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.
Lord John of Chlum
Seventeen
For the remainder of November and most of December, John carefully negotiated a fine line between wariness and indulgence. Jan Hus was eager to carry the gospel into the countryside, but John preferred to err on the side of caution. He did not want Novak to lead Hus into the villages until the way was safe, and he could not guarantee the preacher’s safety until he had determined the sources of danger.
A few enemies were obvious. Churches affiliated with Archbishop Albik openly opposed Hus, placarding him on their church posts and condemning him from their pulpits. Any priest who wished to advance in Rome’s ecclesiastical hierarchy stood firmly against Hus, for how could a man advance in the church if he had set himself apart from it?
King Wenceslas, though a friend to Hus, could not openly support the preacher for fear of upsetting the delicate balance of power in his kingdom. A number of teachers at the university who had once firmly aligned themselves with Hus had gone over to the other camp as soon as it became clear that Hus intended to defy the pope’s summons to Rome. And though many noblemen privately agreed with Hus, most were silent on the subject of his support, self-consciously protecting their inherited influence and positions. They were not willing to risk war, or even censure, by supporting the wrong side of a political and theological controversy, and so they kept their opinions to themselves.
John knew that differing opinions could be found even in his own household. His chaplain, Vasek, did not agree with Hus’s actions. Though John suspected that Vasek might actually agree with Master Hus’s theology if the two would only sit down and rationally discuss their beliefs, the older man was scandalized by the trouble Hus had attracted in Prague. Vasek wanted nothing to do with the crusades into the countryside. He spoke little when Hus sat at John’s dinner table, and he did not invite the preacher to offer mass in the castle chapel. When the two happened to meet in the hallway, Vasek often stared right through his fellow priest, his face revealing no more recognition than if Master Hus had been thin air.
But at least Vasek was predictable. The masquerading squire, on the other hand, was an unknown and dangerous risk. Under the guise of spreading Christmas cheer, John had sent runners into Prague and the surrounding countryside to discover if one of his fellow noblemen had an unmarried daughter who had recently gone on a pilgrimage, but his scouts had returned with no news.
After trying on every conceivable explanation and finding none that fit, John was almost convinced that Hus himself had sent the girl to spy out John’s loyalty. In a private moment at supper, John rested his elbows on the holiday table bedecked with holly, ivy, and evergreen, then turned to his friend. “Do you trust me, Jan?”
The preacher was momentarily speechless with surprise. “Trust you? Of course, John. Completely.”
And so clear was Hus’s countenance that John knew he spoke the truth. When the preacher smiled and asked what had possessed John to ask such a question, he merely shook his head. “Perhaps we both should be careful whom we trust,” he said, his eyes following Kafka as she stood with a book at the front of the room, reading.
After the huge Christmas banquet, when the doors of the castle were thrown open to the villagers of Chlum, John decided to force the impostor’s hand. Novak was the squire’s mentor, and the burly captain could provide the perfect opportunity to unmask the girl and her motivations.
John waited until Christmas morning. During the gathering in which he dispensed his knights’ annual gifts, he presented Novak with a stunning white stallion. Later, suspecting that his captain might be eager to ride out and put the animal through his paces, John suggested that he and Novak take a ride through the countryside.
“A ride, my lord?” Novak asked, shooting him a twisted smile. “Instead of a hunt? I thought you
would want to give the dogs a run.”
“Not today,” John answered, heading down the circular staircase that led to the main hallway and then out to the courtyard. “I want to speak to you privately, and I fear these walls may have ears.”
“Shall I bring a guard, my lord?”
John paused a moment. He might as well keep an eye on the girl, too. “No guard will be necessary, Sir Novak, but you may invite your squire. Lev and Svec would probably enjoy a ride on a morning as fine as this.”
The day was an intriguing combination of a brisk wind and a warm sun. The snow had melted away, and a warming zephyr rushed up the hill as the riders’ horses picked their way through the wet leaves and debris of winter. Lev, Svec, and Kafka led the way, the two younger boys whooping in youthful exuberance, Kafka following behind them in a slow and protective pace. The scenery passing by was dreary, but John felt his heart lift as he watched the three young people ahead of him. If Kafka was an enemy, she seemed a particularly agreeable one.
They reached a barren field of whispering gray chaff. As the squires set their mounts to thundering over the dried grass, John reined in his stallion and waited until Novak’s mount halted at his side.
“Your squire rides well,” he remarked idly, his eyes following the slender figure on the tall roan. “Kafka has more than distinguished himself in his time here. Surely it is time to consider knighting him.”
Novak’s bushy brows shot up in surprise. “Knight him? You think he is ready?”
John shrugged. “He rides well, he is light on his feet, and he can wield a sword as well as Lev.”
“He is not strong.” Novak pushed his lower lip forward in thought. “He never wins at wrestling, but he is so quick he has yet to be pinned.” His smile deepened into laughter. “The other boys can hardly catch him.”
“He is old enough,” John went on, testing the depth of his captain’s knowledge. “I would have thought him about sixteen, but upon that cheek I see no sign of whiskers yet.”
“No.” Novak frowned. “Neither do I.”
“’Tis of no import. Bearded or not, we will need every knight we have to ride with Master Hus. There may be trouble we do not expect.”
“Still—” Novak ran his hand through his hair in a detached motion. “I hate to disagree with you, my lord, but the boy is not … in the mold. There is something about him that does not feel right. I have wondered if he might not be better suited for the clergy than for knighthood, for he is soft-spoken and seems to have a heart for helping others.”
John looked away, his lips trembling with a repressed smile. Novak had not seen the truth, either. He had sensed something, to be sure, but he was as blind to the squire’s true gender as John had been. Whoever the girl was, she had fooled even her mentor. Perhaps such an accomplishment deserved a reward.
“I wish,” he said, chuckling with a dry and cynical sound, “for your squire to become my man. Kafka is old enough. And his weaknesses will certainly come to light in the days ahead.”
A muscle clenched along Novak’s jaw, but he inclined his head in a formal salute. “As you wish, my lord,” he said, pulling back on his reins. The stallion pranced in anxious anticipation, and Novak jerked his head toward the squires racing in the winter-dried field. “By your leave, my lord, I will go and give Kafka the news. He will need to prepare for his test.”
“Tell him,” John answered simply. Novak gave his stallion a kick and galloped away, but John remained behind, soothing his anxious mount with quiet clucking sounds. “Now we will see what happens,” he murmured to no one in particular, “when the girl undergoes the test of manhood.”
“A test?” Panic like Anika had never known before welled in her throat. Petrov had never said anything about a test; in all his glorious accounts there had been no reports of testing.
Novak nodded and rested his hands behind him on the cantle of his saddle. With an air of resignation he looked toward the horizon. “I told Lord John I didn’t think you were ready, but he insisted that you are.” Novak’s tone was coolly disapproving. “You seem to have caught his eye, Kafka. Now you must live up to his expectations.”
“I don’t think I can,” she whispered, her heart beating painfully in her chest. “Sir Novak, you must ask him to delay this test. I want to become a knight and fight in the cause, but I am not ready.”
“Lord John thinks you are.” The glitter in his half-closed eyes was now both possessive and slightly accusing. “And so you shall be. We shall train you today and tomorrow. Then you will take up the stones.”
“The stones?”
“Aye. Each knight marks a stone with his emblem, and the stones are put into a helmet. The squire ready to be knighted must remove a stone and then joust with the knight whose stone he has drawn. If he is felled from his horse during the joust, he must then face his adversary in hand-to-hand fighting with whatever weapons he still carries. The fight is not to the death but to the victory. The test ends when one knight concedes.”
Anika’s mind raced through the faces and forms of the proud knights in Lord John’s garrison. She had spent most of her time training with Lev, Svec, and Novak; she had never even dreamed of facing one of the other knights in a duel. They were men, walking tree trunks with brawny arms and thirty-pound lances. She had watched them hack at wooden stumps for hours on end without wearying. Their arms were iron; hers were noodles. Though she had practiced swordplay with Novak, he was her teacher, and she always suspected that he had restrained his strength when dueling with her. Clearly he was not in favor of her undergoing this test now.
He didn’t know she could never win a competition against one of the other knights. Not in ten thousand years, not with constant practice. She would never grow muscles like theirs; she would never have a man’s stamina.
“What if I refuse to take this test?” She stared at Novak with wide eyes. “Will I be sent away?”
“Yes. The test is designed to measure your courage as well as your strength,” Novak answered, his eyes cold and proud. “If you cannot face your comrade, you cannot face an enemy. There is no shame in failure—a squire can always be tested again. But a coward who refuses to undergo his test has no place at Chlum Castle.”
She looked away, rounding up her scattered emotions. He was right, of course. The idea of a test was rational and clever. It kept ill-prepared youths from doing dangerous men’s work. But it might also keep her from fulfilling her vow of vengeance.
She bit her thumbnail, thinking. By desperate and quick evasion she had managed to thwart those who would pin her in the wrestling matches. She had won many a duel because she thought before she struck. And she regularly beat the other squires and even a few of the knights in the verbal gymnastics that passed for entertainment after dinner.
A strange numbed comfort calmed her fears. She might not be able to pass a test through conventional means, but there were always unconventional opportunities. And she had sworn to become a knight. If this was the door God had opened, she would have to walk through it.
Imposing an iron control on herself, she looked her teacher in the eye. “I will be ready,” she said, girding herself with resolve. “Teach me whatever tricks you have to teach, Sir Novak, and then pray that I will do my best. For I would not shame you or Lord John in my quest to become a knight of Chlum Castle.”
“Good for you,” he answered simply, his eyes brightening with pleasure.
“Your armor,” Novak told her the next day as he helped fasten the brass buckles which linked one molded piece to another, “will prove to be a mixed blessing. Always remember that it can prevent you from doing damage as much as from being damaged.”
“I have always heard,” Anika answered, holding her arm out so Novak could fit the guard of vambrace over her elbow, “that the chief danger in battle is being trampled or smothered if unhorsed.” She laughed. “So I have decided to tie myself to my stallion, so I will not fall off.”
“Do not laugh, my young friend,�
�� Novak answered roughly, dropping her arm. It clanked against the brass plates that covered her chest and abdomen. “I almost think it is better to wear only a suit of mail than all these armored plates. I have heard of many a wounded man who had to be carried into the garrison and carved out of his harness before being put to bed.”
“Then why am I wearing all this?” she asked, stiffly turning to face him. “Why am I trussed up like a banquet-table turkey?”
“Because even in a practice exercise when the blunted arms of courtesy are used,” Novak said, lifting her heavy, open-faced helmet, or basinet, “a knight can be killed. A headless spear can pierce a suit of mail; a blunted sword can break a bone. You will wear this armor, Kafka, and be grateful for it.”
Anika stifled her protests and accepted the helmet, knowing it was no use to argue with a man as set in his ways as Novak. In many respects he had been a blessing to her. Like Petrov, Novak clung to the old ideals. Bravery, loyalty, and faithfulness to God meant far more to him than financial rewards and political power.
But his rigidity and traditionalism could prove to be her undoing. She had already stopped and corrected herself a thousand times in his presence, adjusting her speech, her mannerisms, the way she talked and moved and sighed. Certainly he would have no patience or understanding for a woman who had dared to cross the threshold of the knights’ garrison. Though he seemed to respect her as a student, she feared he would feel nothing but contempt for her as a woman.
But today her secret lay closer to the surface than ever. She’d begun the cycle of her monthly bleeding and had been having cramps since morning. She had stoically denied the pain and discomfort, turning away so he would not read the worry and annoyance in her eyes. At least once an hour she excused herself to go to the lavatory, where she covered fresh straw in a long strip of cloth. A narrow band of leather around her waist held the straw and cloth in place, yet she worried that Novak might yet guess her secret. Once bound up in her armor she could barely move, much less attend to her feminine needs. And his presence, as he hovered near to attach her armor, was nerve-racking.
The Silver Sword Page 18
