The Silver Sword (17 page)

Relief, tentative but true, coursed through Anika's body. “Yes, my lord. I know much of women. I … lived with one.”

“Oh? Did you dwell in a convent, then?”

A momentary panic set upon Anika until she looked up and saw his teasing smile. “No, my lord. But I had a mother. And I have read
many books, including
The Art of Courtly Love.
You may trust me, sir.”

“Very well, then.” Lord John crossed his arms and looked at Petrov. “To you, Sir Knight, I am pleased to grant this boon. Your ward, Kafka, shall join my household as a squire and take his vows of knighthood when he is willing and ready to withstand his test. And you, squire,” he shifted his gaze to Anika, “shall have Sir Novak as your tutor. He will train you in all you need to know. In return, you shall serve him with all your energy.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And when you have a spare moment, I beg you—please teach Sir Novak how to be more diplomatic with women.”

“Sir!” The sole voice of protest rose from the frustrated knight. “I have no need of a squire; I am too old to be training a young one—”

“I believe Lady Zelenka demanded that I grant you a suitable judgment,” Lord John answered with mock severity. “Thank God that you did not merit a harsher one than this. Gentlemen,”—he rose to his feet—“I give you good day.”

Without a backward glance, Lord John of Chlum turned and left the hall.

John smiled as he made his way up the narrow winding staircase that led to his bedchamber and private office. He had found it difficult to keep a straight face in that last interview, for Novak's irritation and frustration with women like the fiery Lady Zelenka were legendary. The knight frequently complimented John's wisdom in not remarrying, but Novak had never known how pleasant marriage could be. The knight had no young sons who needed a mother, and he had never tasted the sweetness of lying in a godly marriage bed with his wife's hair entwined about his neck …

John abruptly slammed the door on his memories. The only things left of his marriage were his sons and the raw sores of an aching heart. He had, in idle moments, wondered if he would ever find happiness in love, but though a succession of titled, beautiful young ladies routinely attended dinners and festivals at Chlum
Castle, not one of them had been able to hold his attention as well as his heart. After his arranged marriage, he had developed a fondness for his wife, but if he married again, he hoped love would come naturally, without force.

He had met countless beauties, women who could sing like nightingales and crochet as skillfully as spiders. His friends had introduced him to women with quick wits, sharp tongues, and brains that could tally the castle expenditures more rapidly than his steward. If he had wanted a soft, attractive woman, one to pleasure and soothe and bear many children, he could have plucked one from any house in Bohemia.

But this was not an age for softness. Trouble roamed the land in the guise of godliness, and corruption had already begun to erode the foundation stones of his beloved Bohemia. These were days when strength and courage mattered most, in women as well as men. And while John wasn't exactly certain what his soul yearned for, he knew he had not yet found it.

Unless Zelenka's fiery anger could qualify as courage.

He paused in the stairwell, gathering his thoughts. Perhaps he would ask her to remain at Chlum for another week.

In the wide courtyard between the thick chemise walls and the castle itself, Anika unleashed her tongue. “Sir Petrov, why didn't you say something?” she hissed, her body as tight as a bowstring as she followed the old knight through the blinding sun. “Why did you stand idly by while Lord John assigned me to that man? He hates women, Petrov, and he will hate me without even knowing why. For though I may disguise my body, it is more difficult to disguise my nature, and a woman is what I am!”

“The idea was Lord John's; who am I to dissuade him?” Petrov answered, nodding complacently. “And I don't think I could have arranged it better myself. You will be in good hands, little bird, for Sir Novak is a noble knight. I have heard many reports of his valor and loyalty. He is honest, even if he is rough. He is skilled. He is loyal
to a fault. He supports his master, his master supports Jan Hus, and we are aligned in the same cause. I see the hand of Almighty God in this, and you should sleep well tonight.”

“Sleep well?” She stopped abruptly in the sand. “Sir Petrov, how can I sleep at all with that ogre at my side?”

“The Lord who keeps you neither slumbers nor sleeps,” Petrov answered, grinning over his shoulder. He slowed his steps but did not stop. “Have you forgotten? The Lord is your keeper: the Lord is your shade upon your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve you from all evil, he shall preserve your soul. The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”

The words of Scripture acted as a salve; the anger and fear that had been building inside Anika slowly dissipated. “The One Hundred Twenty-first Psalm,” she whispered, feeling a stab of guilt. That psalm had been her father's favorite, and in her childhood he had made her recite it whenever the old nightmare woke her.

“You will be blessed,” Petrov answered, turning so that he stood directly before her. “God holds you in his hand, and I have no worries about what will happen on the morrow. You have a bright heart, little bird, and you carry my silver sword. They will keep you safe until we meet again.” He looked briefly over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to her and smiled tenderly. “If you were wearing a woman's gown I'd embrace you now,” he said simply. “But as you're not, and because there are eyes upon us, I'll just say farewell.”

He reached out and grasped her hand as a man would take leave of his friend, but he held her hand a moment longer than necessary, his eyes brimming with affection and concern.

Staring at him, Anika floundered in an agonizing maelstrom of emotion. She
wanted
to become a squire, she
wanted
to learn to defend herself. She had no choice but to leave Petrov and Prague and Master Hus, for Lord Laco was as determined as a bulldog; he would not leave her alone until he found her or wearied of the chase. And above all, she yearned to learn the ways of war, so when she at last stood before Cardinal D'Ailly—and she knew she would one day—
she would know how to exact vengeance for the sake of her mother and father.

Why, then, did she feel such an acute sense of loss?

“Take care of the books,” she told Petrov for what felt like the hundredth time.
Take care of my old life. Keep it safe so I can return to it one day soon.

Petrov understood her unspoken message. “I will take care of everything, Kafka,” he answered, smiling at her as if she were a small child. “And I will see you again in yet a little while.”

And then, as tears sprang to her eyes, he turned smartly and walked away, a majestic, sword-thin figure retreating into the gathering dusk.

F
or an hour after Petrov left, Anika wandered through the courtyard, her gunnysack in her hand, her head lowered, her step quick. She figured no one would suspect she had no idea what to do as long as she appeared to know where she was going.

“You! Squire! Over here!”

Anika turned toward the sound of the voice and saw her new master, Sir Novak, lounging in the doorway of a large stone chamber built into one of the inner defensive walls.

“Are you coming in at all? Or are you going to circle the courtyard until midnight?”

His sarcastic tone made her flush with humiliation, but she lifted her chin and walked quickly in his direction, swinging her sack up and over her shoulder. “I didn't know if you wanted me to bed down in the garrison or the stable,” she mumbled as she approached.

“In here, boy,” Novak answered, pressing his broad hand to the back of his neck. “This is the garrison, and all the lord's men sleep in here. Come in, put your stuff away, and let me have a look at you.”

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she followed him into the room. Ignoring a knot of knights playing cards in a corner, Novak sat down at a table cluttered with several half-empty tankards and the remains of dinner. Her boots crunched over layers of dried bread crumbs and chicken bones littering the floor. Not knowing what else to do, she lowered her gunnysack to the ground in front of her, then paused by the table and turned to face her new master.

His gray eyes narrowed and hardened as he studied her. Emboldened
by his scrutiny, Anika studied him in return. Her father would have said that Novak was a man's man, a model of masculinity. His neck was so thick that his head appeared to rest directly on his massive shoulders, and even sprawled in a chair he looked taller than any man in the room. Bulging muscles outlined the hauberk, or coat of mail, that he wore, and even though his face had the craggy look of an unfinished sculpture, an air of command flowed from him. She would have known that Novak was the captain of the knights even if Lord John had not told her.

“How may I serve you, sir?” she asked, dipping her head slightly in a sign of respect.

“Who said I wanted you to serve me?” he snapped, venom in his voice. “Heaven knows I need a brat at my ankles like I need a hole in my boot. But since Lord John has commanded it …” he thrust his fingers through the fringe of graying hair above his ears, “I suppose I will have to tolerate you. But I will have you know—”

He lowered his eyes, dark and hard as cannon balls, upon her.

“What, sir?” Anika lifted her chin, determined not to let him cow her into submission. If she cringed before her master today, she'd be cringing for weeks to come. She'd never be successful as a squire.

He gave her a black look, irritation evident on his face. “First, boy, you will never interrupt me again. Second, you will not become a knight in a week. Too many cocky youths think they can move into a garrison one day and ride with our knights on the morrow. You have much to learn before you'll even set foot in a stirrup.”

“I am ready to learn,” Anika answered, waving aside his doubts.

“A squire must learn to serve before he learns to fight,” Novak answered, gazing at her speculatively. “You are not here to serve Lord John. From this day forward you will be my personal servant. You will clean and care for my armor, my weapons, my possessions, and my horse. If we are called away, you will accompany me as a camp servant. And you will not—” his lips thinned with anger, “speak to me about women. Keep your books and your thoughts about that cursed race to yourself.”

Anika forced her lips to part in a rigid smile. “I am ready to serve, sir.”

“Good.” Novak paused and took a long swig from a tankard, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at her again. “After you know how to serve, then you will learn how to be a knight. Until then you will hunt with me, and we will test your courage as we hone your riding and weapons skills. You will practice with the sword; you will strengthen your body to carry the weight of armor. At dinner you will attend me at the lord's table, you will listen and not speak, you will learn how a knight conducts himself. You will learn how to wrestle—”