The Silver Sword
Page 19
“We shall not practice the actual joust today,” Novak said, eyeing her critically as he stepped back to survey his work. The armor he had put on her was the smallest to be found in the castle, and still she felt like a child parading in her father’s clothes. “But I want you to get used to the armor’s weight.” He moved toward the door and pushed it open, letting a stream of crystal cold air into the chamber. “Come, let’s go outside and attempt a bit of swordplay. You must learn to move in the armor as the grasshopper moves in his hard shell, to accept it as your second skin.”
“No grasshopper ever carried a shell this heavy,” Anika grumbled, slowly clanking her way out of the garrison. The helmet under her arm weighed ten pounds alone, and the breastplate was at least that heavy. Added to the vambraces for her arms, the gauntlets on her hands, the fauld and culet which covered her abdomen and hindquarters, and the heavy mail shirt underneath it all, and Anika had easily doubled her weight.
How was she supposed to fight encumbered like this? She could barely move. Only one thought gave her the courage to keep moving. In her fencing trials with her fellow squires, she had learned that her chief advantage lay in a rapid and aggressive advance. She had not won every contest, but she had always scored the first point. The other squires now knew her approach, but none of the other knights would expect so small an opponent to come at them without warning.
“Are you ready, then?” Wearing his armor as comfortably as an old slipper, Novak picked up his blunted sword and moved to stand across from her.
“One moment.” Anika unceremoniously dropped her sword to the dusty ground, then lifted the heavy helmet and lowered it onto her head.
She felt as if the world had suddenly gone silent and dark. The conical helmet completely enclosed the sides of her face and neck, leaving only a T-shaped opening. Her eyes peered through the horizontal bar of the “T”, while the two-inch vertical opening ran from the bottom of her eyes to her chin, allowing her to breathe … and pray.
Holy God, if you would see me through this …
She lowered her bulky arms and turned to face Novak.
“Your sword,” he said, flicking his own blade toward her impatiently. “You cannot fight without a weapon, Kafka.”
She bent forward, careful not to let gravity pull her off balance, until her heavily meshed hands finally found the hilt of her sword. She had chosen to fight with her own lightweight weapon instead of a blunted blade, and Novak had voiced no objection. He was probably certain she would not do him any harm.
She gripped the silver sword in her right hand and placed her left hand up behind her, bending her knees until she found her center of gravity. In her heavy hauberk and armor, she felt ponderous and lifeless, barely able to move.
Anika bounced on her legs, testing their strength under this additional weight. Though she had been practicing in her coat of mail for weeks, she had never worn full armor until today. The unexpected lunge forward was her best move, and Novak knew it, but she was not sure she could manage a lunge in this clattering collection of metal.
Novak peered at her down the length of his blade and began circling slowly. “Ready,” he said, his eyes snapping with challenge. As confident as a terrier, he wore no helmet at all, only his hauberk, a breastplate, and gauntlets, the least a knight could wear and still feel properly protected.
She lifted her sword and drew the handle in close to her breast, matching Novak’s movements around the circle, knowing he would not make the first move. This practice session was intended to ready her for her final test, the coming day when she would prove to all of Chlum Castle and the unseen heavenly host that she was capable of fighting for God, that she could strike a blow against those who had killed her parents and Petrov, those who would take God’s truth and subvert it, turning it into a lie.
Lord John’s two mastiffs ran by, woofing at some imagined danger, and Novak’s eyes flicked toward the dogs. Seizing the moment, Anika lunged forward, straining with all her might, aiming her blade toward the spot where his breastplate should have joined the gardbrace, the vulnerable spot over his heart.
With one sure stroke, Novak parried the blow and stepped away. With another blow his weapon caught her sword and sent it whirling end over end, out of reach. And then, like the trained warrior he was, he reflexively stuck out his foot and tripped her, sending her sprawling in the dirt.
Facedown in the courtyard, Anika tasted defeat and dust in the same moment. She felt like a turtle kicked over a cliff—sore, jostled, and very, very heavy. She tried to push herself up, but a rivet on the gauntlet of her right hand had tangled itself in her hauberk, effectively hobbling her.
“Get up, you imbecile!” Novak’s voice hardened ruthlessly. “Do you think you are fit for the test? For knighthood? I will shame you into readiness; rise up and come at me again!”
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking miserably.
“Never say ‘can’t’!” Novak continued to roar, his voice turning every head within earshot. Anika gritted her teeth, understanding his intention. He wanted to rouse her fighting spirit, to prod her into rising, to whip her into a determined frenzy so she could prove to herself that she had learned her lessons.
He couldn’t know that her motivations ran far deeper than a need to prove herself. But at the moment she had no fight in her soul, nothing but a vast heaviness and a dull, persistent ache in her belly. The shock of defeat held her immobile, and though she knew this one fall was nothing to be ashamed of, a sensation of sickness and desolation swept over her.
What was wrong with her? Why was she suddenly exhausted, drained of all will and thought?
Novak came to her rescue before she could humiliate herself with weeping.
“Get up when I command you,” he whispered in a gruff voice, lifting her by the shoulders as if she weighed no more than a sack of feathers. He pulled her up and spun her around until she gazed into his eyes. In his expression she saw anger, but also hurt, disappointment, and something that looked like bewilderment.
Wrenching out of his grasp, Anika staggered forward on heavy feet and ran toward the shadowed safety of the stable, freeing her hands from the confining gauntlets, then shedding other scraps of armor along the way. She ran past the startled grooms, then fell into a hay bed in an empty stall. The sweetly mingled scents of horses, manure, oats, and hay comforted her as her eyes welled with hurt and her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the buckles and clasps that linked the remaining pieces of her armor together.
She would have to take it all off and leave it with Novak. Then she’d have to leave the garrison and throw herself upon Lord John’s mercy.
Why had she ever been so foolish? Serving in Lord Laco’s house couldn’t be this humiliating or painful.
“God save you, boy, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
Anika looked up, startled, and saw Novak standing over her, his dark eyes brimming with compassion. “There’s no shame in being cut, even if by a piece of your own armor. Did one of the edges slip and pierce your hauberk?”
Her mind spun with bewilderment. “What?”
“You are hurt.” The knight crouched before her in the straw, his eyes bemused. “Everyone is cut sooner or later, boy, but a knight gets up and keeps going. So show me your wound and I’ll dress it.”
“My wound?” She fought to control her swirling emotions.
Though her body was numb with weariness, she had felt no cut. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose with premonition.
“I saw the blood on the ground where you fell, boy, and I see it now on the straw where you sit. And a man does not bleed unless he is—”
“A woman,” she responded sharply, abandoning all pretense. Her charade was over. Some things even a woman’s wit and cleverness could not conceal.
Eighteen
Novak halted, shocked. Surely his ears had deceived him. The boy could not have surprised him more if he had claimed to be emperor of the world.
Novak fell back into the hay, too startled for words. Surely such a thing was impossible. He, Novak, could not be wrong, and he knew the lad for a slight but sturdy boy of sixteen, one who was about to be sworn into service for Lord John and Chlum Castle.
“I am Anika, the daughter of Ernan O’Connor,” Kafka was saying, an aura of melancholy radiating from the pale and delicate features like some dark nebula. “After my father was killed by Lord Laco’s knights, Sir Petrov took me into his care. He had told me stories of knighthood since my childhood days, and so we thought it best that I go into hiding here.” The squire gulped hard, hot tears slipping down his—her—cheeks. “Lord Laco was intent on having me for his son, you see, and I had no defender save Sir Petrov. And I have always wanted to know how to fight, for someday, somehow, I will take vengeance upon the evil churchman who killed my mother.”
Still speechless, Novak leaned back upon the wooden wall. He closed his eyes, rubbed them, and opened them again, expecting to find a different squire before him, one somewhat altered from the boy he had trained. But Kafka sat there, unchanged, with the same delicate features, the same sad smile.
A girl. A female. A young woman.
Novak shook his head, slowly weighing the structure of events that had brought him and his squire together. Had he missed some clue along the way? Some bold suggestion, some hint, some giveaway word or deed? He could not recall anything. Either the girl was an extremely careful deceiver, or Novak had completely lost touch with his senses.
“You are a liar, then.” He glared at the girl with burning, reproachful eyes. “You have lied to the master, to me, and to every man in the garrison. We ought to turn you out of the castle gate clad only in a chemise, for you have disgraced your own sex and the calling of knighthood.”
“No.” Somehow the sound of tears in her voice stunned him. “I never lied. Sir Petrov and I were careful not to speak any untruth. Never did he introduce me as a boy. He only said I was the child of a friend, not the son.”
“Kafka is a man’s name.”
“The word means ‘little bird.’ It was my father’s pet name for me.”
A hot tear rolled down her cheek, and Novak looked away. Tears were the gelding weapons of women. She wanted him to pity her—and what else?
“The other knights will be furious.” He crossed and then uncrossed his legs. “You have heard things not fit for a woman’s ears.”
“If the things I heard were not fit for a woman’s ears, why are they fit for anyone at all?” she demanded, a flash of temper sparking through her tears. “I have done nothing to disgrace the knights at this castle. I have worked hard, harder than the lot of them, to prove myself. You have to admit that, Sir Novak!”
She threw the words at him like stones, and something in her attitude tempered his anger with amusement. By all the saints, what a knight this one would have made if she were a man! The heart of a lion resided in that small frame, and the persistence of a mosquito. But she was female, and females had no place in a garrison. They belonged in the castle or the kitchen, or in the merchant shops or a convent.
“This sorts not,” he finally said, gathering his thoughts. “You cannot remain here.” He lowered his voice, fearing that others might hear. “Consider now, my girl, what might become of you if you were to persist in this! Why will you not consider a life in trade or tutoring? You have been well educated. But you cannot become a knight. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” She tossed her head and eyed him with cold triumph. “I have already become a squire.”
“But not a knight. And you won’t, for I’ll not deceive my master. I won’t lie to Lord John; I can’t do that.”
“I’m not asking you to lie to him.” She crossed her legs and rested her arms on her bent knees, sighing. “But do you have to tell him what you have discovered? Why can’t I go on as I am? There remains only my test—”
“You will be discovered. And if the master finds out that I have known, my loyalty will be called into question. And that—” he stiffened, “must never happen.”
She sat in silence for a moment, her sea-green eyes darkening like angry thunderclouds. Novak marveled at her ability to sheathe her tears. “We cannot leave this place,” she said finally, flushing to the roots of her fiery hair, “until we settle this.”
“You are right,” he agreed, casually picking up a piece of straw. He whirled it between his palms, then thrust it between his teeth. He had never liked women, but this girl, at least, had earned a measure of his respect. She was young and ignorant, though, so he might as well explain the facts of life.
“Your disguise is not good,” he began. “Woman was made of Adam’s flesh and bone, so she was made of more precious things than man, who was made of clay. Do you doubt me? There is proof. Man, made of clay, is more tranquil than woman, who is of bone, for bones are always rattling. If you take a man and woman and tell them to wash as well as they can, then take clean water and bid them wash again, which water bucket will be fouler? The man’s, of course. For if you wash clay you make mud, and if you wash a bone, you make no such thing.”
He looked at her, expecting some sign of acquiescence, but she only gave him a hostile glare. “If women are made of more precious things, then why are they expected to do all the work? Women travail in childbirth, they travail to suckle the child, to rear it, to wash and clean by day and night while the man goes singing on his way.”
“So you hate women’s work?”
“No!” Her jaw clenched as she rejected his words. “I liked keeping house for my father, but I enjoyed working for him far more. I was his scribe, a copyist, and I wanted nothing more than to write.”
Stroking his beard, he regarded her carefully. “Then why can’t you write for Lord John? He could put you to work as a scribe.”
She shook her head, dismissing his idea. “I have a vow to fulfill before I will settle down to work for a man,” she whispered, her voice choked with sincerity.
Novak paused, considering his situation. He could understand why an orphaned girl might hide from Lord Laco, for that nobleman’s villainy and lecherous nature were well-known in Prague. And Sir Petrov had been a gentle and noble knight, so Novak couldn’t fault her for thinking the garrison a comfortable and convenient refuge. But she simply couldn’t continue as a knight, any more than Novak could become the Queen of Bohemia.
“Suppose you tell me why it is so all-important that you become a knight,” he said, his voice cracking with weariness. “God made you a woman. Why can you not consider a role fit for women?”
“God gave me a mother and father, too, but evil men took them away,” she snapped, the muscles in her face tightening into a mask of rage. “Church men, Novak. Cardinal D’Ailly was with Lord Laco when the order was given to kill my father. My mother died because a cardinal was too worried about his money purse to surrender a ladder to a woman trapped in a burning inn.”
Novak slowly uncrossed his arms, taken aback by the fire in her gaze. She had been a determined squire, a tough opponent, but he had never seen this energy in her eyes. What other surprises lay inside her?
“Bohemia has its share of orphaned girls,” he said quietly, stretching his long legs into the straw before him. “Yet none of the others have stooped to pick up a sword.”
“None of them have Lord Laco searching for them, either,” she said, tossing her head in disdain. “Becoming a squire seemed a useful and practical idea. Sir Petrov was dear to me, you see, and had filled my childhood days with stories of knights and lords and their ladies. He taught me how to hold a sword before I learned to write, and once I began to read, I devoured stories of the gallant knights of yesteryear—stories of men like you.” The fringe of her lashes cast subtle shadows on her cheeks as she looked down at her hands. “I kn
ow it has never been done, Novak, but does that mean it cannot be done? Perhaps I can be of service to you and Lord John in the days ahead. I could spy for you in a woman’s garb. I am small enough to slip through narrow openings, and I have learned to ride as well as any knight in your garrison. But please, do not make me leave Chlum. I have learned too much and come too far.”
Her eyes, liquid pools of appeal, lifted to his, and Novak felt his heart constrict. ’Twas no wonder he hated women. He was helpless in their hands, and they knew it.
“I will keep your secret tonight,” he answered, slowly pushing himself up from the ground. “But I cannot keep this truth from my master. Lord John must be told.”
“Then promise me this, upon your honor as a knight.” Across her pale and pointed face a dim flush raced like a fever. “Tell him after my testing. Give me the chance to prove myself.”
“The test will change nothing.” He leaned back, measuring her determination and her motives. “You will never be a man.”
“But I will be a knight. And I will be sworn to serve Lord John.” She straightened herself with dignity, a curious deep longing in her eyes. “You cannot begrudge me this desire, Sir Novak, since it is one you share.”
She stood before him not as a mischievous impostor, but as a woman who had tested the depth of her commitment. In the light of her strength, Novak decided that she deserved a chance. Even though God had created her female, she was a fire eater, iron-willed and strong. History spoke of queens who donned armor and rode to battle with their armies—why couldn’t a bookseller’s daughter do the same?
“So be it,” he said, holding up his hand. “You will undertake your test on the morrow. But if you pass the test, you must tell Lord John the truth before he administers the vows of fealty.” Novak smiled as the fiery animation in her face dimmed. “Have faith, my squire. If you express yourself as eloquently before the master, it may be he will show mercy to you. But whatever you do, say your prayers and cleanse your heart. Your fate will be decided on the morrow.”