The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “But what?”

  Petrov hung his head, and his lips went as pale as his cheeks. His voice was low and controlled, but Anika could hear the undertone of desolation. “I was not fit to kill. There was no glory in it, so my opponent let me live.”

  His misery was so overwhelming, so palpable, it was like another body in the room—a laboring, grieving presence. Anika sank to a low stool in the small and sparely furnished chamber. Why was she hurting the friend her father loved best? Petrov was staggering under a load of shame she could only begin to comprehend.

  “Your father,” he went on, his voice fainter than air, “bade me live to look after you. And I am afraid I will not even be able to do that, for I cannot defend you against Lord Laco’s knights. They will come looking for you on the morrow, for Laco is a determined man.”

  “He is a brute.” She spat the words, choking on her anger. “He deserves to die the death he decreed for my father. And that son with him. And that loathsome Cardinal D’Ailly.”

  Petrov lifted his head, surprise written on his features. “Anika, you should not say such things. Perhaps you can be forgiven for saying them to me, but if you repeat those words and the report reaches Laco’s ears, you will be in worse straits than now.” His brows drew together in an agonized expression. “I will take you tomorrow to Jan Hus. You can say your farewells to your father, and we will tell Master Hus all that happened today. Maybe he can find employment for you with a family in the city.”

  “No.” She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and boldly met his gaze. “The evil ones must pay for what they have done, Sir Petrov. And I intend to see that they do.” She looked away and studied the single candle burning on Petrov’s table. “I had a dream tonight—a familiar dream, for it has visited my sleep many times. In my dream I revisited the place where my mother died, and Cardinal D’Ailly was there.”

  “You cannot believe what you see in dreams,” Petrov countered, shaking his head. “The devil plants false ideas and feelings while we sleep.”

  “If it was not D’Ailly, it was a cardinal like him; they are much the same.”

  Petrov blinked at her in bewilderment, then loosely crossed his arms. “The cardinals are not all evil, little one. There are some who love God more than power or the pleasures of this world. Yet they wear the robes of cardinals, too.”

  “Still—” She drew a long, quivering breath, barely mastering the passion that shook her. “I will not suffer them. No more. Not any longer.”

  “And what will you do?” he asked, managing a half-laugh. “We all suffer them, little bird. There are some like Master Hus who dare to try to change things, but he is working from within the church. We do not know enough to challenge the churchmen. We are uneducated—”

  “I am not uneducated,” she interrupted, cutting him off with a glance. “And I do not know what I will do. But we will sleep on our problem, and if God is good, perhaps he will provide an answer.”

  Petrov’s answer, when morning came, was simple and direct. “We should work within the civil law as Master Hus works within the church,” he told Anika. And though she had her doubts about the wisdom of his plan, she washed her tears from her face, then took Petrov’s arm and went to the town hall to meet with the council of magistrates. In the same council chamber where Anika had heard the magistrates falsely promise a fair trial for the three students, she and Petrov reported the events that led up to Ernan O’Connor’s death.

  The chief magistrate, a haughty man with craggy features, stared at Anika from across the table. “You are aware, of course, that Lord Laco and his son will have to be summoned to give their account of the incident,” he said, his mouth pulling into a sour grin. “If their stories do not mesh with yours, Cardinal D’Ailly himself might have to be consulted. And we have heard on good authority that the cardinal is en route to Rome.”

  “Consult with whomever you have to,” Petrov answered gruffly. “Anika and I do not fear the truth. Master Hus will account for our characters. The girl, her father, and I have had many dealings with him.”

  At the mention of Hus’s name, Anika saw the chief magistrate’s eyebrows slant together in a frown. It was a reasonable idea, Sir Petrov, she thought, silently following the knight from the council chamber. But the chief magistrate’s hatred for Jan Hus is a living thing, and it will consume us if we are not careful.

  Before the day ended they received a summons to appear before the council the next morning. Anika felt her skin crawl with revulsion when she walked through the chamber doorway on Tuesday morning and saw Lord Laco, his son, and the two knights who had been in attendance on the day of her father’s murder. One of the knights wore a thick bandage around his forearm, and bluish green bruises mottled the other’s face.

  “Sir Petrov, did you cause so much damage?” Anika whispered, staring at the other knight’s puffy face.

  “I only wish I had,” Petrov answered, a muscle quivering in his jaw. “The brute has been in a yard fight, or else he has deliberately punished himself to elicit mercy from those who will judge us.”

  With a thickly beating heart Anika wound her way through the crowd of observers. Master Hus had volunteered to face the magistrates with Anika and Petrov, but all three of them knew his presence might only muddy the waters. And so Anika and Petrov stood alone before the magistrates and waited to hear the result of the council’s investigation of their complaint.

  The head magistrate glanced up at Anika and Petrov, then nodded grimly toward the bench where Lord Laco and his men sat. “We have spoken to this nobleman, his son, and his knights,” the chief magistrate said, eyeing Anika with a taut and derisive expression. “And their stories, told separately, agree in form and detail. According to them, their carriage was progressing through the streets when a shout from your father stopped the vehicle. When his lordship looked out and apologized for splashing mud on …”—he glanced down at his notes for a moment—“Ernan O’Connor, the copyist hurled curses and insults at Lord Laco. In an effort to further demonstrate his goodwill, the noble lord then offered employment to the daughter.” The magistrate looked up and studied Anika for a moment. “But this offer was proudly and scornfully refused. The lord and his party then departed, their business done, but the copyist and his companion savagely attacked two of the lord’s knights. A fight ensued, and the knights of Lidice defended themselves and their master’s honor.”

  The magistrate nodded toward the wounded knights with a taut jerk of his head. “You see the injuries before you. In the attack, Ernan O’Connor was struck and killed, and the knight called Petrov fled away through the city streets, as did the girl.”

  The magistrate and Lord Laco exchanged a subtle look of amusement. “Have I forgotten any detail, my lord?” the magistrate asked.

  “No,” Laco answered in a tense, clipped voice that forbade any argument. “That is the entire truth.”

  The magistrate nodded. “Then the council finds you, Sir Petrov, guilty of criminal mischief and fined a week’s wages.” The magistrate’s voice was stern with no vestige of sympathy. “And you, Anika of Prague, since you lack parents and a fit guardian, are charged with finding gainful employment so you will not join the other beggars in the street. If you cannot find a suitable place by sunset one week from today, you must accept employment from Lord Laco, if that nobleman is still of a mind to offer it.”

  Anika’s gaze met Lord Laco’s for the first time. “I am still willing,” he said, his granite eyes locked on her. “As long as she pleases my son.” The smile in his eyes contained a sensuous flame. “As a chambermaid, of course.”

  The magistrate wagged his head. “We are agreed, then. If you find no other employer willing to take you, you will report to the steward of the lord’s estate at Lidice seven days hence, ready to begin service to your new master.”

  Anika muffled her tears as a flash of wild grief ripped through her. Turning to hide from her enemies, she buried her burning face against Petrov’s shoulder as the
knight led her from the room. He shielded her as best he could, but as they passed through the vestibule, where a crowd of citizens stood silent and still, a tall man with dark hair and even darker eyes stopped them by slipping his hand under Anika’s chin.

  “I overheard your case,” he said, a strange, faintly eager look flashing in his eye as he turned from Anika to Petrov. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Anika’s eyes flooded with tears at this unexpected show of compassion. To her relief, Petrov answered for her. “Is there work for her in your house, my lord?”

  “I do not know,” the man answered, his voice rich with warmth and concern. “But my steward may be able to find something if you bring her to us.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Petrov answered. He nodded a farewell, then led Anika through the curious onlookers.

  “Who was that man?” she asked when she finally found her voice.

  “A noble and godly man, Lord John of Chlum,” Petrov answered, his own voice thick and unsteady. “The son of my old master.”

  Jan Hus buried Ernan O’Connor in a subdued ceremony at noon the day following the council’s ruling. Anika herself had asked for the quiet funeral. It seemed the only decent thing she could do for her father, the only good opportunity that remained in her life. In six days, unless God worked a miracle, she would be on the road to Lidice, ready to offer herself in the hellish service of Lord Laco.

  Standing beside her father’s open grave, she took a deep breath and tried to swallow the lump that lingered in her throat. Her mother, her father, even God had apparently deserted her. Justice had vanished from Bohemia, a kingdom that once prided itself on its love for freedom and truth.

  The afternoon seemed to sleep under a heavy, dove-colored sky. Weariness enveloped her as she tried to concentrate on the words of the funeral service, but too many scattered thoughts assailed her brain. She had found no employment in Prague. Lord Laco must have published the news that he wanted her at Lidice, for jobs that should have flourished like weeds for a strong and willing girl had vanished overnight. No one wanted to hire the daughter of a murdered man, especially when a powerful nobleman expressed a keen desire that she fail in her quest for work. At the end of the week she would have to submit to the council’s decree and travel to Lidice—what else could she do?

  “Dominus vobiscum,” Master Hus concluded, his hands gently cradling his prayer book. “The Lord be with you.”

  “Et cum spiritui tui.” Anika gave the response in a dull, flat voice. “And with your spirit.”

  No great crowd had appeared to mourn the copyist, only Petrov, Anika, and Master Hus, who now knew the entire story of the ridiculous mock trial. At the conclusion of the service, Petrov remained behind to help the gravediggers complete their work while Master Hus took Anika’s arm and gently led her away from the open grave.

  “I am concerned, Daughter, about your health and safety,” he said, giving her a careful smile. “What will you do when the appointed day arrives? You cannot submit and go to Lidice, but I could argue your case before the king.”

  Anika stubbornly shook her head. The magistrates were the king’s men, and ever since the martyrdom of the three students she had trusted neither the king nor his subordinates. She and Petrov had presented their case, they had appealed for justice, and those who represented authority had turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the truth.

  “Thank you, Master Hus, but no.” She covered his hand with her own and breathed an exasperated sigh. “My father is gone, and nothing can bring him back. As you were silent after the students’ execution, so I will be silent in the face of my father’s murder. If God is just, he will work vengeance for me. Do not the Scriptures say that God will avenge?”

  “Anika, I did not remain silent in hope that God would punish the evildoers.” Hus’s brown eyes darkened with emotion. “The Scriptures are quite clear—we are not to pray for our enemies’ destruction. We are to bless them that spitefully use us, to pray for them—”

  “Pray for murderers?” She swallowed hard, trying not to reveal her anger. “Master Hus, can you honestly tell me you did not beg God to punish the guilty when those three men were beheaded? You went into seclusion—what were you doing in your house, praying that God would bless traitors?”

  The preacher’s gentle smile vanished, wiped away by astonishment. “Anika,” he said slowly, as if carefully choosing his words, “forgive me for again underestimating you. I forget that you are an unusual girl.”

  “I’m not a girl. I’m sixteen, well beyond the age of marriage.”

  “Yea, that you are.” His expression softened into one of fond reminiscence. “I tend to think of you as Ernan’s wee girl, though you have been copying books as well as he for six or seven years. But you cannot consider yourself an independent woman, Anika. Such an idea is a contradiction in terms. You are alone now, and you will need a benefactor. If you will not let me take your case before the king, let me find a suitable guardian until this trouble with Lord Laco has passed. If we can find a protector for you, I am certain we can convince the council you do not need to work for Lord Laco. Maybe I can find a woman who needs a seamstress or a noble family who requires a tutor for their daughters.”

  “Thank you, Master Hus, but those things don’t interest me,” she answered in a rush of words. “I am not skilled with a needle, and I have no interest in caring for children.”

  The preacher abruptly stopped and turned to face her, still holding her hand. A mischievous look came into his eyes. “Of course! You ought to marry! Would you be happy as a wife? I believe your father had begun to make inquiries for a suitable husband, and it is time you thought of beginning a family of your own.”

  Anika listened despite a vague sense of unreality. “I have no dowry and will not be married to some peasant I don’t even know. No, Master Hus, I will not marry. Not now.”

  The preacher’s smile faded. “Forgive me. You are right; it is too soon. A convent then. You could get to a nunnery until your heart has time to heal from this grief. Later, if the idea pleases you, you could become a tutor or a bride—”

  “No nunnery.” She spoke with quiet but desperate firmness and pulled her hand away. She would never bury herself within the bowels of a religious system she had come to despise. She had been exposed to truth as she copied Hus’s sermons and the Holy Scriptures. How could he even suggest that she closet herself away in a place where women beat themselves in penance for sins and begged their way into heaven? She had embraced the truth and been set free; she could not forsake it now.

  “Anika.” Disconcerted or disappointed—Anika couldn’t tell which—Master Hus crossed his arms and pointedly looked back toward the graveyard. “You cannot refuse every idea I offer. You must choose one of them. Your father would want you to follow my counsel, and there are only so many paths an honorable young woman may follow.”

  Her brows lifted with annoyance. “Don’t worry, Master Hus, I am not likely to choose the things a dishonorable wench might do.”

  He stared at her, baffled, and Anika hastened to explain. “I don’t know what I will do when the time comes, but I will pray tonight and seek Petrov’s counsel. But I will not go to Lord Laco’s house, of that you may be certain.” She looked away, avoiding his eyes. “I may run away.”

  Hus opened his mouth, about to protest, but she silenced him with an uplifted glance. Swallowing the sob that rose in her throat, she looked up and gave him a smile. “You may be sure I will take what I have learned from you wherever I go. I will not do anything to disappoint my heavenly Father or my earthly father—who is also in heaven—nor will I give you cause to be ashamed of me. But I cannot be a tutor or a wife or a postulant, Master Hus. I am none of those things. My heart is too heavy to be a bride, too angry to be a postulant, too impatient to teach children.”

  Assailed by a tumult of confused thoughts and feelings, she fell silent, waiting for her emotions to subside. “Truth to tell, I don’t know what I am,” sh
e whispered, not willing to look up and face Hus’s gentle, loving look. “But I will survive. And you need not worry about me. I will remain with Sir Petrov until I know what I should do.”

  “This storm will not last forever.” Hus reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Will you send word to me if you need help of any kind? I cannot imagine you alone. I will not sleep if my friend’s daughter is wandering in the darkness—”

  “I could never be in darkness,” she answered, bringing her gaze up to study his beloved face. Next to her father and Petrov, this was the man she loved most in all the world. He had taught her, molded her, shown her the light… largely without even knowing it. “I promise I will be careful.”

  “Then go with God.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and let his hand fall back to his side. “And know that whatever path you choose, I will pray for your success.”

  “Thank you, Master Hus.” Before he could retreat, she stepped forward, embraced him lightly, then withdrew through the gathering night.

  Six

  A rainstorm hovered over Prague that summer afternoon. The skies themselves seemed to open and weep with Anika as she mourned her father’s death and considered the injustice of life. She had grown up with a father who loved the beauty of books, a knight who loved chivalry and honor, and a preacher who loved righteousness, yet none of those ideals brought her comfort now.

  What good were books when her eyes were too full to read? Where was chivalry when those with power abused the innocent? And what kind of righteousness urged common folk to turn the other cheek while God’s representatives corrupted the kingdom?

  Anika sat at the tiny window in the front of her father’s shop, having dared at last to enter and take stock of what had been her old life. She now possessed parchments, books, and chests, a table, a lantern, five candlesticks, two woolen cloaks, two dresses, six sleeves, and two chemises—one of silk, a birthday gift from her father. In addition, she owned an assortment of tools from their work: several razors, two pumice stones, two awls, two narrow parchment rulers, and a single boar’s tooth for polishing the final page.