The Silver Sword (37 page)

Vasek pulled back, away from the startled young knight, then stood silently in the hall as Kafka moved gracefully away. He absently took a bite from the loaf of bread he carried in his hand, then chewed thoughtfully as he considered what he'd heard through the door. He hadn't heard the entire conversation, for Lord John had been facing the other direction, but Kafka's higher-pitched voice had carried easily. He'd heard something about a council, about cardinals, and something that led him to believe Kafka wasn't perfectly happy with the situation at Chlum Castle.

He took another bite of the bread—all he was allowed to eat during his self-imposed bread and water fast. Perhaps this Kafka held the same reservations that troubled Vasek. Lord John had always been a God-fearing and devout man, much like his father, but lately this Hus had addled the master's thinking. If Lord John was not careful, Hus would cause an irreparable breach in the church, and what would happen then to the thousands of men like Vasek who served the church while serving its nobles?

Hus had no idea how dangerous his ideas were. And like a maiden infatuated with a handsome knight, Lord John was content to blindly follow Hus.

He pursed his lips, thinking. If he could go to Prague, maybe he could talk to some of the priests in that city and see which way the political winds were blowing. Was Hus as popular with the people as Lord John believed? Or was his master committing political
and
spiritual suicide?

Vasek lowered the hard bread as his gut suddenly cramped. He'd been fasting with bread and water for a week, hoping that God would speak, but the only revelation he'd received thus far was the knowledge that naught but bread and water had a tendency to constipate the bowels.

Shaking his head, Vasek pressed his hand to his distended belly and hastened away to find a chamber pot.

T
he kitchen swarmed with activity the next day as the promised delegation descended upon Chlum Castle. Along with the representatives from Sigismund, several prominent members of the university arrived, primarily to entreat Hus to remain at home in Bohemia. Other lords from neighboring estates rode in, escorted by their knights, and valiantly offered to defend Hus in their castles.

At dinner, one of Sigismund's envoys actually stood and said to Hus, “Master, I speak now from my heart. If you go to Constance, be sure that you will be condemned. Listen to these men, and do not go.”

“There is the promise of a safe conduct,” another of Sigismund's representatives offered, standing to his feet. He bowed slightly to Lord John, then turned beady eyes upon the preacher. “The emperor will grant you a safe conduct which will guarantee an unmolested journey to Constance and a safe return to Bohemia. The emperor also promises that you will be allowed to speak before the council.”

Lord John's chaplain, Vasek, leaned over his trencher and practically hissed at Hus. “It is what you want, isn't it?”

From where she sat at Lord John's right hand, Anika saw that Master Hus's face was resolute. He would go. He was eager to purge himself and the kingdom of Bohemia of the infamous charge of heresy. Her mouth curved with tenderness as she studied him. He would go, for she had never known Hus to refuse an invitation to preach.

“This is what I will do.” Hus stood to his feet and nodded
respectfully toward the visiting nobles and imperial representatives. “I will post notices throughout the whole of Prague, offering to render an account of my faith and hope. I will obtain from Nicholas, the inquisitor of heresy for the city of Prague, a statement declaring me to be a true and Catholic man. Perhaps we can obtain a similar testimony from the archbishop.”

Several of the nobles nodded enthusiastically.

“Then I shall go,” Hus said, glancing down for a moment at Lord John. Anika saw a flicker of worry in her master's eyes but none at all in the preacher's. “With faith in God,” Hus said, looking again at the crowd in the hall, “and buoyed by the testimony of my faithful brethren, we will go forward to meet the road ahead. It may be that we will be a candle in the darkness, shining the light of the Holy Scriptures into a void which has existed far too long.”

Several of the nobles lifted their voices in supportive cheers, but Anika saw that others received Hus's proclamation with smug expressions.

“God knows I have taught nothing in secret, but in public,” Hus went on. The smile he gave the crowd conveyed no reproach; rather it was almost apologetic. “My ministry was attended by masters, bachelors, priests, barons, knights, and many others. I thus desire to be heard, examined, and to preach not in secret but at a public hearing, and to reply with the aid of the Spirit of God to all who should wish to argue against me. I will not, I hope, be afraid to confess the Lord Christ.”

His voice fell, and his face showed a delicate dimension of sensitivity. “And, if need be, to suffer death for his most true law. For he, the King of kings and the Lord of lords, the true God, being poor, mild, and humble, suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow in his footsteps. He who committed no sin, on whose lips no guile was found, who humbled himself, having by his death destroyed our death, has placed us under an obligation to suffer humbly and not in vain. For he said: ‘Blessed are those who suffer persecution for justice's sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'”

A murmur of voices, a palpable unease, washed through the
room. Anika looked up quickly. Did Hus truly expect to suffer if he obeyed the emperor's summons?

“After turning this over in my mind, I, Christ's servant in hope, although unprofitable, have desired to induce both the clergy and the people toward his imitation,” Master Hus continued. A spark of some indefinable emotion lit his eyes. “On that account I became hated, not indeed by all the people, but by those who oppose the Lord by their behavior. Having been very often cited by them to the archiepiscopal court, I have always proved myself innocent. Thus I commit myself into the hands of the most just Judge, for whose glory, I trust, the emperor will obtain for me a safe and public hearing under the protection of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Hus abruptly sat down, and Anika felt the wings of shadowy foreboding brush the back of her neck. Her father, were he alive, would surely tell Hus not to go to Constance. Even Petrov would warn the preacher that it would be foolishly naive to entrust himself to the goodwill of his examiners.

“Excuse me, Lord John?” From his place at Hus's left hand, Vasek leaned forward to catch his master's attention. “If I might, my lord, I would like to ride with the emperor's delegation when they return to Prague. It is not often that I have the opportunity to converse with scholars from the university.”

“By all means, go,” Lord John answered absently, his attention centered on Hus, who had closed his eyes as if in prayer.

From her place, Anika shivered as the sense of foreboding increased.

The knights of Chlum spent the summer months preparing for the journey to Constance. Hus remained at Chlum Castle to concentrate on the all-important confrontation ahead, while Jerome resumed Hus's place as preacher at Bethlehem Chapel. Now that Hus had commandeered Lord John's secretary again, Anika's days were once more filled with writing. In addition to the letters and records she transcribed for Lord John, she spent hours transcribing endless copies of Master Hus's proclamations to the people of Prague. Every
citizen, from the lowliest farmer to the king and queen, would know of Hus's testimony, his doctrines, and his faith in Jesus Christ alone.

As a lowly preacher-priest, Hus had no income to speak of and thus depended upon friends and supporters to provision his journey. One afternoon at dinner Lord John entered the great hall with a bag of gold in one hand and a note in the other. Holding the gold aloft, he proudly announced that the esteemed lady in Prague had sent more than enough to provision the knights of Chlum for the trek to Constance. As the men erupted into cheers, Anika looked up at Lord John. Who was this esteemed and generous lady? Lady Zelenka? Lady Ludmila?

She waited until Lord John left the hall, then she approached Novak. “Who is this woman who sends such rich gifts?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light. “Is Lady Zelenka now trying to buy our lord's favor?”

Novak stepped back with a look of surprise as he broke into laughter. “Zelenka? I cry you mercy. How could you think Lady Zelenka would send money and request that her name be kept secret? If she sent a gift, she would emblazon her name upon it in gilded letters. No, our patroness is a married woman, and her concern is only for the gospel and Master Hus.” Novak paused, arching his busy brows into triangles. “You wouldn't happen to be jealous of our lady friend, would you now?” he whispered. “Because I'd hate to have to explain
that
to the other fellows—”

“Of course not,” Anika snapped, seething with sudden anger and humiliation. “I was curious, that's all. Nothing more. Nothing less. Forget it, Novak; put it out of your mind.”

She hurried out of the castle and walked through the bright sunlight in the courtyard. A cool breeze from the mountains had swept away the heat of the summer day, and the western sky was awash with crimson and gold.

Anika clenched her fists as she walked toward the paddock where Svec and Lev sat on the fence watching the grooms break a new horse. What were these feelings that rose in her chest every time she looked at Lord John? These emotions—joy, warmth, and anxiety—
weren't exactly what the author of
The Art of Courtly Love
described. Love was supposed to be more refined, more predictable, and far more coy. This wasn't love she felt, it was … gratitude. Admiration. Perhaps a bit of infatuation. But nothing could come of these feelings. Lord John was a nobleman and she a humble merchant's daughter. Lady Zelenka, who continued to write long, gossipy letters to the master, would make him a better wife. Anika had received the distinct impression that the blond beauty was also waiting for Hus's case to be resolved. Then John would be less distracted and more ready to woo a bride.

With a grunted greeting, she climbed to a seat on the railing between the two boys. Svec gave her a smile, but Lev barely turned his head her way. He seemed intent upon watching the grooms with the horse, but from the expression in his eyes Anika knew his thoughts were far away.

“Is aught amiss, Lev?” she asked, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Like Lev, she kept her eyes turned toward the majestic stallion. “Maybe I can help.”

“Sir Kafka.” He spoke hesitantly, as if he were about to utter words he knew he would regret. “What do you know about girls?”

Anika nearly lost her balance on the fence. What did he mean? Had he discovered her secret? Perhaps Lord John was right—the squires were beginning to suspect.

“I know about girls,” she answered softly, not willing to lie. “What would you like to know?”

Without warning, Lev's eyes slowly filled with tears. “There's a girl in the village; her name is Jana. I talk to her whenever we ride there to check on the harvest. And I think—I think I may be in love with her, but Lord John says I cannot marry until he gives me permission.”

He looked at her then, and Anika saw wounded dignity in every line of his face. “How do I wait, Kafka? I see her, I want to be with her, I want to be at her side always, to make her happy—”

“How old are you, Lev?” she asked, sighing.

“Fourteen.”

A smile tugged at Anika's lips. “Fourteen is a young age to find the love of one's heart. Why don't you listen to your father? He knows what is best for you. And while you are waiting, in my bag I have a book that will teach you what love is and how it is best pursued. You are a nobleman's son, and there are certain conventions which must be followed.”

Lev nodded in what looked like relief, then turned his gaze outward again. “What about you, Kafka? You are older—have you loved someone?”