel sticking to the damp skin of her palms. “Oh, Father God,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her face as she crouched behind a bush next to the road. Her thoughts whirled in tumult. “Have I killed him?”

  She knew she ought to go over and check for sounds of breathing, but she could not bear to be near that body again. Miloslav would have to remain in God’s hands. Rising to her feet, she gingerly retrieved her helmet and sword, then turned to whistle for Midnight. The stallion stood only a few feet away in the woods, his eyes wide and fixed upon her. At Anika’s signal he cautiously emerged from the trees and trotted over.

  Before mounting, she glanced again at Laco’s son. Blood from the wound in his forehead had painted his visage into a glistening devil mask. With a shiver of vivid recollection, she remembered how Petrov had scolded her: Believe me, child. If you had seen but one day of war, you would pray to Almighty God that you might never see such a thing again.

  If war was anything like this, she wanted no part of it after today, but this scoundrel was just another in a long string of reprobates firmly attached to Cardinal D’Ailly’s belt. That evil man corrupted everyone he influenced.

  She placed her booted foot in the stirrup and swung herself up, determined not to look back.

  Not until sunset stretched glowing fingers across the sky did Anika find her enemies’ camp. From the camouflaging safety of the woods, she saw that Laco’s servants had pitched several tents inside a meadow between the fork of two roads. Anika had no trouble determining which tent housed his Eminence the cardinal. One tent, gaudy with red and purple ornamentation, sat aloof and reserved at the center of the camp. She knew she’d find Cardinal D’Ailly inside.

  Tying Midnight’s bridle to a nearby tree, she dismounted, rechecked her armor, and again touched the hilt of Petrov’s silver sword. The weight of the blade at her side was comforting, like a rune, something to hold on to. She had come a long way in four years, and every moment of labor had pointed toward this hour.

  She was grateful to have found the cardinal’s caravan at the end of the day. As the other knights removed their armor and settled in for a few hours rest, she could wander into the camp in her armor and without an identifying surcoat. No one would think her appearance odd. She could walk straightway into the holy man’s tent, and there confront him with his sins.

  She leaned back against a tree and crossed her arms, waiting for twilight.

  “So she left when you said we would not go to war?”

  Numb with exhaustion, John of Chlum nodded in answer to Novak’s question. They had been traveling for an entire day and had endured a cool reception at Lidice only to learn that a strange knight had appeared that morning, then promptly galloped off in the direction of Constance. Though Lord Laco’s steward had been pointedly rude, John had managed to be polite.

  Novak shook his head. “I would not have thought a maid would be so eager for the bloodshed of war. In truth, she is a gentle soul.”

  “Yes.” John’s back ached between his shoulder blades; he stiffened and pressed his hand to the base of his spine. The sun was sinking in the west. Soon they would have to find a place to rest for a few hours. But how could they stop when Anika was still out there, still pursuing a fool’s path?

  “What do you think, my lord?” Novak asked, folding his hands atop the pommel of his saddle. “Some of the men are ready to go to war. They say the Catholics aren’t our Christian brothers, that we are right to fight them. They mean you no disrespect and they’ll abide by your decision, but I’ve got to be truthful and tell you that they are wondering what you’re thinking.”

  “I am thinking,” John released a long, exhausted sigh, “that only God knows who his true children are. There are Hussites who place more faith in freedom than in Christ, and there are Catholics who have found the truth of the gospel even amid the trappings of Rome. Remember, Novak, there were sympathetic cardinals on the council at Constance. Not all of them wanted Hus executed.”

  “But their protestations were weak,” Novak pointed out. “Or they did too little, too late.”

  John nodded, too drained to debate the issue. “Be that as it may, I will not fight in a war against the Catholic League. Just as the Shepherd went out to find his wee lost lamb, I will not attack the Catholic Christian brother who seeks peace. Let the ninety-and-nine aggressors come, and I will defend my home. But I will not go out against them.”

  “Look, my lord—someone is in the road!”

  Following Novak’s pointing finger, John peered ahead through the gathering dusk to the place where a body lay sprawled across the road. Even from this distance he saw that the head and neck were mottled with dried blood, and a bruise marked the forehead. John slipped from his mount and hurried forward, half-afraid he had found Anika.

  But this was a man of not more than twenty-five years. The mouth was a wide, lipless line, like a cut in dead flesh, and the sharp, hawkish face seemed disdainful even in unconsciousness.

  John pressed his fingertips to the young man’s neck. “He lives!” he called to Novak, who was still astride his horse. “Bring the water pouch, will you?”

  Novak dismounted stiffly, then brought the pouch. John splashed a few drops of water upon the man’s face. For a moment he feared the stranger would not awaken. Then the youth sputtered for a moment and thrust up his hand as if to ward off an attack.

  “Have no fear.” Crouching by the wounded man’s side, John spoke slowly, feeling his way. “You are among friends. I am John of Chlum, and this is my captain. Were you beset by robbers?”

  The youth’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened. “Lord John of Chlum?”

  “Yea.”

  The youth’s blue eyes flashed with cold. “The knights of Chlum are cursed Hussites.”

  John stiffened, resisting the urge to drop the ungrateful man’s head back to the hard ground. “The knights of Chlum are allied with God, the king, and peace,” he said, helping the stranger sit up. “We do not believe men of God should fight one another.”

  “I see.” The youth lifted a hand to the cut on his forehead, then winced and gave John a rueful smile, the first sign of friendliness he had exhibited. “Bandits, as you said. I’m afraid they have taken off with my money purse.”

  “Your sword lies yonder,” Novak called, pointing to the weapon on the ground. “And your gauntlets and cloak there.”

  “Thank you.” As the young man slowly stood and moved to retrieve his belongings, John tried to catch Novak’s gaze. What sort of bandit would leave a valuable sword in the road? And why would a brigand remove his victim’s gloves and cloak?

  “A lying tongue leads to death, my friend,” Novak suddenly drawled, leaning casually forward upon his horse. “Confess—this was no robbery; ’twas a duel. The gauntlets on the ground prove it.” Novak’s eagle eye stared down his heavy nose. “Whom did you fight?”

  “No one, I assure you,” the youth answered, his eyes snapping with malice. “Though I do not know why the bandits removed my gloves. They have doubtless scattered my belongings throughout this area, and perhaps my horse as well.”

  “We will give you a ride,” Lord John offered, conscious of the setting sun. “But you must hurry. We should move on before darkness falls.”

  “By your leave then, pray give me a moment to look for my possessions.” Pulling on his gloves, the young man turned and moved into the woods, seeming to search through the foliage and grasses beside the road. After a few moments he disappeared in the bushes, though John could still hear the rustling sounds of his movements.

  John mounted his horse. “I am not certain I trust him,” he murmured in a low voice, uncomfortable with his inability to come up with a suitable explanation for the bizarre situation. “If he were more honest, we might come to a reasonable accounting of what happened here.”

  “Let me confront him, then,” Novak answered, lifting his rei
ns and turning his horse. The animal moved toward the woods where the youth disappeared, and Novak called over his shoulder. “If he has nothing to hide, he won’t mind riding behind my saddle. But if he proves to be a problem, I’ll truss him like a sack of potatoes—”

  His voice broke off in midsentence, interrupted by a soft whizzing sound. John sat motionless, horrified, as Novak fell woodenly from the saddle, an arrow protruding at a garish angle from the side of his head.

  Warning spasms of alarm erupted within him, but before John could move, another arrow flew through the air, this one piercing his shoulder precisely at the junction of his breastplate and arm guards. The mesh coat of mail had been designed to withstand a sword blow, but the arrow’s sharpened barb pierced it like a hot knife through butter. John clutched the arrow as his stallion pranced beneath him, then jumped at the sound of the stranger’s voice.

  “I could have killed you,” the young man called, his tone imperious and bold in the thickening air. “And I will, if you do not obey my wishes.”

  Through a blur of pain, John squinted at the woods behind him. The man was stealthily stalking through the tall weeds, a drawn crossbow in his hands, an arrow cocked and ready.

  “What do you want?” John called, his voice harsh and raw. “Why would you attack those who are trying to help you?”

  “Because you are the enemy, John of Chlum,” the man answered, a grin overtaking his bloody features as he came closer, “and my father, Lord Laco, has vowed to rid Bohemia of Hussites.”

  Now the youth stood only a few feet from John’s horse, the point of his arrow aimed directly at John’s hauberk.

  “Dismount, then lie on the ground so I may bind your hands,” the youth commanded in a shrill voice. “And then you shall follow your master Hus to Constance. I imagine you will be tried and burned like the other heretics.”

  John paused, weighing the fiend’s demands. He could make a stand and die beside his valiant captain, another martyr for the cause. But how could he help Anika if he surrendered now? This monster had already killed the worthy Novak, Anika’s only other hope of rescue.

  Fighting his own battle of personal restraint, John stiffly dismounted and lowered himself to the ground. Every movement of the arrow in his arm sent such a brilliant pain flashing through his muscles and shoulder that he cried out in dazzled agony, but the youth ignored him, grabbing his hands and roughly tying them with rope from John’s own saddle.

  Across the path, John saw the frozen countenance of his beloved captain and friend.

  “You will be remembered,” he whispered, his mind filling with sour thoughts. “Upon my word of honor, Novak, I will make sure your sacrifice is not forgotten.”

  Thirty-Six

  Night had spread her sable wings over the cardinal’s encampment by the time Anika ventured out of the forest. Walking as slowly as she dared, she sauntered into the camp, paused at a kettle over the fire, then moved purposefully toward the ornate tent in the center of the settlement. The cardinal would be inside, ostensibly saying his prayers.

  With each forward step her heart pounded harder in anticipation. Tonight she would have her vengeance. Her mother, her father, Petrov, Jan Hus, the three student martyrs, Jerome of Prague—every innocent who had ever died under the battering arm of the corrupt church would be avenged. She, a knight like no other, would do what none of the others dared do. She would strike a blow for righteousness, innocence, and truth. She would strike the dragon’s head.

  She slipped inside the emblazoned tent without a sound. God must have approved her plan, for the cardinal sat inside, alone. He had draped himself over a chair, a golden goblet in his hand, a book upon the table before him. A small brazier with glowing coals warmed the space; a small oil lamp on the table lit it.

  It was her moment of truth, the moment she had waited and prayed for. And he would see her face, know the one who brought God’s righteous vengeance to him at last. She jerked the helmet from her head and dropped it at her feet.

  “Cardinal D’Ailly!” Her voice, juicy with contempt, startled the man so that he jerked upright, spilling wine over the blood-red cassock he wore.

  He cursed, then glared up at her. “Why do you disturb me, boy?” he called, sponging uselessly at the wine stain with the fabric of his flowing sleeve. “Who gave you leave to enter?”

  Her blood slid through her veins like cold needles. “Jan Hus gave me leave,” she whispered, pulling her sword from its sheath. A silken thread of warning ran through her voice as she advanced toward him. “Ernan O’Connor gave me leave. Megan, his wife and my mother, gave me leave. Jerome of Prague gave me leave. The three student martyrs, beheaded in Prague, gave me leave. Almighty God himself has given me leave to come to you.”

  D’Ailly stared at her with a cold, hard-pinched expression on his face. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  His stammering voice only buzzed in her ear. “For the deaths of these and many other innocent people, you are sentenced to die tonight, Cardinal D’Ailly. Article one: You have ignored the Word of God and followed your own ambition and hunger for power. Article two: You have entertained the plots of evil men, including Lord Laco of Lidice, who sleeps outside this tent. Article three: You have approved divers sorts of evil for your own profit’s sake—”

  The cardinal made a harsh keening sound in his throat, then gasped, “Guards!”

  Within striking distance now, Anika flicked her sword at him, positioning the sharp point against D’Ailly’s throat. “No—stop,” he whispered, his terror like a scent on him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple doing a dance in that pale, thick neck. “Just tell me what you want. Gold? I have plenty. Position? The church can always use a brave knight.”

  “I want you,” Anika replied firmly, her eyes impaling him. “Your life must be forfeited. As long as you live, innocent souls will perish.”

  “No.” The cardinal swallowed again, then lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I will not harm anyone. I have not harmed anyone. Look there, on the table. I have been reading the works of Jan Hus—he was one of your people, was he not? Look there, at the book I found.” He gave an anxious little cough. “Master Hus would not approve of what you’re doing.”

  Anika stared at him with deadly concentration. Either the man was a very good liar, or he thought her a complete fool. “You hated Hus!”

  “No!” The cardinal trembled like a leaf. “Look there, I beg you. Upon the table.”

  Still holding her sword at his throat, Anika cut a look from the cardinal to the table. The book was open, its pages scrawled with a familiar handwriting. Intrigued, Anika leaned closer. The handwriting was her father’s! ’Twas a book he had transcribed in Prague, during the early days of his work for Hus. The words were Hus’s appeal to Christ, written shortly after the pope condemned him in 1412.

  A paragraph leaped up at her. “I was as a gentle lamb who is carried to the slaughter, and I did not know they devised their counsels against me. You, however, Lord of angelic hosts, who judges justly and tries the reins and the heart, let us see your vengeance upon them.”

  “If you are studying Hus, you are only seeking to find ways to discredit him.” Anika turned back to the cardinal, her eyes raking his face. “And even from the printed page, Hus’s blood cries out for vengeance. I have come to obey the call.”

  “Who are you?” D’Ailly asked, his nose quivering like a root for water. “You speak like a woman, and yet—”

  “It matters not. Prepare to die, Cardinal D’Ailly.”

  “Wait.” Nervously he moistened his dry lips. “You would not send a man to meet God without saying his final confession? Even your beloved Master Hus was allowed to confess himself before he died.”

  Anika paused a moment, the point of her sword wavering at the prelate’s throat. A knight shows mercy to whoever asks it. This worthless sack of skin deserved no mercy, but she could show Christian charity where he had failed.

  “Confess yourself then,” she
murmured, lifting her chin in an abrupt gesture. She lowered the tip of her sword a few inches. “And be quick about it.”

  Without rising from his chair, the cardinal pressed his fleshy hands together and closed his eyes. Anika did not take her eyes off him but listened as he began his confession: “Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor. Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.” Thou shalt sprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop and I shall be cleansed; thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow. Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy.

  Yes, confess yourself to God, she thought. Be sprinkled with hyssop and washed. And pray God to have mercy on you, for great are your sins.

  Anika’s heart hammered in anticipation; she breathed in ragged gasps. The adrenaline rush of her blood eased somewhat, and the chamber around her began to swirl in her peripheral vision. She felt herself trembling all over and clung tighter to her sword.

  “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. The cardinal struck his breast three times, then went on. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem …” I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin …

  In Anika’s inner ear her father’s voice kept mingling with the cardinal’s. “I would prefer the most unfair peace to the most righteous war,” she heard her father saying. “There should be no war in a God-directed world.”

  The sound muffled and changed; now she heard Lord John speaking, his voice velvet edged and strong. “Between Christ and war there is unalterable opposition; there cannot possibly be harmony. The day of war is nothing but a harvest for the devil.”