The Silver Sword (49 page)

“Be content?” She wanted to behave like one of the men and spit with scorn. He had never suffered as she had—his parents had died natural deaths on their beds, their arms folded peacefully across their chests. He was a man, able to undertake and accomplish almost anything he set his heart and mind to do. He had never been forced to hide to preserve his virtue and his life.

“I am content to serve you, my lord,” she answered, her voice a great deal shakier than she would have liked. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “As a
knight.
'Tis what I have sworn, and 'tis what I will perform. As long as you serve Jan Hus, I am sworn to serve you.”

“Anika—” His outstretched hand reached for her still. “Jan Hus's fate will soon be decided. What will you do then? Surely you can forget this foolishness of fighting and seek a more womanly life.”

“No, my lord,” she whispered, backing away. “I have a vow to fulfill before I can think of setting aside my sword.” She lifted her chin to conceal her inner turmoil. “And it is not seemly for us to be together like this. What would your men say if one of them saw us?”

For a brief moment his face seemed to open so that she could look inside and watch her words slowly take hold. She saw bewilderment there, a quick flicker of temper, then resignation.

His hand fell to his side. “Good night, then,” he said, turning into his tent.

“Thirty-seven.” Alone in the woods, Vasek swung the instrument of external penance over his bare shoulder. The device, a small metal ring with five chains suspended from it, was intended to take
his mind off worldly things so he could focus solely upon God. But ever since the pope fled into hiding, Vasek had been able to focus only upon his guilt. A man would not run unless he had something to hide. Vasek had visited the pope in the certain faith that His Holiness was the representative of Christ on earth, but Jesus Christ would never have fled into the night like a common criminal.

“Thirty-eight.” The tiny hooks, one suspended from the end of each chain, bit into his back and scraped across the taut skin as he yanked the chains forward again. Private self-flagellation seemed the only way to correct his grave mistake. God had been merciful in one respect—as far as Vasek knew, neither Lord John nor Jan Hus realized that Vasek had been instrumental in having Hus arrested. Not even that nosy little Sir Kafka had picked up any clues.

“Thirty-nine.” He winced as the little metal teeth opened a new patch of skin, then gritted his teeth. A headache asserted itself above his right eye, the pain digging into his brain. His stomach roiled in a sea of nausea—good, good, it was all good. Let God punish him out here in the woods, where he could bleed and vomit and suffer and moan his prayers of contrition.

In a few hours, or even on the morrow, he'd rise, bathe in the stream, and pull his tunic over his broken and bruised skin. And he would serve his lord and master with a will, trusting God and Lord John to do as they would.

He had taken matters into his own hands, and he was grievously sorry for it.

Bracing himself for one final blow, Vasek took a deep breath and readied the chains for another swing. “Forty.”

L
ater that night, a guard woke John from a deep sleep and pressed a letter into his hand. John fumbled for the lamp, then saw that the handwriting was Hus's. He smiled to himself as his eyes skimmed the first line—a tongue-in-cheek reminder of the time when John had debated theology in the town of Biberach.

A freakish eclipse of the sun ushered in the morning of June 7, the day Hus's trial resumed. The more superstitious of Lord John's
men cited the darkened sky as an evil omen, but Vasek murmured a hasty blessing over the group and told them that the unnatural darkness was only a trick of the devil.

Ignoring the others' uneasy murmurs, Anika pulled her bundle of women's clothing from its hiding place and slipped into a forest thicket. Though she had privately resolved that nothing good could come of Lord John again seeing her as a woman, the lure of Master Hus's trial proved stronger than her resolution. Since no men of arms could enter the assembly, perhaps a woman could.

The other knights had already ridden away through the gloom by the time she emerged from the woods, but she quickly mounted a horse and followed, praying no one would notice that under her billowing cloak the lady rode astride, her kirtle pulled up around her knees. When she reached the city gates, she tethered the horse at a hitching rail outside and blended into the crowd, carefully avoiding any knights in blue and gold surcoats.

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.