The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “No, but I cannot openly shame the other knights by revealing her, either,” John answered, leaning his elbow upon the armrest of his chair. “They will not take kindly to the news that a woman has been hearing their secrets and sleeping in their garrison. You will have to go out to the field of contest and quietly pull her aside. Maybe we can take her to the village and house her with a peasant family until we decide her future.”

  “That is well spoken.” Novak pushed himself up. “I will see to it now.”

  Slouching down, John lowered his chin to his palm again and grinned at his captain. “She did do well, though, didn’t she? She might have made a knight, after all.”

  Anika mechanically played the test over and over in her mind, trying to forecast Manville’s probable moves. The joust would take place on a long rectangular field outside the castle walls. As soon as Lord John had taken his seat upon his balcony, a trumpeter would blow, and two fluttering blue pennons, one at each end of the field, would fall. She and Manville would spur their horses and charge toward each other from a distance of one hundred yards. The tilt, a wooden barrier that reached to her horse’s flank, would separate the two opponents, and Anika would aim her lance across the tilt, directly toward Sir Manville’s breastplate, until the point of impact… unless she was unseated first.

  No. She blocked the thought; the contemplation of failure would be anathema. Moving into the weapons room, she selected the lightest wooden tilting lance from the wall, then checked to be sure Midnight, now her favorite mount, was properly saddled. The grooms, always eager to view a competition, hurried to dress the horse in his jousting armor, a breastplate and a metal headpiece known as the chanfron. Anika eyed the metal spike protruding from the chanfron like a gleaming horn and hoped that Midnight’s size and strength would intimidate Sir Manville … because her slight figure certainly wouldn’t.

  She checked the girth strap, then slipped her left foot into the stirrup and threw herself over the horse’s broad back. Manville, she noticed as she glanced toward the far side of the stable, had already mounted his favorite steed. A servant held his horse’s reins and was leading him toward the castle barbican.

  “Hurry,” she told the groom in a low voice.

  The stableboy attending her grinned foolishly, then gave the horse’s flank a slap. “In a hurry to get yourself killed, are you, Kafka?” He grinned and handed her the reins. “You are as ready as you will ever be.”

  She straightened, then made a quick clucking sound with her tongue, turning the stallion toward the doorway. Nervous flutterings pricked her chest as the huge animal moved out of the stable, through the barbican, and onto the tournament field. Averting her eyes from the crowd of onlookers gathering behind a rope, she faced the opposite end of the jousting field and forced her riotous emotions to settle down. In a few moments she would have completed her test. If she acquitted herself well, she would earn the right to be dubbed a knight. Of course Novak would feel compelled to tell Lord John her secret, and the Lord of Chlum might not agree to knight her.

  But it wouldn’t matter. In the eyes of her fellow knights, she would have proven herself. Her parents and Sir Petrov, watching from heaven, would see and know that she had not failed them. And if Lord John cast her out of Chlum Castle, she would take her newfound skills to another manor and continue her quest of vengeance. For she had begun to believe her father was right—war did lie just over the horizon, and she was sworn to be involved in the battle.

  She gave the stallion a slack rein and cantered slowly across the field toward her position. Midnight’s speed and power exhilarated her, and her blood raced in response. Let the test begin. She had no intention of permitting herself to fail.

  The air outside Chlum Castle rang with the uncontrolled sounds of a holiday crowd anticipating fine entertainment, for a host of servants, knights, and villagers had gathered around the outer barriers to watch the midday joust. The noise and anticipation made Midnight nervous; he danced in place, his head high and his tail arched. Biting her lip, Anika glanced up at Lord John’s balcony. He had not yet appeared, nor had the trumpeter.

  Anika shivered. A frosty wind blew over the field, knifing her lungs and tingling the exposed skin of her nose. Impatient to charge, Midnight blew gustily and then lowered his great head to graze the grassy border. “No,” Anika commanded, jerking back on the reins to bring the animal to attention. The stallion could not relax; neither could she.

  What was keeping Lord John?

  On the opposite side of the field, Sir Manville waited, too, a pair of grooms at his side. Lev alone had followed Anika to the starting gate, and he stood silently beside her horse, nervously cracking his knuckles.

  A meowing wail from one of the villagers’ children rose from the crowd and raked across Anika’s tense nerves. Beneath that sound she could hear her heart battering against her ears. Why was Lord John making her wait?

  “Lo, look there.” Lev pointed toward movement in the crowd. “Novak comes.”

  Lev’s voice was curiously flat, and the sound of it chilled her. This was not customary. As her mentor, Novak should have been on the balcony with Lord John, awaiting her fate and praying for her success—

  Unless he had revealed her secret.

  And Lord John had forbidden her test.

  “No.” She uttered the word between clenched teeth and tightened the reins in her left hand.

  “What?” Lev lifted his face toward her.

  “Lift the bar,” she ordered in a voice of authority.

  “But Novak comes—”

  “Lift the cursed bar!” she snapped, pretending not to understand his warning look.

  Lev slid the restraining bar from its place and stepped back, nervously wiping his hands on his robe. Anika gripped the lance in her right hand and lowered herself behind her shield, willing herself to be as small as possible, a tiny target for the enemy.

  “Kafka!” Novak’s voice rose above the crowd now, demanding her attention.

  With a slight smile of defiance, she gripped the reins again and leaned forward, spurring the horse.

  The nervous stallion was more than willing to respond. As the spur raked his flank, he reared back, pawing the air with his front hooves. With Novak’s bellow ringing in her ears, Anika urged her stallion forward to meet her opponent.

  Twenty

  A plague on him!” Manville gripped his reins and kicked the meddlesome grooms away. Somehow he had missed the trumpet. That cocky little Kafka was already advancing, his stallion throwing up great clods of earth behind those thundering hooves.

  Manville tucked his lance under his arm and leaned forward, violently thrusting his spurs into the animal’s tender flank. The great war-horse lunged from the gate, bellowing in rage, and Manville gripped the animal with his knees, balancing the lance easily along his muscled right arm. This boy would be easy to unseat, and once the lad lay on the ground, Manville would dismount, vault over the tilt, and press his sword to the lad’s breastplate, confirming his defeat. Today this arrogant squire would be humbled before the entire manor.

  Manville’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile as his stallion shot forward.

  From inside his chamber, John heard the crowd roar. Flying from his chair, he strode to the balcony and stared out at the jousting field. Squire Kafka, dressed in that ridiculously large armor, had prematurely charged out of the gate. And Manville, not one to let a challenge go unanswered, had raced forward to joust with a girl.

  John clenched his fist as sheer black fright swept through him. He should not have been silent; he should have stopped this charade as soon as he discovered it. This foolish girl would die on yonder grass unless—

  “Novak!” he called over the balcony, spying his captain in the crowd. “Stop them!”

  He could not tell if Novak heard, for his voice was swallowed up in the clamor of the cheering mob.

  Manville heard the crowd boil to life. He had the fleeting impression of someone shouting, t
he throng cheering, neckerchiefs waving in excitement. And before him Kafka drove relentlessly forward, his tilting lance alive and carving wobbly patterns in the air before his onrushing stallion.

  Manville lowered his head and held his own lance steady, aiming it across the tilt toward the squire. His arms were stronger, his lance longer than the squire’s lightweight weapon, and he was not surprised when his lance hit the squire’s shield. The sharp and brittle crack of wood tore the air, and Kafka’s shield flew away like a kite in a gale. Manville brought his own shield to his chest reflexively, but there was no answering blow—

  Before he knew what had happened, his horse went down on its knees, flinging Manville aside like a discarded cloak. A gasp from the crowd spiraled down as Manville fought to control his balance, then the earth rose to meet him. Dirt and soft grass pillowed his hands and cheek; the sweet and salty taste of blood touched his tongue.

  Manville looked up, disoriented. Twenty paces away, his stallion scrambled in undignified haste to his knees, then tossed his great head and moved away, apparently interested only in browsing the lush grass at the edge of the field.

  Across the tilt, the squire turned his horse and trotted back, his lance still in his hand. Riding like a triumphant peanut atop an elephant, Kafka looked out from the slit in his visor. “God save you, Sir Knight,” he called, pitching his voice low so the crowd could not hear. “Are you hurt?”

  Manville shook out his heavy arms and legs to be certain nothing was broken. Age had not lessened his strength, but his bones did not take as kindly to bouncing off horses as they once had.

  He rose to his feet with stiff and brittle dignity, leaning hard upon his lance. “I am not hurt,” he called. He looked again at his horse. Though the animal had fallen, he seemed no worse off for his mishap.

  “I do beg and pray you, squire—tell me what sort of curse you put on my horse,” Manville drawled with distinct mockery. “He used to be a surefooted beast.”

  “I pointed my lance at his breastplate,” Kafka answered, his voice slick with satisfaction. “I knew you would take my shield, so I decided to let you have it. And while you waited for me to fall, I struck your horse. I knew he would not be hurt.”

  Manville bit back an oath, then spat the blood from his mouth. “So be it.” He moved his hand toward his sword. “Dismount then, and prepare to face me. This test is not yet finished. I am still on my feet, so I am not defeated.”

  Through the narrow aperture of the helmet, Manville saw a shadow of alarm flicker in the squire’s eyes. Surely the boy hadn’t thought a mere fall would break Manville’s spirit! Slowly, reluctantly, the young man dropped his lance, then stood in the stirrups and dismounted.

  “Kafka!” Novak’s abrupt shout cut through the murmurs of the crowd. The captain vaulted easily over the fenced barrier and charged toward his squire. “You will report to Lord John. Now! This test is forfeited. It should never have begun!”

  Manville thought the boy slumped slightly in relief. “Wait, squire,” he barked, unsheathing his sword.

  “The captain calls me.” Kafka pointed toward Novak.

  “Indeed,” Manville remarked dryly, lifting his sword as if to inspect the gleaming blade. Eyeing Kafka over the hilt of his sword, he watched the squire take his horse’s reins and lead the animal from the field behind his blustering teacher.

  Manville lowered his blade, swiped a grass stain from his breastplate, and smiled beneath his helmet. To be sure, Kafka was an unusual youth. He’d broken several unwritten rules today, spoiling Manville’s victory and angering Novak.

  But on a field of battle a knight would want someone like Kafka by his side. Someone who wasn’t afraid to be unconventional or take a chance. Someone who dared to act.

  “Congratulations, Kafka,” Manville murmured as he turned to tend to his own stallion. “If anyone would ask my opinion, I’d say you passed your test today.”

  John sat in a cushioned chair and stared at his captain and his female squire, both of whom stood before him with faces as set in fury as his own. His shock at the girl’s actions had yielded quickly to anger—and then a defeating sense of impotence. What was he supposed to do? He had planned to send the girl away after telling her she could never pass a test of knighthood, but with one sure stroke she had unseated his best horseman.

  He decided to dispense with the usual formalities and meet fire with fire. “I never intended for things to go this far,” he said, glaring at Novak. “You, Sir Knight, should have had better control of your squire.”

  A momentary look of discomfort crossed the captain’s face, then his lower lip pushed forward in something akin to a childish pout. “Consider now, my lord, the situation. Was I supposed to tie her hand and foot?” Novak spoke in a choking voice, as if he were strangling on repressed epithets. “You said, my lord, that we might let her continue—”

  “I said you should quietly pull her out of the test,” John answered, grinding the words between his teeth.

  “My lord.”

  John jerked his head toward the girl. Her face was flushed, but an air of calm and self-confidence shone from her like a halo. “My lord, I think we can say that I passed your test.”

  “The test was halted. You did not defeat Manville. You had no chance to complete the duel.”

  She set her chin in a stubborn line. “How do you know I could not have defeated him in a duel? You did not expect me to unseat him in the joust, but I did. Other knights have not performed as well as I, and yet they wear your emblem.” She looked up at him with eyes glittering in restless passion. “May I, my lord, take my vows and become a knight in your service? All who saw me today on the field will support your decision to make me a knight.”

  “No,” John snapped, his voice hoarse with frustration. He opened his hands, trying to disguise his annoyance. “You are a woman, and knights are men. Can a rose become a tulip? No. Though it may share the same color, though it may even smell as sweet—”

  “Tulips,” she interrupted, seeming very pleased with herself, “do not smell.”

  John flung his hand upward, thrusting her objection away. “You cannot be a knight, and that is final. King Wenceslas would think I had lost my good sense were I to knight a woman.”

  “The king,” she whispered, lifting a brow, “does not have to know. No one has to know, only you and my mentor Novak. I have kept my gender a secret until now; I can keep it forever, if need be.”

  “Lady Zelenka saw through your disguise,” John retorted, irked by the girl’s cool, aloof manner. “She told me your secret weeks ago.”

  The delicate brow—too delicate for a boy’s he now realized—lifted again. “Weeks ago? And yet you said nothing.”

  “I was curious,” he insisted with returning impatience. “I wanted to see how committed you were—and if my captain could be as blind as I.”

  “My lord!” Novak burst out, shocked.

  “I am very committed, and Novak has found no fault with my labors,” the girl answered, taking charge with quiet assurance. “I have worked without complaint, fought until my arms ached, mounted every horse I fell off. I have shared no secrets, spread no rumors, and drunk none of your wine. In respect to my moral behavior,” her green eyes narrowed slightly, “I have behaved better than the men in your service. The chambermaids and village girls are safe in my company, and that is more than you could say for half the men in yonder garrison—”

  “Enough.” John folded his hands, determined to try another approach with this stubborn young woman. “Why do you want to be a knight? I understand that you are an orphan and destitute since the burning of your father’s shop, and I have heard that you seek refuge from Lord Laco. But you could be safe and yet genteel as a lady’s maid or a companion to some gentlewoman. You could enter one of the convents in the countryside.”

  Her expression clouded in anger. “I would not enter a Romanist convent if the gates of heaven lay therein,” she retorted, rancor sharpening her voice. “I
love God and Jesus Christ truly, but those red-robed cardinals and foul priests are my sworn enemies! My mother died due to a cardinal’s selfishness, and my father, who would turn the other cheek to his cruelest enemy, was struck down with Cardinal D’Ailly’s blessing. So I have sworn to fight for the righteous gospel taught by Jan Hus and Jerome of Prague and all those who carry the holy Word of God to the people. And I have vowed to take vengeance upon those who have hurt the people I love.”

  Feeling suddenly weary in the face of her fierce anger, John shook his head. “I can find no reason to spoil the peace of a convent or another lord’s house with this ferocious temper,” he muttered, turning his gaze to Novak. “Can you, Sir Knight?”

  “No, my lord,” the knight answered, sighing in what looked like relief.

  John paused, taking a frank and assessing look at the girl before him. She had proved her bravery and courage, she had demonstrated her wit and skill with languages, and she was as educated as any nobleman’s daughter. In truth, she might be an asset in the cause he had undertaken with Jan Hus. In the days to come they would need a scholar, a scribe, and perhaps even a woman who could slip unnoticed into council rooms and churches, past guards and priests. And, truth be told, she was a pleasure to look upon, even in men’s clothing, and her reading a delight to the ears—

  He learned forward, reining in his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by inappropriate romantic notions. The girl was half his age, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to court a woman pretending to be a man. But what could he do with her? She would not go quietly into one of his villages—he had the feeling she would not go quietly anywhere. Allowing her to continue in this masquerade was unthinkable, but surely she would not persist in this role forever. And while she served, she might be useful to Hus’s cause.