The Silver Sword

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Who was more important, the cardinal or this loudmouthed youth? They had both made her suffer, but Miloslav’s death would affect no one. A blow struck against D’Ailly, however, would resonate throughout the civilized world. Miloslav might be a braggart and a scoundrel, but the very root of perdition rode somewhere in the woods behind her.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the road. If they had left only yesterday, they could not be far ahead. Cardinals traveled in ponderous processions; if she rode well, she could overtake them.

  “I will be off, then,” she called, wheeling her stallion around. Ignoring the laughter of the men on the rampart, she spurred Midnight forward and followed the rutted path that would lead her westward to her quarry.

  The knights of Lidice rocked with mirth until the mysterious messenger had vanished around a turn in the road. As the dust settled, Miloslav wiped his eyes and slapped one of the knights on the back, ready to descend to his chamber.

  “No courage at all in that one,” the knight remarked, returning his arrow to the quiver on his back. “One word from you, my lord, and he was away like the wind.”

  “It may have been the urgency of the message that drove him away,” another guard said, folding his arms. “Of certain he was odd, though. I have never seen a messenger from the council travel without an escort or ensign.”

  “Neither have I.” Miloslav frowned, an ominous thought taking shape in his mind. He could not find any trace of that knight in his memory, but there was something about him, something oddly familiar. He had not seen such defiance since that fool Ernan O’Connor chose to die on a muddy street rather than bend to a nobleman’s wishes.

  Miloslav perched on the edge of a stone railing and scratched at his beard, thinking. There had been something peculiar in that slender knight, some passion born of experience, some personal hatred and grief, evidenced by the knight’s quick move to remove his gauntlet. But who was this nameless knight, and when had Miloslav given him offense? In all the winding length of his memory Miloslav could not recall offending a knight who had let the offense pass—or one who survived a challenge with enough spirit to confront him yet again.

  A sense of uneasiness crept into his mood like a wisp of smoke. Something was not right. Any messenger from Constance should have passed the cardinal and Miloslav’s father on the road … and Miloslav could not ever recall seeing a messenger from the council who rode alone. The journey was too long and too dangerous to send a single knight with an important message.

  Someone meant harm, either to the cardinal or Miloslav’s father.

  His hands were suddenly slick with sweat, yet his mind went cold and sharp, focused to a dagger’s point. “Saddle my mount,” he called to a groom, taking a moment to tie on his cloak. He would not need armor for an encounter with that slender knight—only a sword, a bow, and maybe a stout piece of rope to bind the traitor.

  If he decided to let him live.

  Thirty-Five

  A faint wind breathed through the trees, and Anika leaned over the saddle and peered down at the hoofprints and carriage ruts on the path, then smiled in pleased surprise. An hour before, she had passed a clearing where several charred campfires still steamed from the previous night; Cardinal D’Ailly and his party could not be far ahead. The cardinal probably traveled with at least two carriages and several knights, and Lord Laco surely had at least that many. A procession that size would not move rapidly through the mountains.

  She picked up her reins, ready to prod Midnight forward, but a sharp, insistent crack in the woods set alarm bells ringing within her. Turning in the saddle, Anika saw an arrow protruding from a tree trunk only an arm’s length away from her head. The missile’s shaft was still vibrating. Stiff with surprise and terror, she slid from her saddle in a heap, taking care to hold tight to the reins so Midnight could shield her.

  Panic rioted within her. Who was attacking? Robbers? Hussites? Catholics? Whoever it was, she knew with pulse-pounding certainty that she would be dead now if her unknown assailant had wanted to kill her. She had been riding without her helmet, completely exposed, as relaxed as if she were sitting for a portrait. The aggressor had uttered no warning, and she had been defenseless. Why had she been singled out? And where was her enemy? The arrow had come from behind her, but he could have moved. He could be nearly upon her even now.

  Standing on shaky legs, Anika held tight to her saddle, keeping Midnight’s flank before her as a shield and her head beneath the curve of the horse’s back. With a trembling hand she carefully reached toward the cantle where her helmet hung. Seizing the blessed hunk of metal, she thrust her head into it while absently murmuring a prayer: “Father God, who art in Heaven, blessed be your son and the one who trusts in you.”

  She was alone, far away from every friend, and facing an invisible enemy. Last night she had dreamed of her showdown with Cardinal D’Ailly, had mentally rehearsed every step of the fatal ballet in which she would confront, swing, and slash. But she had never imagined this place and time.

  “Hussite knight!” The cry echoed among the hills but definitely came from the trail behind her. “Show yourself and prepare to meet your heretic friends in hell!”

  Anika choked back a frightened cry. She rose on tiptoe, carefully raising her head above the horse’s back. For a moment nothing moved amid the foliage and trees. Then her wide eyes spied a gleam of sunlight on a bright hauberk. One man stood there in the brush, a hooded cloak concealing his head, a bow in his hands. Who was he? A straggler from D’Ailly’s caravan?

  No. In an instant her anger fled and she could taste hate in her mouth—acid, foul, burning. Any man who attacked from behind and without warning was no knight. Knights were trained to fight fairly, to give largess to an enemy who asked for mercy, to model God’s justice. This man was a cold-blooded and cowardly villain, probably hoping to rob her as soon as he had finished with this torturous game of cat and mouse.

  “Come out and show yourself,” Anika cried, breathless with rage. As her voice bounced among the trees, she tensed—in her fear and anger she had spoken in her woman’s voice.

  Her assailant lowered his bow. Even from this distance Anika saw his teeth part in a smile of overweening confidence and surprise.

  Heaven above, he knows. And he thinks I am a helpless maid dressed up for disguise, a girl clad in her father’s armor.

  His next words proved her suspicions. “My lady,” he called as he came forward from his hiding place, the lively note in his voice only incensing her more, “how sorry I am to disturb the peace of your journey. But I did not expect to come across such a rare treasure. I was told to watch for those troublesome Hussite knights who practice witchcraft and worship a dead heretic.”

  She felt sweat bead on her forehead and under her arms as he came close enough for her to see his face. Then prickles of cold dread crawled along her back as he pushed back the hood from his head. Miloslav!

  She pressed her hand to Midnight’s flank and forced herself to think. If she leaped on her horse and galloped away, he could have an arrow in her back before she’d gone twenty paces. And even if she did manage to elude him, he knew these woods. He could tear through the forest and cut her off at a bend in the road, or lie in wait for her as she blindly pursued the cardinal.

  She swallowed down the taste of bile and let her head fall against her saddle. She could hear the whispers of his feet compressing the ground as he advanced. Then he stopped, barely ten feet in front of her horse. When she lifted her head, he caught her eye and gave her an exaggerated wink. “Excuse my manners,” he said, his blue eyes dark and insolent, “but I forgot to ask if you are in some sort of trouble. Can I offer you a nobleman’s assistance?”

  Perhaps she could surprise him. Still holding the reins in her hands, Anika released the saddle and moved a step back, for the knave to better see her form. Thank heaven she still wore her helmet. Though he knew her a woman, he did not yet know which woman he faced.

  “You have pro
ved already that you do not intend to assist me,” she said softly, her eyes not leaving his for an instant. “No honorable man would strike from a hiding place, and without warning.”

  Lord Laco’s son shrugged and held out his hands. “An honest mistake. When the land is filled with heretics, one cannot be too careful.” He stepped closer, spooking the stallion. Afraid the animal would kick her, Anika dropped the reins and let Midnight trot away, leaving herself exposed and vulnerable.

  Her eyes roamed over his figure. Over his hauberk he wore a sword at his waist, safely sheathed. A dagger hung from his belt. Somewhere in the woods he had discarded his cowardly bow and the quiver of arrows as well. He must have felt her appraising gaze, for he lifted his chin, revealing at close range a youthful face already seamed with deep-cut lines, a map of violent passions and unhealthy habits.

  She retreated before his gaze, hunching her shoulders forward under her armor, making herself as small as possible inside it. Let him think the armor was merely a disguise; let him believe the sword hung at her waist only for show.

  “Come, my girl,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Cardinal D’Ailly and Lord Laco cannot be far ahead. I believe you had a message for them?”

  Anika took another step backward. Let him think her afraid—she was. He had to believe she was a coward.

  “Ah, I see by your eyes that you are frightened. There is no need to be frightened of me, my lady.”

  Again he stepped closer, but this time Anika held her ground. “Stay back, sir,” she whispered, softening her voice. Slowly, awkwardly, she pulled her sword from its sheath as though it were heavy and unnatural in her grasp. Folding both hands around it, she let the tip fall to the ground. “Do not come closer, or I shall be forced to defend my honor.”

  “Foolish girl,” Miloslav sneered, coming closer. He now wore an expression of remarkable malignity. “Drop that blade before you cut yourself. You won’t be needing it today.”

  “No.” She shook her head stubbornly.

  “Woman!” A sudden thin chill hung on the edge of his words. “By all the saints, I’ll make you drop that blade!”

  “You will not make me do anything!” she yelled, seething with mounting rage. He rushed at her then, a thunderous scowl darkening his brow. With the ease that comes from long practice, Anika swung the blade up and across, neatly cutting the exposed area of flesh beneath his chin.

  Stunned as much by her movement as by the sting of pain at his throat, Miloslav staggered backward, a soft gasp escaping him. The wound was not deep, but it bled freely. He lifted his hand to the cut, then pulled it away, studying his blood-spangled palm as if he had never seen it before. After a long moment, he gave her a mocking smile and seemed to swell as he considered her in a new light.

  “You clever wee witch! Do you know who you have just cut?”

  “You are Miloslav, son of the villainous Lord Laco!”

  His sharp face twisted in anger. “Brave words from a girl who hides in a man’s armor. Come closer, my dear, and let me see what variety of fruit I am about to pluck!”

  Without hesitation, Anika charged at him, knowing she would have to inflict all the damage she could before he drew his own sword. He met her rush with a blow, slamming the heel of his hand against the side of her helmet, sending a spray of darkness across the backs of her eyes.

  Her feet gave way, and she fell forward, her sword flying from her hand. The force of his blow sent her helmet tumbling off her head, and she felt gravel and stone grind into her lips as the surfaces of her front teeth scraped the ground. The gleaming hilt of her sword lay only inches away. Choking back a sob, she clawed for it as Miloslav’s shadow loomed over her, his own sword now drawn and ready.

  “You shall not escape me now.” A smile lightened his voice. “Ah, a redhead. I’m partial to them, you know. Turn over, I want to see your lovely face.”

  “No!” Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up and forward, struggling to reach her sword. But one hand, like a band of steel, wrapped around her ankle and dragged her over scree that scratched her armor and scraped her nose and lips. She heard her own voice lift in a crazy, full-throated shriek. Then suddenly that iron grip released her. But before she could move, a heavy weight landed upon her back, pinning her to the ground. Lifting her head, she saw the interplay of shadows and realized that while his heavy boot held her down, his hands were casually tugging at his gloves, his face turning toward the road ahead.

  The empty road ahead. There was no help for her. The knights of Lidice, one of whom might have halted this brutality in the name of chivalry, had already passed. And she, like a proud fool, had left Chlum alone, ignoring Novak’s advice and Lord John’s gentle admonition.

  “There is one thing I find very interesting.” Miloslav’s voice was soft, but the venom in it was clear. “You know me, but I don’t know you—at least I don’t recall having the pleasure of meeting you.”

  His glove landed in the dirt at her face with a soft puffing sound. She turned her head, and suddenly his face was bent toward hers, nearly upside down in his effort to see her.

  “Do my eyes deceive me?” he blurted out. “Can it be the green-eyed beauty from Bethlehem Chapel?” He tugged the other glove from his hand, his voice filled with deadly implacable triumph. “Did you know you are the only woman I could not get? Ah, Anika, how anguish seared my heart when you would not come to Lidice!” A leering smirk passed over his face.

  “Liar!”

  Miloslav laughed as if sincerely amused. “Do not worry, my dear. I am a devoted lover. I have stored the memory of your lovely face like a seed in the dark and fertile soil of my imagination. And now I am delighted to find that in the bright light of this day, that memory has bloomed to flesh and blood within my grasp.”

  Keeping the weight on his foot upon her back, he lowered his remaining glove to her face, delicately tracing the outline of her eyes, nose, cheek, and chin. “Though your lovely face is not so pretty, today, hmmm? I do believe that cheek will have a bruise on the morrow … if I decide to let you live long enough to feel it.” His voice went softer still, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its control. “You see, Anika, you have displeased me mightily. I offered you a place in my home, and you spurned it. No one says no to me … and lives to enjoy the consequences of such folly.”

  Resisting the urge to panic or protest, Anika took a deep breath. Why was she lying here like a dove in the coils of a snake? She was not helpless; she had trained hard and long. As a knight of Chlum she had passed her test and proved her mettle. Though she might never be as strong as others, she was not a quitter. She would not let this brute hurt her. She had not come this far and suffered silently to be left broken and bruised and humiliated in an anonymous patch of forest.

  After a instant in which she struggled for self-control, Anika strengthened her voice and made a solitary demand: “Release me.”

  “Release you?” Miloslav waved his gauntlet before her gaze, then dropped it next to her face, sending another spray of dust into her eyes. “You wanted to throw down the gauntlet before me this morning, didn’t you, fair knight? ’Tis a pity you didn’t. We would not have had to postpone this pleasurable encounter.”

  His cloak fell in the dirt, and Anika realized he was removing what little armor he wore. Why wouldn’t he? He thought her as helpless as a baby.

  “Perhaps,” he droned on, slightly increasing the pressure of his foot upon her back, “if you are quiet and agreeable, I won’t kill you now. When we are done here, I will escort you to the Council at Constance where you can explain why you wanted to find Cardinal D’Ailly. There was no message, am I right? I know you, Anika O’Connor. When you could not be found, I set out to learn all I could about you. I know you and your father were close to Hus. And now you are an enemy of the Church and a spy, else you would not be here dressed in such an unnatural fashion. Only the heresies of Jan Hus would induce a woman to surrender her womanly garb.”

>   His sword made a distinctly metallic sound as he dropped it on the ground behind her. Anika closed her eyes, her clamped lips imprisoning an angry sob.

  “Whether you wear a kirtle or armor makes no difference to me now. You are a lovely wench, Anika, especially when your eyes are flashing with fire.”

  She heard gravel crunch as he knelt beside her. She felt the pressure of his hands upon her hips, then he turned her as easily as if she were a sheaf of straw. Sweat and blood had soaked the hair at his neck and stained his hauberk where she’d cut him, but his mouth curved in a predatory smile.

  “Little Anika,” he said, his hands pinioning her arms to the ground. “So strong! Where did you learn to wield a sword like that? Who has been hiding you all these months?”

  His face loomed closer, and she turned her head to avoid his noxious breath. On the ground she saw her sword, her helmet, the tools of a calling she would disgrace if she could not escape.

  His eyes followed hers, and his hands left her arms as he reached out and grasped her helmet. “This basinet is marked with the ensign of Chlum,” he said, studying the emblem engraved into the metal. He held the helmet to the side while he grinned down at her, his weight heavy as he leaned over her. “So Lord John has been hiding you? No doubt you have repaid him with your favors. But the time has come to share his secrets, so let me kiss your pretty face as well—”

  Obeying an impulse that sprang from some place deep inside her, Anika lifted her hands and grasped her helmet as Miloslav prepared to toss it away. For an instant they grappled for possession, but the strength of desperation flowed through Anika’s veins. In one movement she jerked it from his grasp, then swung it, hard, toward her attacker’s head.

  He did not cry out at the blow. He merely stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise, then crumpled sideways like a rag doll, a thin trickle of blood running from the place in his forehead where the edge of her basinet had cut him.