The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  The thought froze in his brain. Anika was a great deal more than a dog; perhaps his mistake lay in treating her as a pet. Frantiska, after all, had seemed content at Chlum, thrilled to sit beside him at dinner, satisfied to watch over his sons. And he had shown only as much appreciation as he dared. If he had been more open about his feelings and affection, she might have begun to make demands in that bizarre feminine language he did not understand.

  Was that why he feared Anika? If he told her how much he cared, she would press him, and he would disappoint her, and she would be hurt. And if Anika were hurt, neither Novak, nor Lev, nor Svec, nor half the knights in the garrison would ever forgive him. John would never forgive himself.

  “It is better this way,” he whispered to Bela, his mind pulling away from his unsolvable dilemma. “She must choose. Either she remains with us as a scribe, or she leaves. But either way she is responsible for her own decision.”

  Sighing in contentment, Bela snorted softly.

  Thirty-Four

  For two days Anika did not sleep or eat. She wandered among the knights, doing routine tasks in a routine way, while her heart and mind battled one another. Her heart yearned for the man who had taken her hands, the strangely vulnerable master whose outward charm and openness masked a very private man. Her mind decried the attraction, for it was obvious enough that Lord John of Chlum cared only for Anika as a scribe. For four years they had worked together, planned together, witnessed victories and defeats. And though she did not understand why he had decided to quit the Hussite League, he was right about one thing—her knighthood had lost much of its luster.

  Anika walked to the well in the courtyard and sat down on the stone rim, turning to peer into its murky depths as if she could glimpse a picture of the future forming in the dark. Why wouldn’t God just tell her what to do? She had sworn to serve him, and yet he had given her no clear sign … only yearnings. She was twenty years old, and her heart now yearned for softness, for quiet nights and companionable suppers, for the mewling of a baby in her arms. But her brain reminded her sharply that she would not find those things with Lord John. A great social gulf stood between them, widened further by her disguise and his indifference.

  Between her heart and mind, like a solid stone fence, stood her will—and the vow she had taken. She could make no choices about her future until she had kept her vow and avenged her father, her mother, Petrov, and now Jan Hus. But she could not do that if Lord John would not send his knights to the coming war.

  “Kafka.”

  She lifted her eyes. Novak stood before her, his hands on his hips, a probing query in his gray eyes. “You were supposed to teach Svec how to toss a dagger.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured, uncrossing her legs. She was about to rise, but Novak pressed his hand to her shoulder, stopping her.

  “Welladay, what’s this worried look on your face?” His clear, observant eyes studied her. “You’ve worn this look for two days, and I’m beginning to worry about you.”

  “Would that I could tell you,” she murmured, resting her elbows on her knees. “But I don’t understand the problem myself. I only know that I must make a decision, and God has not yet shown me what I should do.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Has it come to that, then? Is it time for you to …”

  His voice trailed off, and Anika knew he was afraid to finish the thought. “I don’t know what I should do,” she whispered miserably. “Truth to tell, I am ready to leave this armor behind, but I’ve a vow to fulfill and nowhere to go. And I would miss you and the others terribly, Novak, were I to leave Chlum.”

  “There, there, my friend.” Novak sank to the stone edge next to her and clasped his hands. “The garrison won’t be the same without you.” He crinkled his meaty nose. “’Twould be a lot dirtier, and that’s the truth.”

  Anika smiled as a ripple of mirth touched her heart. “I would miss you, too, my mentor.” She clapped her hand upon his broad shoulder. “And I hope that at least I have taught you not to hate women. We are not all cats like Lady Zelenka.”

  He laughed hoarsely. “I heard that she-wolf spent last week at Lidice, hoping to win Laco’s son for a husband. Apparently she has given up on our master and thought to make that arrogant Miloslav an offer of marriage.”

  “They probably deserve each other.”

  “Aye, but I hear she didn’t have enough time to win the rascal’s heart. Cardinal D’Ailly and his retinue descended upon Lidice, and Zelenka’s father called her home lest she spend the night under the same roof as that cursed man.”

  “Cardinal D’Ailly?” Her drifting thoughts hurtled back to earth at the mention of that hated name. She drew herself up, swallowing to bring her heart down from her throat, and pitched her voice below the others in the courtyard. “The cardinal is in Bohemia? Is he still at Lidice?”

  Novak’s brow wrinkled with contemptuous thoughts. “That son of a snake is planning something with Lord Laco. I hear they are returning to Constance within a fortnight, but they are now plotting some sort of strategy for the Catholic League.”

  Her answer came, not as a dazzling burst of mental illumination, but as a tiny pinhole of light. Slowly it widened, gathering strength and scope, until Anika knew exactly what she had to do. God had inspired this idea, and once her vow was fulfilled she could return to Lord John and be whatever he wanted her to be … if he would have her.

  “Thank you, Sir Novak.” Anika placed her hand on the old knight’s arm, then stood.

  “You still haven’t told me what troubles you,” Novak called as she began to walk away. “You will tell me, won’t you?”

  “Some day.” She threw him a smile over her shoulder and kept walking. “You already know too many of my secrets.”

  “Kafka!” Leaping up, he dashed forward and caught her by the arm, spinning her to face him. Annoyance struggled with humor on his rugged face as he glared down at her. “You are not planning on visiting Lidice, are you? Laco is a powerful nobleman, and his knights are a fierce company.” He stepped back, examining her countenance. “What is this expression on your face? You look like a fox about to do something utterly foolish.”

  “Foxes are never foolish, Sir Novak.” She smiled in exasperation.

  “You are my friend, and if I need you, I will tell you. Now let me go; Svec is waiting for me.”

  Novak released her arm but remained in his place, grumbling as she walked away.

  She led Midnight out of the barn for a quiet afternoon ride. The guards saluted her without suspicion, and Anika let the horse move out at a relaxed canter until she knew she had moved beyond the tower guards’ sight. Then she quietly turned the horse toward Lidice.

  The answer, she saw now, was amazingly simple. Her imagination had been clouded by dreams of fighting in the coming war, but why couldn’t she use Petrov’s silver sword in one bold stroke? She could not single-handedly defeat the collective church council, but she could behead it. Cardinal D’Ailly was one of the council’s most influential members; until they elected a pope he would probably be the most powerful. By killing D’Ailly she could both avenge her loved ones and make the corrupt members of the council suffer.

  She rode through the day and into the twilight, studying signposts and the setting sun to find her way. Within an hour after sunset, a shining net of starlight spanned the deep vault of heaven, and in the east a silvery glow outlined the mountains behind Prague. As she rode, a new and unexpected warmth surged through her. She wasn’t afraid. Novak had trained her well, and the long sojourn in the woods outside Constance had prepared her for this overland journey. Everything in her life had led up to this coming day, and Anika basked in the knowledge of her skill.

  She reached one of the small villages outlying Lidice just as she noticed a hint of thinner darkness in the east. She needed to stop now and hobble the horse, for she would need at least an hour of rest.

  The velvet dark, with its smells of manure and animals, seemed to enfold her lik
e a gloved hand as she slipped off her horse and led Midnight over the soft earth of the village road. Where could she rest? She was afraid to sleep near one of the houses, for an early-rising villager might find her, or the stallion might whicker and reveal her whereabouts.

  The moon peeked from behind a cloud, casting shadows and silver light upon the sleeping village, and Anika saw the church steeple rise from the patched rooftops. “Perfect,” she murmured, quickening her step. “A sanctuary.”

  She hesitated when she reached the churchyard. She could go inside, but what if someone discovered her horse? ’Twould be better to rest outside, with Midnight hobbled nearby. Changing direction, she led Midnight to the small graveyard beside the church building. A few melancholy tombstones dotted the gray clumps of grass, looking insubstantial but faintly sinister in the dark, and one large slab of granite lay beneath a particularly imposing stone.

  Anika hobbled the stallion within reach of a thick patch of grass, removed her helmet, then sank to the slab, her armor scraping against the stone. The huge headstone rose above her in the moonlight, reminding her that she was trespassing upon the eternal resting place of Pepik Tichacekov, 1386–1406. Underneath the name and date, the stonecutter had inscribed, If revenge is sweet, why does it leave such a bitter taste?

  “Unlucky Pepik,” Anika whispered, lowering herself to the chilly slab. “Only twenty years old—my age. What did you do, Pepik, to come to your grave so young?”

  She stretched out on the granite block and closed her eyes, willing herself to rest, but through the embracing folds of sleep and snatches of troubled dreams her mind kept replaying the name and age of Pepik Tichacekov—born in 1386, died in 1406. Twenty years old, the sum total of his life represented by a single horizontal slash on a granite marker. As a copyist Anika had inscribed thousands of horizontal slashes; they represented sudden and dramatic breaks in thought or a sharp change in tone—just as the dash on the tombstone represented Pepik Tichacekov’s short and unhappy life.

  The voice of a solitary hound broke the quiet of the night, and Anika sat bolt upright, as wide awake as if someone had just poured cold water on her face. The night was dying; already the India ink sky had turned to indigo. She had to go.

  “Farewell, Pepik Tichacekov,” she murmured, turning to look at the granite marker one final time. The wind, steady and cool from the forest, hooted in response.

  As she unhobbled the horse, she fortified herself for the task ahead by revisiting her past. She reminded herself that her flight to Chlum was precipitated by Lord Laco’s evil intentions toward her, and Laco and D’Ailly were associates. A cold shiver spread over her as she remembered Cardinal D’Ailly’s conduct toward Hus and his presence at her father’s death. She had always dreamed of meeting D’Ailly on the field of battle, but since Lord John would not send his knights to fight, she would take her vengeance alone.

  Dawn had begun to spread its gray light over the earth when Anika rode up to the quiet meadow outside Laco’s castle. Midnight whinnied and shook his head, his jangling bit the only sound in the tranquillity of the woods. Staring at the castle before her, Anika pulled a sealed parchment from a leather sack at her waist. She had personally scrawled out a Latin message for the cardinal, suspecting that D’Ailly would be so alarmed to think the council might act without him that he would hasten to return to Constance. She could then confront him in the woods, without interference from Laco’s knights.

  Gathering her courage, she slipped on her heavy helmet, then mounted and spurred her horse forward.

  “My lord.”

  John looked up, surprised to see Novak entering his bedchamber with a great deal more trepidation than usual. One of the knights must have committed a serious offense.

  “What is it, Sir Novak?” John answered impatiently, dreading the thought of another disciplinary action. That was the problem with knights—the men were too full of themselves, and their toys were too dangerous.

  Novak’s smile was strained, his eyes hard and wary. “He is missing. He did not sleep in his bunk last night.”

  “Who?” John reached out to take a robe from his chamberlain. Demetr, who had entered to go over the household accounts, sighed loudly in exasperation.

  Novak rolled his eyes pointedly at Demetr, and John knew in an instant that the captain spoke of Anika. “Sir Kafka is gone, my lord. He must have ridden out before sunset last night, for the black stallion is missing, and he was Kafka’s favorite. No one has seen him this morning.”

  A sourness rose from the pit of John’s stomach as he sank back onto his bed and silently considered this news. Anika had made her choice, then. He had offered her a place in his home, and she had chosen her disguise instead.

  A series of terrible regrets swept over him. He should have been firmer from the beginning. He never should have allowed her to become a knight. He should have been more open in his appreciation of her skills, and less quick to let his temper rise when she upbraided him about his sons. She had been right, after all, and had probably been Lev’s and Svec’s truest friend.

  “Kafka has joined the Hussite League, then.” He stared at the floor, trying to hide his inner misery from Novak’s probing stare.

  “No, my lord.” Novak spoke slowly, and John looked up. The captain’s charcoal eyes gleamed with a message that could not be voiced before Demetr and the chamberlain. “Kafka asked me last night about Lord Laco,” Novak went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I told him that Cardinal D’Ailly was visiting Lord Laco at Lidice. Kafka seemed excited to hear the news. I believe—no, I am positive—that Kafka has ridden to confront the cardinal.”

  “Lidice?” John closed his eyes as frustration and despair tore at his heart. His failings had been double. Not only had he failed to convince Anika to remain in the safety of his home, he had also failed to save her life. For if she thought she could confront Cardinal D’Ailly at Lidice, she was severely mistaken. Laco’s knights were known for shooting first and later asking questions of arrow-pierced bodies.

  “What should I do?” he asked, more a prayer than a direct question.

  Novak didn’t hesitate. “Mount up, my lord, and I’ll ride with you. If we take the mountain passes, we may be able to redeem that youth from his folly.”

  “Yes.” The hunger to go after her gnawed at John’s heart. He would find the stubborn girl, he would bring her back kicking and screaming if he had to, he would make her understand.

  If only he did not find her too late.

  The sunrise spread across the horizon like a peacock’s tail, luminous and brilliant, and a sigh of relief broke from Anika’s lips as she pressed her mount forward. She was approaching Lord Laco’s castle with a great deal of noise and no sign of stealth, just as a legitimate messenger would.

  She sat straighter, feeling as if her dormant resolve had renewed itself. She had been lulled into a comfortable life at Chlum, but today, finally, her vow would be fulfilled. Cardinal D’Ailly would pay the blood price he had demanded of her parents and Jan Hus, and tonight the world would weep with relief that such concentrated evil had passed out of it. The council, too, would grind to a halt, for D’Ailly was the draft horse behind which that body careened over the lives and souls of men.

  Half a dozen heads appeared over the ridge of the battlement as she galloped forward, guards startled by her rapid and bold approach. “Who goes there?” one of them demanded, his bow already drawn in his hand. “Halt and identify yourself!”

  Anika reined in her galloping horse, knowing she looked suspicious. She had hidden her blue and gold surcoat in the woods, not knowing if she would ever be back to get it. Now she wore only her hauberk, armor, and helmet.

  “I have a message,” she cried, deepening her voice as best she could. “For Cardinal D’Ailly.”

  The knight whispered to his companion, who whispered in turn to the next man in line. Then all but two of the guards disappeared, but the two remaining had nocked arrows into their bows and stood ready to
fire.

  Anika could hear her own quickened breathing. Under her heavy helmet, a bead of sweat trickled down her cheek.

  After a long time, another man appeared on the battlement, and Anika’s heart went into sudden shock when she recognized him. The last traces of boyishness and youth had evaporated from his face, but Miloslav’s arrogant, striking features had not changed.

  Her fingers tightened around the reins as her temper flared. This evil boy’s lechery had stolen her father’s life and forced her to run for her own.

  “Who are you, and why do you seek Cardinal D’Ailly?” Miloslav’s voice scraped like sandpaper against her ears.

  “I bring a message for the cardinal,” Anika repeated, the tight knot within her begging for release. She lifted the sealed parchment and waved it slightly. “The message comes from Constance.”

  Miloslav seemed to pause; then his full lips lifted in a sneer. “I told him not to trust messengers from the council.” His words sent an apprehensive shiver down her spine. Was some new mischief in the making?

  Miloslav gestured toward a road that led off to the west. “The cardinal and my father left for Constance yesternoon. You should have met them on the road.” His voice dripped now with malice. “But perchance you were sleeping in the weeds or making merry with a wench. Or perhaps you had too much ale. In any case, you are not the knight your armor says you are.”

  Anika lifted her chin. Miloslav had always been arrogant and obnoxious. It would be an honor and delight to challenge and beat him on his own field, with his own men watching. She had unseated Manville and even Novak a time or two. She could certainly handle this brazen fool.

  Her fingers moved toward her glove, ready to remove the gauntlet and toss it to the ground in the challenge he obviously desired to provoke, but an inner voice chided her.