The Silver Sword (4 page)

Without speaking, her father sank into his chair. When she was certain the archbishop and his cronies had gone, Anika retrieved the
wax tablet she had dropped into her lap. “He would never suspect that you would allow me to copy such important work, Father,” she murmured in a low voice, her eyes intent upon the doorway lest some spying monk suddenly materialize. “He would never believe I am copying Master Hus's sermons.”

“He fears more than the copying, me wee dove,” her father answered, spreading his ink-stained hands over the blank parchment on the board before him. “He fears the words that you copy. Certain men, armed with naught but a pen, have successfully stormed bulwarks others could not take with either sword or excommunication.” He sat very still, his eyes narrowing. “Truth to tell, I think Albik and those like him fear for the Church itself. Their positions, their power, perhaps even their immortal souls are at stake. For if Jan Hus is true, and everything I read in Holy Scripture tells me he is, then the priests and bishops will be wanting to be rid of him … and anyone who has aught to do with him.”

Fear clamped down on Anika's throat. She had heard rumors in the street, rumors of war that would surely come, a holy crusade to wipe out words like those she penned every day.

Her father's eyes met hers then, and he smiled, chasing her apprehensions away. “But now, Daughter, I'm perishing with the hunger of a dozen men. Why don't you see if there's any bread and cheese in the larder?”

“Yes, Father,” she whispered. As she slid out of her chair,
The Art of Courtly Love
slipped from beneath her apron and fell to the floor with a thud. With a surge of guilt Anika gathered it up, ashamed at having taken advantage of her father's trusting nature and more than a little embarrassed by the book itself.

But her father had turned his attention to marking the blank parchment before him. Anika held the book to her pounding heart, ready to explain that she was only dreaming, that she wasn't ready to fall in love and marry just yet, but her father seemed blissfully unaware of what had happened behind him.

Anika paused a moment, then found it impossible not to grin at
her father's broad back. He knew what she was reading; he knew everything that went on in their tiny house.

She slid
The Art of Courtly Love
back into the wooden chest from which she'd taken it, then climbed the stairs, humming as she went.

“Aye, Ernan, I'll expect you'll be showing the likes of me to the street, after such august company as you've had this morning.”

Anika felt a rush of pleasure as she recognized the voice. She hurried down the stairs with her tray and turned the corner in time to see Sir Petrov, her father's best friend and their closest neighbor, momentarily dwarf the doorway with his massive height. Though he had undoubtedly seen more than sixty summers, age had not diminished the man's size or the strength of his voice. His shoulders had shed the corded muscles he wore when he carried arms for Lord Honza of Chlum, but his presence was still imposing. Upon his forehead a swath of wavy white hair fell in a series of commas over skin toughened like a dry hide, and his eyes were startlingly dark against his tanned skin and white hair.

Petrov's thin mouth quirked with a cynical twist when he saw Anika. “Having your dinner, are you, and not offering an old friend a bite?”

“'Tis a bit strange, don't you think, Anika,” her father said, winking at her, “that Sir Petrov comes always at dinner?” He wiped his hands on a scrap of linen and stood to greet his friend. “Petrov, welcome, and partake of whatever you please. We have only bread and cheese today, nothing grand, but you are always welcome at our table—”

“I thank you, but I am not hungry.” Petrov shut the door behind him, stomped his boots on the floor, and shook his dusty mantle from his shoulders. Without ceremony, he hung his cloak on a peg near the door, then propped his lanky frame upon a stool and clasped his hands. “So tell me.” His seamed face tilted from Anika to Ernan. “What auspicious occasion brought the archbishop of Prague to your house this morning? Yours was the only shop blessed
with his presence, you know. The entire street has done nothing but buzz about it, and I'm only sorry I wasn't here to greet His Pompousness myself.”

“In truth, it was nothing,” the copyist answered, sitting again at his worktable while Anika spread a napkin before him. “A cordial visit at best, and a fruitless spy mission at worst. He asked how our business was and wondered why we had so many tablets to copy. I assured him that our proximity to the university and me daughter's skilled hand account for our busy shop.”

The older man lifted a bushy brow. “He said nothing of Master Hus?”

Humor sparkled in Ernan's eyes. “Ah, sure, he asked if we ever copied heresy, and I assured him that we did not. And I still stand before God as an honest man.”

Petrov tilted back his head and laughed. “You are, Ernan, until the archbishop brings you one of
his
sermons to publish. What will you do then? Refuse him, or declare yourself a hypocrite?”

“If the archbishop should ever bring me a tablet to be copied,” Ernan answered, the beginning of a smile twisting the corners of his mouth, “I fear I shall be too busy to serve him. Look around, you see that we have more than our share of work.”

Anika gave her father a generous portion of bread and cheese, then settled back at her worktable. Breaking off a bite of bread, she shot the old knight a shy smile. “Have you nothing to do today, Sir Petrov? No ladies to rescue? No dragons to slay?”

“Ah,” the knight said, loosening the button at his high collar, “I can tell you are your father's daughter, Anika. Wit alone would not put such a cynical tongue in your head.”

“But I'm not being cynical, dear Petrov,” Anika answered, clasping her hands as she looked up at him. She really did adore the aged knight and knew he liked nothing better than sharing tales of his adventures. The few knights who reached Petrov's age usually retired in quiet houses on their masters' estates, but Petrov's beloved master had died before bestowing such an award upon his loyal captain. He could have remained in service to the nobleman's son, but Petrov had
chosen to retreat to the city rather than spend his remaining lifetime again proving himself in a vocation more suited for young men. Now he lived in the small house across the street from Ernan O'Connor's bookshop and earned his daily bread delivering books and occasionally sharpening the dueling skills of the sons of great lords who were too embarrassed to display their incompetence before their own households.

Anika suspected that beneath Petrov's bluster and booming voice lay a very lonely man. Now she gave him her most charming smile. “If you have time, Sir Petrov, I would like to hear about the day you escorted your lady to church and the jealous suitor tried to kidnap her. I never tire of that tale.”

“I do,” her father objected good-naturedly, but he crossed his arms and settled back to listen. Both of them knew Petrov couldn't be stopped once he launched into a story.

Anika nibbled at her cheese and bread, momentarily forgetting about her waiting work as Petrov told of a bold attempt to snatch a noblewoman and his valiant assault upon her pursuer. He had almost reached the point where the lady fell off the horse and into a stream when the bookshop door creaked again. A different priest entered, and at the sight of this man Petrov halted his story in midsentence.

“Master Hus!” Anika's father uncrossed his arms and immediately stood to greet his visitor. “Faith, it's good to see you. How are you faring today?”

In appearance and manner, Jan Hus differed from the archbishop as much as a lamb differs from a wolf. Shunning the trappings and robes of a learned clergyman, Hus preferred a simple brown cassock like those of the lowliest monks. He wore a priest's tonsure cut into the crown of his thick brown hair, and a severely pointed beard jutted forth from his chin with the impertinence of a scolding finger. He was an important man—a master at the University of Prague and Father Confessor to Queen Sophia—but he welcomed everyone he met with disarming friendliness. Touches of humor lined his mouth and edged his eyes, which shone with merriment, a hint of mischief, and a quick intellect. In his dress and
posture, Jan Hus seemed a simple monk, but the eyes, Anika thought, revealed the rich complexity of the man beneath the cowled robe.

Even Petrov stood to acknowledge the worth of the bookshop's most recent visitor. “Master Hus, I am honored.” The old knight doffed the shapeless sugar-bag hat he wore and greeted the priest with a ceremonial bow. “If ever you have need of a willing heart or a sharp sword, you have but to call on me.”

“Thank you, Sir Petrov.” Hus acknowledged the knight's offer with touching dignity, then turned to Anika's father and eased into a smile. “Well met, Ernan! I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time, but I thought I would check on the progress of my sermon against the selling of indulgences. Brother William has just informed me that a papal legate is on his way to Prague. Unless I am mistaken, the pope has taken action against us.”

“Has he published a bull?” Ernan's brows knitted in a frown.

Anika watched her father and took note of the worried tone in his voice. The neglect and indifference of the church might have been indirectly responsible for her mother's death, but her father had responded to the church with an equal indifference of his own until he began writing for Jan Hus. Now papal decisions and the abuses of power that Hus preached against seemed to affect her father personally.

The master glanced back at Petrov. “I'm certain my friend the knight will understand the implications. Ever since the Great Schism, when the church ended up with three popes, all claiming to be God's anointed head of the church, the papacy has been in chaos. No one of them would relinquish power to any of the others. And now Pope John is intent upon consolidating his empire and broadening his base of support. Ladislas, king of Naples, has threatened Rome, so our Pope John has decided to proclaim a holy crusade against him. To any who will take part in his war the pope will grant plenary indulgence and the forgiveness of sins.”

A glaze seemed to come down over Hus's eyes. “The bull says those who contribute toward the expenses of the campaign are guaranteed
a place in heaven. The bull is to be read every Sunday in every church, but I have not obeyed the order. How can I read a declaration of war when I am trying to lead men to peace?”

“We will not tolerate this illegitimate pope!” Petrov's voice slammed into the conversation. “We are Bohemians, and we are wise enough to see through this pope's selfish schemes. We will not be drawn into his little vengeances and petty wars—”

“Unfortunately, my brave friend, there are many who believe the pope has these powers, even the authority to forgive sin before it is committed,” Jan Hus interrupted. “And I fear they will be drawn into his trap.”

“Now I understand why the archbishop was so interested in me work today,” Ernan said, stroking his beard. “Are you saying, Master Hus, that Pope John is
not
the representative of Christ on earth? Are you prepared to publish this statement? There would be dire consequences—”

“I'll say it privately here, and I will even proclaim it before my classes at the university,” Master Hus answered, his cheeks brightening with color. “But I have learned, Ernan, that discretion and mercy must be intertwined. I cannot proclaim the truth to people not ready to receive it. If they lose faith in the pope, how am I to be certain they will not lose faith in the Church? In Christ himself? They must know in whom they have believed, and too many of them are yet strangers to the gospel.”

Even in the shadowed light of the room, Anika saw the preacher's face heat to red. “But know this, my friends—this Pope John has nothing to do with Christ. Before he took that name he was known as Baldasarre Cossa, a murderer, pirate, and soldier, not an honorable knight like you, friend Petrov. He holds nothing but contempt for good while he cleaves to that which is evil. I have heard it reported, on good authority, that he is given to almost every form of vice. His vile character is no secret, but by shrewdness, audacity, and treachery he has risen from lowly thief to sovereign head of the Church.”

Master Hus stopped suddenly and threw a guilty glance in Anika's direction. As a blush burned her cheek, she lowered her eyes.
“Do not fear to speak plainly around me, Master Hus,” she said simply. “My father has withheld nothing that is truthful from me, and I have read of the many evils that occupy the world. There is little you could describe that I have not read about.”

“The lass speaks the truth,” her father asserted, nodding vigorously. “She is not like any other sixteen-year-old girl you would meet in Prague. Anika is far wiser than her years.”