The Silver Sword (50 page)

John was not surprised when Anika found him again the next morning. Her delicate features were composed, but her face was pale and her eyes wide, as though she had passed a sleepless night.

John had not slept, either. Another midnight messenger had brought a letter from Master Hus, the text of which lay as fresh in John's mind as if he had just read it:

“Well met, Lord John,” Anika murmured, slipping her arm through his in a companionable manner. He knew she did it merely to convince any spy that they were equals and old acquaintances, but she did not know her touch stoked a steadily growing fire. He had been unable to think of any other lady since realizing that his squire was more woman than any of the females he knew. Her commitment and passion for truth inspired his heart in a way no other woman could, but he could never let her know the depth of her effect on him. She was determined to follow her own path, and he was duty bound to let her.

“Will it end today?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“I cannot imagine that the trial will continue much longer,” he answered, averting his gaze from the silky expanse of her neck. What a weakling he was, allowing himself to be distracted by temptations of the flesh while his best friend endured a trial for his life.

The crowd surged into the room, and the players entered as they had the day before. An air of isolation clung to Hus's sword-thin figure when the guards brought him in. John felt his heart contract in pity for his friend.

Cardinal D'Ailly wasted no time before launching his attack. Thirty-nine articles of accusation, collected by Michael de Causis and Stephen Palec, were read out. Article by article, Hus's accusers tried to show that the reformer had written against priests, the selling of indulgences, the pope, official doctrine, and the organization and administration of the Church.

Lord John found one point particularly interesting. They charged Hus with saying that no outward sign and no work of man could grant a man membership in the Church of Christ, but only the electing grace of God. Hus freely admitted the charge and illustrated his point by saying that Judas Iscariot, who did not have this electing grace, was not part of the body of Christ even though he possessed every outward sign and demonstrated the same deeds as the other disciples.

“Bravo, Jan!” John muttered under his breath. “Good thinking!”

But the council simply ignored his logic. They moved on to other arguments, accusing Hus of celebrating mass while under the ban of excommunication and preaching against priests who committed scandal.

“And what of this?” D'Ailly shrilled, pointing to another document on the table before him. He held it aloft as if Hus could read it from across the room. “You have written that if the pope, a bishop, or a prelate is in the state of mortal sin, he is not a pope, bishop, or prelate.”

Hus's eyes, sharp and assessing, never left D'Ailly's face. “True enough. He who lives in a continual state of sin cannot rightly be a
king before God, as is shown by the book of Samuel, chapter fifteen, verse twenty-three. There God, through Samuel, said to Saul, ‘As you have rejected my word, I reject you from being king.'”

John caught his breath. Hus's response, though bold, was not the most prudent thing a man on trial for his life could say to men he had accused of sinning. D'Ailly flushed crimson, then smiled with satisfaction and looked toward the emperor's chair. When he found Sigismund's chair empty, the smile vanished.

“The emperor has stepped out into the hall,” Anika whispered, following John's gaze.

D'Ailly murmured something to his aides, and immediately two prelates left the chamber. The gathering waited in silent expectancy for three or four minutes, then the emperor returned, escorted by the two prelates. With one brow raised in inquiry, he resumed his seat.

“Your highness,” D'Ailly said, smiling in false humility, “we thought you would find this part of the trial particularly interesting.”

Hus, completely aware of all that went on around him, did not flinch from speaking his mind. “Yes,” he went on, meeting D'Ailly's steely gaze with his own, “unworthy rulers should rule no longer. Look at this council's own example—if John XXIII was truly and deservedly pope, why was he deposed?”

Again, Hus scored a point in his defense, and again D'Ailly ignored him. John Reinstein took advantage of a lapse in the proceedings to stand and give an impassioned defense of Hus's work in Prague and at Bethlehem Chapel, but D'Ailly quickly dismissed that priest's opinions and declared Reinstein out of order. A prelate read more articles; D'Ailly disregarded more of Hus's explanations. Over and over a few brave and sympathetic cardinals urged Hus to recant his teachings, and over and over the Bohemian preacher refused to relent.

John shifted in his seat, a tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shooting through him when D'Ailly turned and spoke to the council members. As the cardinals huddled in discussion, John cut a glance toward Anika. The customary expression of good humor had vanished from the curve of her mouth, the depths of her eyes. Her
delicate features had hardened in a stare of disapproval, and he felt a strange lurch of recognition in her expression. She had worn the same look when she told him she had sworn vengeance … upon Cardinal D'Ailly.

He pressed his hand to his chin and looked away. This day might hold tragedy for Anika as well as Jan Hus. The anger and bitterness in her young heart would only be fed by the fires of execution. If the council condemned Jan Hus, Anika might never learn to forgive.

Finally Cardinal D'Ailly announced the council's threefold decision: First, Hus should humbly declare that he had erred in all the articles cited against him; second, he should swear not to teach them in the future; and third, he should publicly recant these beliefs.

The cardinal, his lips curving in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile, then gave Jan Hus two options: He must humbly submit to the council, which, in consideration of Emperor Sigismund and his brother, King Wenceslas of Bohemia, would treat Hus with humanity and kindness. In punishment for the scandal he had caused, Hus would be imprisoned for life in a Swedish monastery, in a cell that was to be walled up, leaving only a small opening through which food and drink could be handed to the prisoner.

“Should you not wish to submit and instead choose to defend your views,” D'Ailly finished, “a hearing will not be refused you, but you will thus act at your greatest peril.”

“I do not wish to maintain any errors,” Hus replied, his expression grim as he faced the council, “but I cannot say that I held erroneous opinions which I never did hold. I beg that I might be allowed to express my views regarding the accusations made against me.”

His request was met with indignant sputtering and much whispering. A few of the more sympathetic council members called out that he should recant, and even the emperor leaned forward and urged Hus to disavow his heretical views, even if he had never held them.

“No, your Highness,” Hus answered, bowing his head in respect. “This I cannot do.”

Beside him, John heard Anika release a muffled sob.

The guards strode forward to claim their prisoner, and Jan Hus turned to walk through the crowd. Too shaken for words, John stood and reached out, grasping Hus's hand and holding it firmly until a guard reached forward and broke the fragile human contact.

John sank back into his seat, an inexplicable feeling of emptiness at the center of his soul. He was dimly aware that Anika's hand lay upon his arm, and he found comfort in her touch, knowing that she loved Hus as much as he did.

As Hus left the room, Sigismund stood to address the assembled prelates. “Hus should be burned alive,” he announced, not mincing his words and apparently not realizing that Bohemian nobles remained in the chamber. “Even if he recants, he should not be allowed to return to Bohemia. He is dangerous; he and his kind must be destroyed. Wherever bishops find others holding similar views, they should punish the offenders so this heresy might be destroyed root and branch. This council should make an end of Hus's secret friends and followers, especially his disciple Jerome, who is now in your custody.”

John let out a choked, desperate laugh as his mind reeled in shock and amazement. He and his friends had placed so much faith in this emperor, and yet Sigismund had just proclaimed that anyone who agreed with Hus should be punished—including, apparently, John of Chlum, Venceslas of Duba, even King Wenceslas and Queen Sophia, the noble lady and anonymous friend who had given so much of herself and her fortune to advance Hus's cause.

John lowered his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the torment of the past few weeks. Perhaps Anika was right. War might indeed loom in Bohemia's future. And right now, John had to admit, vengeance would certainly taste sweet.

Jan Hus spent the last month of his life engaged in two activities: answering members of the council who urged him to recant, and
writing letters to his friends and supporters. The sympathetic cardinals, fearing that Hus's martyrdom would worsen the already strained relations between the council and the kingdom of Bohemia, pestered the preacher every day.