The Silver Sword (43 page)

Vasek glumly followed in the footsteps of his lord and the train of knights, wishing again that they had been allowed to bring their horses into town. Due to the press of the crowd and the heightened agitation since Jan Hus's arrival, the city magistrates had requested
that all horses be tied outside the city walls to keep the streets fit for walking. Though he had never been as keen a rider as the horse-happy knights, Vasek keenly felt the lack of a carriage. For twenty-five days they had marched into town, escorting their master as he attended to Hus's needs, then marched back out to the camp where they were stationed. It was exhausting, cold, thankless work, and there was no end in sight. Though Hus had been promised a public hearing, no one had approached him about when his hearing might be held.

As they passed the Schnetz gate of the city, Vasek hung back, leaning against the city wall. He placed his hands on his knees and fought to steady his breathing. He was unaccustomed to such strenuous walks over the sloping streets; his activity at Chlum Castle consisted mainly in climbing the stairs to his chapel once or twice a day.

In the distance, he heard the widow Fida's enthusiastic greeting and Lord John's baritone reply. John would spend an hour or two inside with Hus, taking that young knight Kafka with him. Vasek had no idea what they did inside the preacher's room, but Kafka's presence gave him reason to suspect that some sort of dictation was taking place. The boy did have a skilled and fine hand.

Vasek straightened suddenly, startled by the sight of a hay cart on the road. A vehicle! The cart was pulled by a donkey, not a horse, so why hadn't he thought to ask Lord John if he might have a donkey for this ridiculous journey? If donkeys were allowed while horses were forbidden, he could find a donkey and spare himself this strenuous daily walk.

As Vasek coveted the donkey, the hay cart paused outside the widow's house. The knights of Chlum, who were loitering outside, sprang to their feet and surrounded the cart, eyeing it with suspicion. While the driver knocked on the widow's door, several of the knights surrounded the cart and thrust their swords into the straw, doubtless checking to be certain that no murderers were hidden therein.

A man could easily hide in the hay. 'Twould be foolish to attempt such a thing in broad daylight with so many eyes about, but if the cart were left here overnight…

Suddenly his mind blew open. Turning toward the episcopal palace, Vasek hunched forward and disappeared quickly into the milling crowd.

“A hay cart?” Baldasarre's nostrils flared with fury as he stared at the stupid little chaplain from Chlum. “What do you mean, our answer is the hay cart?”

“If it please Your Holiness,” the man said, bowing again, “as I watched our knights prick the hay with their swords, I realized they were checking for anyone who might do Master Hus harm. They thought a man could have been hidden in the straw, and since there are not many vehicles in the streets—”

“A hay cart!” D'Ailly breathed the word almost reverently. Baldasarre glared at the cardinal, irritated that he had again missed the point.

“Don't you see, Your Holiness?” A shadowy ironic sneer hovered about D'Ailly's heavy mouth.

“We didn't send a hay cart,” Baldasarre whispered, irritated at the thrilling current moving through the room. “Unless John the Iron or that Laco of Lidice sent someone—”

“No, no.” D'Ailly gave the chaplain a smile of pure admiration, increasing Baldasarre's annoyance even more. “The cart is harmless. But how do we
know
it was not intended for Hus's escape? There it was, on a street with no other vehicles, surrounded by knights of Chlum while the master and the preacher conspired inside the house. Do you not see it?”

Baldasarre listened, then laughed. Of course! They didn't have to do anything but convince the council that Hus had
planned
an escape. He had called his friend John of Chlum to stand guard, and then a hay cart had mysteriously shown up on the doorstep of the widow's house, ready to spirit the heretic away.

“Quickly,” he said, motioning to a servant who stood nearby. “Send two bishops as my representatives, the burgomaster of the city, and a respected knight to cite Hus with attempted escape. When you have taken him into custody, bring him here.”

As the servant scurried off, Baldasarre turned his eyes again to the little chaplain. The man might be a country bumpkin, but he was not stupid.

“Chaplain Vasek,” he said, noting the look of dazed happiness that filled the man's eyes. “How would you like to spend the rest of your days serving God with me? There is only one more thing you must do …”

Vasek approached the widow's house with a light step and an even lighter heart. His task was so simple, so completely innocent that he would be able to sleep for the rest of his life with nothing heavier than air on his conscience.

He joined the knights outside the widow's house and waved to get Novak's attention. “Have you heard, Novak?” he called, the joy in his heart spilling naturally into his voice. “The brewmaster down the street is offering free ale to all knights in livery today. All a thirsty man has to do is ask, and he can drink all he likes.”

“In sooth?” Novak's wide smile broke through his beard.

“Truly.” Vasek paused to scratch his nose. “Why don't you take the fellows down there for a spell? I'll stand by the house and inform the master when he comes out.”

Novak hesitated only for a moment. For twenty-five days they had met with no trouble or resistance, and surely it seemed ludicrous to have thirty armed knights loitering outside a harmless widow's house.

“We're off then,” Novak called, flashing Vasek a gap-toothed grin. “I'll lift a glass in your name, chaplain.”

“Do that,” Vasek called, sinking to the widow's porch step. He waited, watching passersby on the street, until he was certain the last of the Chlum knights had wandered well away. Then, whistling, Vasek stood and retraced his steps, returning to the episcopal palace and a more appreciative master.

“Cleanse my heart and my lips,” Jan Hus prayed, offering mass to Anika and Lord John in the sanctuary of his room. “O Almighty
God, who cleansed the lips of the prophet Isaiah with a burning coal, in your gracious mercy deign so to purify me that I may worthily proclaim your holy gospel. Through Christ our Lord, amen.”

“Lord,” Anika and Lord John replied together, “grant us your blessing.”

“The Lord be in your heart and on your lips that you may worthily and fittingly proclaim his holy gospel,” Hus finished. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit—”

A rapid tapping at the door interrupted him. Anika turned toward the doorway, startled by the sound, but Hus continued. “Amen,” he said, his bowed head lingering over his folded hands.

Respecting the preacher's silence, Lord John rose from his knees and opened the door. The widow Fida stood there, her eyes bright with worry. “I'm sorry, my lord, but there are men at the door. A knight, with his sword drawn, and the burgomaster of the city, with two bishops. They say they have come to see Master Hus.”

Lord John turned to Hus with a blank expression, but Anika could see the arteries throbbing in his neck. When the preacher lifted his head from prayer, a weight of sadness rested upon his thin face.

“I'm afraid the trouble begins now,” Lord John said.

Hus managed a smile. “We have a safe conduct, John. I don't know what this is about, but I am sure it is nothing of import.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when a knight shouldered the poor widow aside. Lord John's face darkened in anger, and for a moment Anika nearly forgot what she was. She leaped from her knees, ready to retreat to a corner, but as her hand went to her throat she felt the coldness of woven mail beneath her fingers.

She was a knight. She wore a sword, and she had sworn to use it in defense of righteousness and truth. And if ever two men were righteous and true, Lord John and Jan Hus were.

She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, but before she could draw it out, the strange knight and the city's burgomaster pushed their way into the room. Behind them, clad in stately black robes, came two bishops, neither one of whom she recognized.

Hus was the first to recover his tongue. “Grace and peace to
you,” he said, not moving from the place where he had just concluded mass. “How may I be of service?”

“We mean you no harm,” one of the bishops said, offering a tentative smile of goodwill. “We seek only to avoid a public scene. The cardinals wish to discuss an important matter with you.”

“Jan—don't listen to them,” Lord John said, staring at the knight's drawn sword in a horrified expression of disapproval. “Do they send a sword if they mean you no harm?”

“Perhaps the sword is for my protection,” Hus answered calmly, lifting his chin slightly as he stared into the eyes of his fellow priests. “If I cannot trust a brother in Christ, then the entire world is untrustworthy. I am willing to obey this summons.” He looked pointedly now at the red-faced knight. “Put your sword away, Sir Knight, lest you hurt someone. My friend Sir Kafka is no less skilled with a sword than you, but I would hate to see such a young knight put to the test so soon.”

Anika stiffened, momentarily abashed. Even in the face of his own arrest, Master Hus was thinking of her. In his words she heard a warning that she should not fight for his sake.

Hus looked at her then, his eyes sparkling as though he was playing a game. How could he be so naive? He ought to know by now that his fellow churchmen could not be trusted. Jan Hus was a lovable fool; for all his wisdom, he had neglected to obtain a healthy portion of common sense.

“If you insist upon going, I am going with you,” Lord John answered grimly. He looked up at Anika. “You, Sir Kafka, will remain here until you are at liberty to leave. Then you will return to our camp and tell them all that has happened.”

She heard his unspoken message as well:
Find out what happened to our men outside, and send them to help.

Without resistance, Jan Hus followed the two bishops from the small room, the knight dogging his footsteps, Anika and Lord John trailing behind. In the hallway, the beneficent widow fell to her knees and clasped Hus's hand, weeping wordlessly.

See,
Anika told Hus with her eyes.
Even this simple woman knows
the truth. These men cannot be trusted, and you are but a noble fool if you place faith in them.

Hus murmured a blessing over the woman's white head, then proceeded from the hall. As the party moved down the steps of Fida's house, Anika overheard one of the bishops say, “Now you will no longer officiate or say mass.”

Outside, the street boiled with soldiers—not the knights of Chlum, but the red-surcoated guards of the episcopal palace. Hus was immediately mounted upon a poor, swaybacked horse and placed between two guards. Lord John planted himself firmly beside Jan Hus, determined to follow on foot.