The Silver Sword (19 page)

When she and the other squires returned to the castle, they invariably found that preparations for dinner were well under way. Dinner was the high point of the castle day, and any important guests were treated to the best Chlum Manor had to offer. The squires and lower servants were employed to attend the guests at dinner. While her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered, Anika carried pitchers of perfumed water to the guests who wanted to wash their hands, then stood behind the diners, dispensing towels, baskets of bread, or whatever the guests needed.

The magnificent bounty of the lord's dinner table always amazed
her. She and her father had enjoyed a great variety of foods in Prague, but she had never seen a dinner to rival those served in Lord John's hall. On any given day, the tables would sag beneath bowls of black puddings, sausages, platters of clove-flavored venison and pepper-seasoned beef, eels and herrings and freshwater fish. On the “lower” tables—those situated farthest from the master—guests helped themselves to huge bowls of spiced pottage, roasts, pastries, and bowls filled with sauces made of vinegar, verjuice, and wine.

The food began arriving from the kitchen and pantry as soon as the lord and his party returned from their morning adventure, and the knights had always filled the hall by the time the squires returned from the woods. Rows of tables lined the great hall, and at these were seated all the members of Lord John's household: the military personnel, including the knights, guards, men-at-arms, and watchmen; clerks; high-ranking servants; and Lord John's secretary. Visiting vassals from other manors under Lord John's authority filtered among the household members, and every day Anika saw new faces in the dinner crowd.

At the front of the spacious hall stood a raised platform upon which Lord John sat at his table with his steward, Demetr, and any honored guests. From time to time the master called for the assembly's attention in order to introduce his guests—the imperious Lady Zelenka one week, a lovely Lady Ludmila the next—and always, Demetr watched the dinner proceedings with hawkish eyes, as if he measured and calculated exactly how many bites of the lord's bounty went into each mouth present.

During her first week at the castle Anika had assumed that Lady Zelenka was soon to become Lord John's wife, and she was stunned when one of the other squires told her that Lord John did not want to marry again. “Why not?” she blurted out, too surprised to phrase the question more tactfully.

Her informant, a thin, wiry twelve-year-old called Lev, shrugged and lifted a basket of bread into his arms. “Some say he is too busy to woo a bride. Others say he hasn't found one to please him. I've even heard it said that he still mourns for his wife in heaven.”

Anika frowned as she followed Lev from the kitchen. Though her master did live a busy life, beautiful young women regularly visited the castle. Surely one of them would catch his eye, unless Lev was right about Lord John's mourning. She did not doubt that he would please any woman, for among all the knights and important visitors to the castle, she had not seen another man half as imposing or attractive.

She paused for a moment and wondered if his sons had inherited his charm. She had not yet seen any sign of the noble children; she assumed they were safely tucked away in the castle with their tutor and a nursemaid. She resolved one day to befriend one of the servants and try to learn more about her mysterious master.

There was little time in her day for idle gossip or speculation. After dinner and its subsequent entertainment—either music from a traveling troubadour, jokes from a jester, or carols and dancing—the knights returned to the garrison to pursue their individual interests while the lord met with his steward and various overseers of his estates. More than ready to rest, Anika joined the other squires in the noisy kitchen, an outbuilding situated well away from the castle. Amid the lowing of cattle and the bleat of sheep in their pens outside, she forced herself to eat with fingers too tired to hold a knife and spoon.

After her brief meal came her time of training, and Novak proved to be a stern taskmaster. To build her endurance and strength, he set her to cleaning out the stables. To help her become unafraid around the huge stallions that served as the knights' war-horses, he commanded her to curry the beasts. In order that she might be familiar with each piece of armor, Novak had her clean and polish his armor until it gleamed. Everything she did, Novak assured her, including serving at dinner, raking the sand in the courtyard, and butchering wild game, was designed to shape a squire into a knight. And, little by little, ache by ache, Anika realized that he spoke the truth.

She would have passed her first four months at Chlum Castle in relative obscurity if Lord John had not loved poetry. After the labors
of the day, most noblemen called for a small supper which they ate with their wives and children. Since Lord John had no wife and seemed intent upon hiding his children, he called for his best men: Novak, his captain; Demetr, his steward; and Vasek, his chaplain. In the company of these three—and a host of servants, including Anika—Lord John ate a light supper and relaxed with the men he loved best and trusted most.

After dinner, when the torches were lit and night had drawn down like a black cowl over his estate, Lord John yearned for peace and reflection. He customarily asked his chaplain to bring a book to dinner until he discovered that Novak's squire was a gifted and eager reader.

Anika wasn't sure why she spoke up that night. During dinner Lord John had asked the chaplain to fetch a copy of
Roman de Renard,
a book of verse tales which were popular in France and Germany. Anika felt a thrill shiver through her senses at her master's request; the collection of tales about Renard the fox, Ysengrin the wolf, Tybert the cat, and King Noble the lion had been one of her favorite books since childhood. She had made several copies for noblemen in Prague and had committed certain melodic verses to memory.

But Vasek flatly refused to read it. “The book is frivolous and vain,” he protested, slapping his hand on the table in a rare display of temper. “It is bad enough that you spend your time with that troublemaking Hus, Lord John, but to request such inane entertainment at supper is far beneath a man of your character.”

The silence that ensued after the priest's outburst was like the hush after a tempest when the leaves hang limp in the quiet and nature seems to catch her breath. Anika paused behind the lord's table, her water jug on her hip, her mouth open in surprise. The chaplain was a dour old man, rarely smiling and speaking only when spoken to, but never had she seen him give any sign that he disapproved of his master's actions or affiliations.

Still, he was a priest. And in the instant when he spoke against Jan Hus, Anika's brow lifted. Could he be one of those who supported the corrupt pope?

Before she knew what her tongue intended, spiteful words poured from her mouth: “That book is neither profane nor frivolous. It is a celebration of life. If Vasek will not read, I will read it for you, Lord John.”

The servants at the back of the room gasped in delighted horror, and Anika bit her lip, paling at the enormity of her blunder. Squires and servants were to be seen, not heard. They were to serve and learn meekness through humiliation. They were to listen and observe their betters until they could unconsciously ape the manners and tongue of the nobility. Never
ever were
they to speak out and draw attention to themselves.

“Kafka!” Novak's angry rebuke hardened his features, and Anika felt her face grow hot with humiliation. Of all the squires in the castle, she had the most reason to be quiet and inconspicuous, and yet in one thoughtless moment she had drawn the attention of the master himself.

She lowered her head but looked up through her lashes. Lord John was staring at her, but his quick brown eyes were humorous and tender, not reproachful.

“I am glad you can read, Kafka,” he said, his tone mild and curious. “But these verses are written in French.”

“If it please you, my lord,” she whispered, keeping her eyes low, “forgive me for speaking out of turn. I misspoke myself.” She paused, torn between wanting to fade back into the tapestries upon the wall and sharing the joys of a good book. She glanced upward and took a wincing little breath. “But I speak French. I read it, too.”

“Well.” The master's voice echoed with surprise and delight. “The pleasure shall be ours, then. Vasek, if it pleases you not to hear verse during your supper, you may take yourself away.” He glanced at Demetr and Novak. “Do either of you have any objections to hearing the story of Renard the fox?”

Demetr shook his head quickly, and though Anika thought she saw disapproval in Novak's eye, he shook his head as well. “Then, Kafka, take the book from the chest yonder and begin reading wherever you like. What a delightful evening we shall pass tonight!” A wry
smile curled his lips as Vasek scuttled away. “After a trying day, there is nothing better than frivolous entertainment to put the mind at rest.”

And so Anika found the book and lost herself in the story she read, laughing at the fox's jokes and weeping during the woeful episodes. When she had finished, Lord John declared that he had never spent a more agreeable evening and that from that night forward Kafka the squire should be free from his serving duties in order to read and entertain the master and his men.

Anika clutched the book to her chest and lowered her eyes as a feeling of glorious happiness sprang up in her heart. She was safe, she was content, and, truth be told, she was thoroughly enjoying the danger and excitement of her disguise.

All in all, life at Chlum Castle was very satisfying.

H
elp!” Anika cried, feeling as hollow as her voice sounded. The muscles in her arms and legs screamed from strain, and she was quite certain that on the morrow she would find bruises on her back and rear. Novak had just given her leave to make her first practice run to tilt at the quintain, and Anika had found the exercise completely beyond her ability. 'Twas bad enough they'd placed her upon a moving mountain of restless horseflesh, but then she had been handed a heavy shield for her left arm and a lance for her right. She was
supposed
to ride at a breakneck pace toward the quintain, a cross-shaped target with a shield on one arm of the swiveling crosspiece and a punching bag on the other, but right now that goal seemed as impossible as scratching her ear with her elbow.

All morning long she'd watched her fellow squires hit the shield with their lances, then duck before the swinging weight came round to unseat the unwary. Only one boy, a small page called Svec, had been too slow and was knocked from his horse. Anika had felt certain she could manage the quintain. 'Twas a child's exercise, after all, as elementary as learning to tie a knot or parry a sword blow.

But then they had placed her upon her mount, and Anika immediately wished she had been more honest about her lack of riding experience. All boys from the country practically grew up on horseback; they could tell a stallion from a mare and an Arabian from a Percheron at thirty paces.

Anika knew absolutely nothing about the beasts, but her fellow squires made riding look easy. And for weeks she had been
grooming, feeding, and harnessing the creatures. How difficult could riding be?

She soon found out. The stallion she mounted was a Percheron called Midnight, a war-horse from Normandy. Midnight was an elegant, heavy animal whose head towered above hers when she cleaned his stall. He eyed her with undisguised curiosity when she climbed upon his broad back, and she hugged her knees tight to his side, feeling like a flea on a dog's neck. The shield hung heavily upon her left arm, but she reminded herself to keep it high, protecting her face and chest. A series of tattered flags hung from the end of the ten-foot lance she clung to with her right hand, and for a moment she wished they would disappear. It was all she could do to hold the lance—how was she supposed to control the animal, aim the flags, hit the target, and then remember to
duck?

“Ready?” Squire Lev stood at her side holding the reins. When she nodded, he draped the strips of leather over the pommel of her wooden saddle.

The stallion tossed his great head and bounced in agitation. Anika placed her weight on the stirrups, which suddenly felt dangerously insubstantial. Seeing no way out, she nodded. Lev smacked the stallion across the rear, sending the animal bolting across the field.

Mercifully, Midnight had faced the quintain many times before; he knew where he was expected to run. For fifty paces or so, Anika actually thought she might at least partly succeed. But gravity and the impact of Midnight's drumming hooves inched the lance from her hand as if a relentless ghost tugged it away from her. As she lost her grip on the lance, her feet lost their place in the bouncing stirrups, and her body began inexorably to shift, bit by bit, out of the saddle.