The Silver Sword (12 page)

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,” she 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.

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.

What pitiful possessions.
With a moan of distress, she turned away from the sight of so many bits and pieces of her old life. If she married, all these things would have to suffice for a dowry; she had nothing else. And if she were taken by Lord Laco, he would undoubtedly seize the bookshop, filling his role as her “guardian.”

A suffocating sensation tightened her throat. She would not allow his vile hands to touch a single precious parchment her father
had inscribed. No matter where she went, she would be sure to protect her father's beloved books.

Of all her belongings, the books were the most valuable, but how could she take them with her? She supposed she could leave them with a merchant for rental, but few merchants took a woman seriously, and once the books left her hands they would probably be lost to her forever. She had no time to arrange a private sale, no time to call for the books currently rented to students, no time to organize her father's house or his affairs.

What a sudden thing death was! In one moment she and her father had been no more concerned for their earthly possessions than for what they might eat for lunch; scarcely four days later she was assessing her future in light of the value of a few books, tools, and scribbled parchments. The house would be snatched up by someone else with money enough to pay the rent, and whatever Anika couldn't carry with her would be confiscated or stolen while the landlord wasn't looking.

Outside the window, bolts of lightning chased each other across the sky, white and jagged like running skeletons. The subsequent blast of thunder rattled the shutters and Anika's bones. She pressed her hand over her face in a convulsion of sorrow, her throat aching with regret.

If only she hadn't run when the knight attacked. Her father died defending her, a helpless girl.

If only she hadn't been born female.

If only she were a man.

Things would be different.