The Silver Sword (25 page)

“Yes, in truth,” Zelenka went on, keeping her voice light as she began to walk again. “I shall be your mistress, and I would like to have the love of all the knights who serve my lord. So if you intend to remain and take vows of loyalty to Lord John, I will want your loyalty as well.”

She stopped on the path and turned, staring directly into the false squire's eyes. “I want to know,” she went on, her eyes blazing into the other girl's, “that I can count on you. All who love Lord John must love me as well. And if you cannot vow fealty to both the master and mistress, perhaps you should reconsider your decision to remain here.”

The girl's lids slipped down over her eyes, and she turned, her hands twisting at her waist. “Of course you have my loyalty.” She spoke slowly in her falsely deep voice, as if she were carefully rehearsing each word before pronouncing it. “As God is my witness, if the master marries, I will serve whomever he takes as his wife. You need not fear disloyalty from me.”

“Very well,” Zelenka answered. “Thank you for your company, Squire Kafka. I am sure we shall talk again.” She inclined her head in a deep bow as the pretender hurried away, then murmured, “Either Lord John or I will talk to you again very soon.”

H
itherto I have preached in towns and marketplaces,” Jan Hus announced as the guests gathered at John's small supper table that night. “Now I shall preach behind hedges, in villages, castles, fields, and woods, wherever there is opportunity. There is a little lime tree near Kozi which will make a delightful pulpit.”

With a nod of his head, John motioned the preacher to the chair beside him. “We shall begin as soon as we are certain of your safety.” He gave his enthusiastic guest a reassuring smile. “But you cannot go venturing off into the woods until we are certain the Romanists have not set traps.”

“I do not fear what man may do to me,” Hus answered, the light of conviction filling his brown eyes. “Our Lord preached along the waysides and hillsides of Palestine, and I shall do the same along the Pyrenees Mountains.”

John was about to reply when a movement at the door caught his eye.

“Master.” A guard bowed deeply. “There is a messenger outside who bears a letter from Jerome of Prague. He says the message carries important news for both you and Master Hus.”

John looked at his supper companions. Only Hus, Vasek, and Novak were present at the table, and he was confident all three could be trusted. He nodded to the guard. “By all means, bring him in.” He gestured to Kafka, who stood along the wall with Lev and Svec, waiting to be put to service. “Kafka, you read so well. Since the news
concerns two of us, would you read so we may hear it at the same time?”

The sensitive squire stepped forward with embarrassed dignity, then bowed and hurried to receive the letter. Once he had taken it from the guard and broken the seal, he moved to stand under one of the rush lamps on the wall. In a hushed, muffled voice, the boy began.

“To Lord John, Earl of Chlum, and Master Jan Hus, greetings,” he read in his strangely soft voice. “Grace and peace be with you all on this most sorrowful of occasions. It grieves my heart to tell you that during services yesterday, one of the devil's own attended our service and rushed the pulpit before I had finished speaking. The Lord graciously preserved my life; however, for our mutual friend, Sir Petrov of Prague—”

Kafka stopped, his eyes darting over the page, his face pale in the glow of the rush light.

“Continue,” John urged. “Why do you stop?” He shot the squire a penetrating look, then remembered. Kafka had been close to Petrov; grief and shock had undoubtedly caused the words to wedge in the young man's throat.

“Sir Petrov of Prague, lately a bookseller—” the boy's voice dropped to a suffocated whisper—“stood forward and bore in his body the blade intended for me. It was by the grace of God that Sir Petrov felled the murderous priest before dying upon the altar himself.”

“Terrible news,” John murmured, stealing a quick glance at his startled dinner guests. Jan Hus said nothing but stared at the squire, a look of stunned surprise on his face. John turned back to Kafka. “Is there anything more, squire?”

Clearly upset, the boy lifted the parchment with trembling hands. “It is not my intent to alarm either of you, my friends,” he read, his voice fragile and shaking, “but you should know that our enemies have grown in boldness and insolence. Last night, in retribution, a group of cowards burned the bookseller's shop where the knight had kept a collection of Bibles and books for rental.”

Though tears gathered in the corners of Kafka's eyes and slowly spilled from his long lashes, he kept reading. “Included, I regret, were several of your own books, Master Hus. The perpetrators of this act cried ‘Death to the Hussites' as they laid on their torches.”

The squire paused again, swallowing thickly. John let the silence stretch, knowing the boy would continue when he was able.

“I am writing not only to tell you about the demise of our godly friend but to warn you, Master Hus and Lord John, that our enemies are not satisfied with your departure from Prague. Take care, my friends. Be cautious. And remain at peace, knowing as I do that God will preserve you to accomplish his will.”

Kafka stared at the message for a moment more, then dropped his arms to his side. “It is signed, ‘Jerome,'” he said flatly. His expression was pained; the old knight's death must have wounded him deeply.

John turned his eyes away, strangely moved by the boy's sorrow. He himself had tasted heartbreak and not so many years ago … but all men had to face grief at one time or another. Novak should tell his charge that a man will never know his own strength until he has grappled with adversity.

“I am sorry to hear this,” Novak said, breaking the silence. “But my knights are well trained, Master Hus. Do not fear; we will not let you come to harm.”

“Perhaps tomorrow's journey should be postponed,” Vasek interjected. “Why teach the holy truths of God under a cloud? People may flock to hear an outcast bold enough to defy the edict of excommunication, but do you want to lure them with the bait of sensationalism? Should they not be drawn instead by the sweet urgings of the Holy Spirit? Though I know you regret this most foul murder, notoriety will surely draw the crowds.”

John frowned at his chaplain. “Notoriety may draw them, but it will not convict them,” he said flatly. “If they heed the message of Jan Hus, it is because the power of God lies behind his teachings. And he is no outcast; his blameless life shames his persecutors. The fact that they cannot prove his wrongdoing gives lie to the interdict and
their decree of excommunication. How can they justify their persecution of a man who has done no wrong? He is blameless in his teaching and willing to be corrected if fault can be found—”

“Friends!” Hus interrupted by holding up his hands. “I appreciate your spirited defense of me, John, but I am unworthy of it. I am as much a sinner as the vilest man on earth, but the grace of God has brought me to salvation. And it is this salvation that I must preach to those who are captive.” An almost imperceptible expression of pleading shone from his eyes. “I would like to begin on the morrow.”

“In a few days.” John transferred his gaze to Novak. “When we know the roads are safe. I have men going out now, searching to be sure there are no strangers waiting at the inns in the area. And we will send a full complement of knights, to be certain there are no knaves waiting with mischievous daggers.”

“In a few days, then,” Hus agreed, his eyes gentle. “Whatever you say, my friend.”

Anika slipped out of the lord's chamber and flattened herself against the stone of the hallway. The tears that filled her eyes now were not like those that had blinded her as she tried to read Jerome's letter. Those tears for Petrov were hot; they burned. These were silent and steady, and all they did was remind her that her only link with the past, with her
life,
had been obliterated—by a priest. One of Hus's enemies, one of those corrupt, misguided clerics who cared more for power and position than the truth of the Scriptures.

She needed to be alone with her thoughts. With a choking cry she tore herself away from the solidity of the stone wall and hurried into the stairwell, leaping over the slanting steps until she reached the silent upstairs chapel. A shaft of light from the fading sun angled down from one of the windows, trapping slow convections of dust in the space above the altar.

Anika stared at the dust, her memory flitting back to a night when fine black ashes, backlit by a raging fire, had fluttered down upon her face. The voice of the innkeeper's wife, thick and clotted, echoed in some distant compartment of her mind:
“The Roman
church and her meddling priests will be the death of us all. Don't you ever forget it, you hear?”

The old woman was right. The corruption of certain leaders in Rome had reached out to take yet another innocent life. Petrov had no business dying in church, in a sanctuary. She moved toward the altar. What on earth had possessed him? Why had he stepped forward? His time of glory had passed; Petrov should have been content to spend the rest of his days renting books and telling stories of chivalry and the crusades.

But even as she raised her questions, she realized the answers. Petrov was a sworn knight, faithful and true. No power in the world could have stopped him from using his sword in the defense of a holy man of God.

She had been living with knights for nearly five months; she had come to understand the holy pride and passion fueling their endeavors. Petrov's light had gone out of the world, but he had shared his light with her, even placing her as a squire, a knight-in-training.

She caught her breath as an idea formed in her mind. Why couldn't she continue at Chlum and actually become a knight? Nothing remained for her in Prague, no bookshop, no friends, no family. She felt more at home in the garrison at Chlum than she would in any other place. With the stern-faced Novak standing guard as her mentor, no one would dare harass her. And under Novak's tutelage she just might master the skills required of a knight. If God would give her strength, she could meet any challenge, and she would do anything to protect Jan Hus and avenge Petrov.

Anika fell to her knees at the front of the chapel and rested her forehead against the altar. “Father God, forgive me for being distracted,” she whispered, anger and alarm rippling along her spine as she clutched the edge of the altar table. “I thought more about my master and my safety than in finding vengeance for those I love. Now Sir Petrov is a knight no more, so I shall take his place. And he shall be avenged. My father shall be avenged. My mother shall be avenged. And I will do all I can to defend Master Hus.”

She fumbled at her waist for a moment, then unsheathed Petrov's silver sword. Holding the hilt, she lifted the point of the blade toward heaven. “As You, God, are my Lord and King, I swear I shall do everything in my power to grow strong enough to strike a blow against the evil churchmen who have spawned this murderous corruption. I take a holy oath before you, Lord. Give me strength. Give me skill. Give me courage.”

Silence sifted down like a snowfall, but Anika knew God had heard her vow.