The Silver Sword (44 page)

Before the arresting party moved away, Lord John caught Anika's gaze and mouthed a silent command:
Do what you must. Do what you can.

Inside the house, the widow sat down, radiating bleakness.

“Widow Fida,” Anika whispered, moving swiftly toward her, “do you know a boy who will serve as a messenger?”

“I have a nephew,” the woman answered, her red-rimmed eyes lifting to meet Anika's. “He is young and able.”

“Good.” Anika reached out and hauled her from the chair. “I'm going to go into the preacher's room and write a letter. You are going to fetch your nephew.”

Anika was pleasantly surprised when the woman did not hesitate but moved through the doorway as quickly and quietly as a ferret. Why shouldn't the woman obey? She was, after all, taking orders from a knight.

Anika moved to Hus's room and scrawled a hasty explanation of the day's event upon a parchment, then rolled it up and sealed it with wax. There was no need for a signature. Novak would recognize the handwriting and would waste no time marshaling Lord John's forces.

Anika had scarcely finished sealing the parchment when the widow returned, her face flushed and a line of perspiration above her brow. “He's coming,” she panted, lifting her skirts as she pulled herself up the stairs. “He'll be here in a moment.”

Anika nodded, then placed the letter on a table in Fida's hall. “Ask him to take the letter straightway to the knights of Chlum,” she said. “He'll find them encamped outside the northern wall of the city. Tell him to ask for Novak, captain of the Lord's guard, and to put this letter directly into Novak's hand.”

The widow nodded, her eager eyes fastened to the parchment.

Anika straightened and took a breath. “After you send your nephew, Widow Fida, you must help me. And you can tell no one what we are about to do, not even the closest soul to you on earth. It is for the good of the preacher, do you understand?”

Speechless with surprise, Fida nodded again.

“We will need a dress, a fine lady's gown, and a veil,” Anika said, mentally clicking off the items she had thought she might never put on again. “Undergarments, if you have them. And a hooded cloak, if you can spare one.”

“For whom, Sir Knight?” the widow squeaked, her eyes large and liquid.

Anika felt a wry smile cross her face. “For me.”

F
ortunately for Anika, the Widow Fida was a charitable and frugal soul whose wardrobe chests bulged with garments she had worn in earlier, slimmer days. Anika found an elegant gold gown with long, trailing sleeves and an upturned collar with a cloak to match. While the widow stared in wordless amazement, her hand at her throat, Anika unbuckled her armor and shed her hauberk and shirt, standing before the widow in a thin chemise, pale and obviously female.

The poor widow clapped her hand over her mouth, barely able to control her gasp of surprise, but a pounding at the door interrupted the proceedings.

“That might be your nephew,” Anika pointed out, lifting the gown and robe into her arms. “See to him and give him the note, while I dress in this.”

Flustered and embarrassed, the widow left the room, leaving Anika to fumble once again with collars, fur trims, and high waistlines. Perhaps, she mused as she prodded the collar to stand up around her tanned neck, if this were not so serious an occasion she might have enjoyed putting on a woman's kirtle again. But she had no time for dwelling on those things now.

The widow returned, her lips pressed together, her eyes like two bright torches.

“Your nephew?” Anika asked, bending down to fumble through the trunk for a suitable pair of slippers.

“Yes.” The widow clasped her hands at her waist. “Sir Knight—but you're not a knight, are you? Can you tell me what is going on? Can it be true that Jan Hus is a heretic? Surely he would not have condoned your unnatural masquerade—”

“Jan Hus has nothing to do with this,” Anika answered, standing. She pulled a pair of flat leather slippers from the trunk and placed them on her feet. They were too long; her heels would be blistered by the time she returned, but it couldn't be helped. “I was orphaned, and an evil nobleman sought to take advantage of me. As a woman, I had no means of escape. As a knight, I earned my freedom. Jan Hus is my friend. He neither condemns nor supports my knighthood. But I will do all I can to support him.”

Anika turned and lifted her arms, inviting Fida's inspection. The widow sank onto a bench against the wall and crossed her arms, staring at Anika as if she had suddenly sprouted horns. “You make a very pretty woman,” she said, her round face melting into a tentative smile. “But you will have to do something about your hair. No woman goes about with her hair shorn like that.”

“Have you a veil?”

“I have a hat.” She rose from her bench and pulled a rolled hat from a box under her bed, then reverently offered it to Anika. “The black veil on the back will cover any wisps that peek out,” she said, helping Anika push her stubborn locks under the brim. When the veil was adjusted, the widow stepped back and pinned Anika with a long, silent scrutiny.

“Well?” Anika asked, impatient to be on her way.

The widow nodded. “You are a very pretty woman, my dear. I don't know what you intend to do, but you are very well dressed for whatever part you must play.”

“I intend to go to the hearing,” Anika said, pulling the long black cloak around her shoulders. She tied the strings at her neck, then carefully pulled the wide hood up over the cumbersome hat.

She paused at the doorway. “Hide my armor; I will come for it
later. And if any ask you what lady left your house after noon today, tell them Lady Anika of Prague paid you a visit.”

Anika found her way much easier than she had imagined. In such an august gathering of men—bishops, scholars, priests, cardinals, prelates—a woman, especially a pretty one, elicited such surprise that no one thought to detain or question her. She marched boldly up the wide steps of the episcopal palace, then calmly asked a guard where the hearing for Jan Hus was taking place. The guard, probably as stunned by her effrontery as by her presence, merely pointed down a long corridor.

Anika blended as well as she could into the sea of dark robes until she spied a pair of open doors. A long table had been set up inside, and she could see Lord John and Jan Hus standing before the table.

Her heart pounding, she eased into the room and took a low seat against the wall, willing herself to be as inconspicuous as possible. But a cold knot formed in her stomach when she recognized the voice and face of the man presently addressing her master and her friend.

“Many complaints against you have been forwarded to us from Bohemia,” Cardinal D'Ailly was saying, his eyes burning into Hus.

“I have come freely to the council and freely to this room,” Master Hus answered, standing straight and tall. “And if I am convicted of error, I will gladly accept instruction.”

“It is well spoken,” another cardinal answered.

Anika watched with acute and loving anxiety. Deliberately or not, the cardinal had misunderstood Hus's words. Master Hus wished to be convinced by reason and the Scriptures, but the council would want him to bow blindly to their authority.

“What they call instruction I would not wish on my worst enemy,” Anika murmured, clenching her hands as a pair of guards took hold of Hus and Lord John and led them out through a far door. Jagged and painful thoughts moved restlessly through her brain as she rose from her seat, trying to follow them with her eyes.

In spite of the emperor's pledge and the pope's promise, Hus was a prisoner. Anika's base suspicions had proved true, while Hus's optimistic hopes had proved false.

A long, brittle silence filled the room as the two prisoners exited, then the cardinals at the table leaned back, crossed their arms, and cast sly grins at each other.

“Ha!” D'Ailly cried, rising to his feet. He clapped his hands in simple delight, mindless of the observers in the room. “Now we have him, and he will not escape us till he has paid the uttermost farthing.”

While Anika coiled into the shadows and watched in horror, the overconfident cardinals rose to their feet and began to dance about the room in mindless merriment. One priest, John Reinstein, stood and shouted his objections, but the din of celebration overwhelmed his voice.

Late in the afternoon, the council sent word that Lord John of Chlum, having done no wrong, might depart to his camp. Still in her woman's dress, Anika spied a pair of guards escorting her master to the street. She rushed forward, mindful that she was playing a role before a crowd rife with spies and informers.

“Lord John!” she cried, hurrying to his side.

Startled by the sound of her voice, he glanced up. Anika lightly placed her hands upon his arms and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss, an affectionate salute that would not be misinterpreted.

“Kafka?” he whispered when her lips brushed his cheek.

“Lady Anika of Prague,” she answered, pulling away so he could read the message in her eyes. “I have crept today where no knight of Chlum could go, my lord, and I have much to tell you. But stay with me now, and let me act the part of a nobleman's daughter.”

He nodded in a barely perceptible movement, then took her hand and gallantly linked it through his arm. “Walk with me to the widow's house,” she whispered, modestly lowering her eyes before the prying gaze of a guard who had watched her greet her master. “And I shall unfold the tale to you there.”