Hitherto 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.
Zelenka sighed with exasperation. She had been waiting outside Lord John’s chamber long enough to recite four “Our Fathers.” The men lingered over supper far longer than usual, but in the past five minutes servants had carried out the empty bowls and a guard had escorted Master Hus to his chamber. In a moment she would be able to steal Lord John’s attention—
She smiled as his long, lean form finally filled the doorway. “Lord John.”
“Yes, Lady Zelenka?” His eyes seemed burdened with some troubling concern, but he broke into an open friendly smile at the sight of her. Zelenka folded her hands, congratulating herself on another small victory. “My lord, if I might borrow your ear for a moment—”
“I am sorry,” he interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. “I know the routine here must bore you. I suppose you expected parties in this season of merriment, but we are so caught up with Master Hus—”
“I am not bored.”
A wry but indulgent glint appeared in his eyes. “I suppose you will be wanting me to send you home on the morrow. I don’t blame you. Now that Hus has left Prague, gaiety can return to the city. And you, dear child, are the gayest of them all. I hate to see you marooned out here away from all your young friends.”
“I can be merry anywhere,” she answered, trying to still the wild pounding of her heart. The man was perceptive; surely he knew why she sought his company. “And I would not leave you so soon, especially not now.”
“Not now?” He quirked his eyebrow teasingly. “Why not now, pray tell. Is there some suitor in Prague you are seeking to escape? Is that why you have hidden yourself out here?”
“Nothing in Prague concerns me a whit,” she answered, looking down at her hands. “Just you … and your household, of course. In the faint hope that I might be of some service to you, I have been trying to learn about your estate. Demetr runs an orderly household, but he does not know everything. In my endeavors I have discovered—” She lifted her hands in a helpless shrug. “I scarcely know where to begin. You are being deceived, my lord.”
“Deceived? How so?” His smile faded slightly, but still he looked at her as if she were ten years old.
She felt a lurch of excitement within her as she boldly met his gaze. “A trickster has infiltrated your household. I am not certain, but I wonder if the pretender could be a spy for your enemies, which, I understand, are legion.”
Zelenka rejoiced when his jaw muscle clenched angrily. Finally she had managed to pierce that complacency and indifference! “Surely you are mistaken.” His eyes became somber again. “My people are loyal.”
“But this one, I fear,” she looked down, idly smoothing her fingernails with her thumb, “has escaped your suspicion. For who would suspect a mere squire of being a spy?”
“A squire?” He pulled back his shoulders and lifted his granite chin. “Which squire could you mean? There is only one new boy, Kafka, and he came directly from my father’s old captain of the guard. And since he has come, he has done nothing amiss.”
She leaned forward, every curve of her body speaking defiance. “His very presence here is a lie, a pretense. For the one you call Kafka is no boy.” She paused, watching her words take hold. “Kafka is a girl.”
Intense astonishment touched his face. “A girl?” he repeated dully, a grayish pallor blooming beneath his skin.
She parted her lips in a secretive smile. “A woman, in fact.”
“Impossible! Such a thing would be impossible to hide. I would have seen the truth!”
“Perhaps, my lord,” she remarked, pleased at how nonchalant she sounded, “we see only what we want to see.”
Her words were playful, but he understood that her meaning was not. Two deep lines of worry appeared between Lord John’s dark eyes. “How do you know this?”
“My lord,” Zelenka let the words roll slowly off her tongue, “just as you can spot a hip-splayed hound from forty paces, so one woman can recognize another. One has but to look at her with open eyes. The truth is written there for anyone willing to see it.”
He did not dispute her but leaned back against the wall, staring into space. “Why would a girl spy on us?” he finally murmured, more to himself than to Zelenka. “If he—she—was sent to harm Master Hus, she has had opportunity already, and yet she has done nothing.”
“Yet Kafka has volunteered to ride with you on the preacher’s excursions, has she not?” Zelenka let the question fall into the silence. “And who can say what opportunities this false squire will have in the days to come?”
“Kafka is exceedingly well versed for a squire,” John murmured again, still staring into space. He turned slowly until his gaze met Zelenka’s. “I ought to have suspected something. How many squires enter a castle speaking four languages? She must have come from a noble family, but what father would send his daughter on such a dangerous mission? If she were discovered by the knights in the garrison—”
His voice trailed off as he turned his eyes away, and Zelenka knew he had stumbled onto a subject not fit for a gentlewoman’s ears. She stepped back, disappointed. This was not the reaction she had hoped for. He was expressing compassion and wonder, while she had expected anger and hostility.
“My lord, whatever her reasons, you should dismiss her at once,” she said, daring to reach out and place a hand on his arm. “And you should consider the possibility that your man Novak knows about this spy, as well. Is Kafka not Novak’s shadow night and day? If so, surely your captain knows. And if he knows, he has deceived you, his sworn master. Far be it from me to advise you, but perhaps Kafka and Novak should both be sent away.”
“Thank you, Lady Zelenka,” Lord John said, his hand abruptly falling over hers. She thrilled to his touch, but when she lifted her gaze, she found no trace of warmth in his eyes. “Thank you,” he repeated, firmly lifting her hand from his arm. “But I should consider the matter and lift my thoughts in prayer before taking any action. You must excuse me now.”
Without a further word, he turned and left her alone in the empty hallway.
John was not surprised when Lady Zelenka decided to return home the next day. After sending Demetr to convey best wishes for a safe journey and a merry St. Nicholas’s Day, John watched from the balcony of his chamber as the chariot and armed escort trotted through the barbican and down the road that would return Lady Zelenka to her father’s estate. The poor girl would make someone a fine wife, but she had cast her bread upon the waters one time too many at Chlum Castle. John wasn’t certain why she had been so intent upon pursuing him, but she had shown stubborn persistence and resolute strength of character.
And, in a strange way, Zelenka may have been useful. He pulled his eyes from the departing carriage and looked toward the circle where a group of squires and knights were training for an upcoming Christmas tournament. Novak stood outside the ring, his hands on his broad hips, a scowl upon his bearded face. Before the grizzled knight, in the ring, Kafka and Lev circled one another, blunt wooden swords in their right hands, unlit lanterns in their left.
In a surge of interest, John leaned forward upon the balcony railing. If Lady Zelenka spoke truly, his son was dueling with a girl. Surely Lev would have noticed something.
“En garde!” Novak called, and the two squires assumed their positions: lanterns held up in back, right hands pointing the blunted swords toward the opponent’s chin.
John crossed his arms and squinted toward the dueling pair. He had spent many sleepless hours considering Zelenka’s charge and had decided to investigate himself before confronting either Novak or Kafka about the lady’s supposition. He suspected Zelenka’s story was a lie born out of a vindictive desire to strike at Novak.
Was the squire in the courtyard below a woman? Surely not. With an adventurous toss of his head, Kafka urged Lev to lunge, then swiftly parried the blow. The dubious squire moved with a quick agility unlike that of the other boys, but his quickness was offset by a lack of power.
John lowered his chin into his hand and frowned. In the belted robe that swirled around Kafka’s slender legs, John thought he could discern the hourglass shape of a tiny waist and wider hips. That fullness around the bosom could easily be explained by padding and armor, but Kafka’s figure was certainly more rounded than Lev’s. But then again, the youth was older.
Squire Kafka lunged and leaped back, twirled and parried a blow, then moved a second too late. Lev’s sword struck Kafka’s padded jacket.
“Score one for Lev!” Novak roared.
John pressed his fingers over his lips, still watching and wondering. Kafka turned toward him, and beneath the ridiculously boyish haircut John saw an oval face with a daintily pointed chin, wind-whipped color in the cheeks, and sweetly curled lips of soft pink. At another cry from Novak the duel began again, and this time Kafka rushed forward with surprising aggressiveness, startling Lev. Kafka’s sword struck home, winning the point.
“One for Kafka!” Novak roared. Delighted, the squire threw back his head and let out a great peal of girlish laughter.
The truth crashed into John’s consciousness like surf hurling against a rocky cliff. This Kafka was no pre-adolescent boy. Zelenka spoke truly—this squire was a woman.
John stood as still as stone as the shock of discovery hit him. During the night he had been able to convince himself that the spoiled Zelenka hated Novak and his charge enough to mistake a gentle and sensitive boy for a girl, thus casting doubt upon the knight’s loyalty. But this was not of Zelenka’s doing.
Kafka’s voice floated up to him from the courtyard. “Sir Novak, do not leave us! Another round, please!”
That voice would never deepen.
How could they have been so easily deceived? And why would Petrov, who had proved his righteous character even in his death, attempt to deceive his former master’s household? During the months Kafka—or whatever her true name was—had been at Chlum, she had conducted herself wisely and with great discretion. John was reasonably certain no one else knew her secret. Even Demetr, who saw and knew everything, had been thoroughly duped.
We see only what we want to see.
Pensively John stared across the courtyard to the horizon, where a gray winter haze veiled the sun. Could the girl have been planted by Hus’s enemies? It did not seem likely. Her guardian had died in Hus’s cause. The girl had journeyed with Novak to escort Hus from Prague, so if she had meant him harm, she could have already committed it. And when Kafka spoke of Hus the night John found the squire by the pool, her eyes had shone with admiration and conviction. Traitors did not wear such faithful faces.
So why was she here?
John’s mind reeled with uncertainties, but quick questions needed slow and thoughtful answers. Straightening himself, he returned to his chamber, determined to wait… and watch.