The Silver Sword (39 page)

Why?
She quizzed him silently, watching her master stare out the window as she copied a letter about Hus's upcoming journey.
Why can't you leave the past behind and see that two loving sons need you very much?

But his eyes, when he turned to her, were indecipherable. And so she turned back to her parchments, seeking in work the mindless activity that helped her escape—at least temporarily—the deep despair of her loneliness.

By October 11, 1414, the designated day of departure, Anika noted that the Constance-bound procession had grown to include not only Lord John, Peter Mladenovic, Vasek, and a full company of knights from Chlum, but also Lord Venceslas of Duba; Jerome, Hus's assistant and chief disciple; and John Reinstein, a sympathetic parish priest from Prague.

The crisp morning air, bathed in orange sunlight, carried faint hints of coming winter days as the company set out from Chlum. By the time the sun climbed overhead, the procession had entered Prague's city gates. As they moved paradelike through the city, Anika watched in amazement as the houses, shops, and university emptied. A huge throng followed Hus's carriage to the western city gate, where weeping men and women waved their kerchiefs and promised to pray for him.

Upon her horse behind Hus's carriage, Anika heard the shouts of blessing and approval and felt her heart pound beneath her disguising armor. She was glad to leave Chlum, for there she spent too much time in close proximity to a man for whom her feelings grew more confused each day. Her armor, sword, and shield now reminded her why she had set out to become a knight. She had vowed to defend the truth and gain vengeance against those who had destroyed her loved ones. She should rejoice that they had left Chlum Castle, for God had finally placed her feet upon the path she had sought so long.

She now saw with abrupt clarity that the time had come to put thoughts of Lord John, his children, and his sorrows behind her. From this day until her parents were avenged, she would concentrate on the task she had yet to complete.

“Lord John, halt!”

John pulled back on his reins, recognizing the advancing rider's blue and gold standard as his own. This would be Sir Manville or Gregor, both of whom had been scouting the countryside ahead for a possible ambush.

The knight came closer and slowed his horse, then lifted his visor. Through the opening, John recognized Manville's ruddy face. “Ho, Sir Manville, and how is the way ahead?”

“Clear as a mountain stream, my lord,” Manville answered, shooting John a lopsided grin. “There's an inn about an hour's ride from this place, and there I met other scouts on patrol.”

“Oh?” John folded his hands across the pommel of his saddle.
“And as you lifted a tankard to my health, did you hear any interesting gossip?”

Manville grinned. “Aye, Lord John. It seems that Lord Laco of Lidice and his knights are venturing out to Constance, too. They are ahead of us, though, by two days, so we should not encounter them on the road.”

“Laco, eh?” John asked, trying to appear nonchalant. An oddly primitive warning had sounded in his brain at the mention of that nobleman's name, but he had to sheath his inner feelings. After all, Laco had done nothing wrong. He was known to be ambitious, conniving, and ruthless, but though he was a frequent associate of Cardinal D'Ailly and several other prelates, he had made no public condemnations of Master Hus.

But his son had threatened Anika.

John gripped his reins and glanced behind him. Anika rode next to Lev near the end of the procession. Surely she was safe, for no one looking at her in armor would suppose her to be a woman … but John could not ride in peace knowing she might be exposed. Only two months before, he had heard that Laco's men were still searching for the elusive red-haired maiden, even offering a reward for anyone who found her.

“Very good, Manville,” he said, nodding his thanks to the knight. “And will you do me the service of riding behind Kafka and Lev? Those two young ones talk too much on the journey. I fear they might wander off in the woods and lose us.”

If Manville thought the request odd, he gave no indication of it. “Aye, my lord,” he said, inclining his head. As Manville turned his horse and moved toward the back of the line, John slapped his reins and urged his own mount forward.

The procession moved on into the countryside, and as the swollen sun hung low in the west, Anika spied their destination: the castle belonging to the Earl of Tesar, an old friend of Lord John's. The deforested pasture surrounding the castle gleamed like copper in
the fading light, and the sun's bright beams gilded the castle's massive stone walls. On a pair of imposing twin towers flags emblazoned with the earl's family crest fluttered in the slight breeze. Anika thought of the knights who lived in those towers and shifted uneasily in the saddle, wondering if she would have any trouble in the night. She had never encountered difficulty in the garrison at Chlum with her comrades; each man instinctively left his fellows alone in the dark, affording each other a modicum of privacy. But tonight after supper she would have to find a place to sleep in the straw, for Tesar's knights surely would not give up their bunks to a band of competitive visitors.

The earl had obviously been alerted to their approach. The gates yawned in welcome and the knights of Tesar lined the drawbridge and the indented ramparts. Several men on horseback were now approaching, their pennants streaming in the wind. Anika thought she could smell the mouth-watering aroma of roasting beef, and her stomach clenched in anticipation of a hearty meal. They had not eaten since leaving Chlum, and she was as hungry as a nun on the last day of Lent.

With the others, she spurred her horse into an easy canter, and watched the castle rise up before her.

The knights of Chlum were greeted with much slapping on the back and roughhousing, and Anika quietly thanked God that her slight form forestalled the inevitable challenges the knights tossed at one another. No one wanted to challenge a scarecrow, Novak told her, so she'd be safe enough.

After supper there would be jousting and wrestling and fencing in the field, dangerous enough exercises in the light of day and hardly appropriate activities for torchlight. But the knights of Chlum were eager to expend pent-up energy, and the knights of Tesar were anxious to prove their valor. Manville and Novak, due to their size and reputations, were challenged immediately, and Anika stepped back into the shadows of the stable, unwilling to attract attention. The
long day of riding in heavy armor had done nothing but weary her, and after supper she planned on staking out a quiet spot in the barn and losing herself in sleep.

The flare of torchlight from an upper balcony caught her eye, and she stepped forward, hoping the light meant that supper would soon be served. In the orange red glow Anika saw Lord John, Jan Hus, and the shadowy forms of a man and woman. The unknown man stepped forward. The Earl of Tesar—for surely this was he—had a wide-shouldered, square body and black hair that flowed from his face like a crest.

“Welcome, knights of Chlum!” he called, his confident voice ringing over the courtyard. “You grace us with your presence and your bravery, and our prayers will go with you on the morrow as you carry one of Bohemia's most precious sons to do God's bidding!”

Cheers rose in great waves from the assembled knights, bringing a blush to Master Hus's face. He stood silently, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes focused on his host's face.

“I am the Earl of Tesar,” the man continued, playing his role with great relish, “and this fair beauty you know, my lovely daughter Zelenka.”

Anika blinked in dismay and surprise as the earl took the woman's hand and led her from the shadows into the torchlight. Lady Zelenka! Anika had not seen that lady in over a year, and some part of her hoped that the bloom had faded from the rose. But there Zelenka stood, still lovely, still eager to smile at Lord John.

Zelenka lifted her hand to the knights in a graceful salute, then allowed her eyes to roam over the crowd like an eagle searching for prey.

“I wish I could bring you all in to sup with me and your master,” the earl was saying, but Anika could not look at him. Her eyes were fastened instead upon Zelenka, who stood with her bare shoulder brushing Lord John's arm, a few strands of her golden hair clinging to his cloak as if drawn by some magnetic force.

“Father.” Zelenka's voice, though quiet, carried throughout the courtyard. At the sound of her silvery tones even the background
sounds of activity ceased. Every man present leaned forward in anticipation of her next words. A smile nudged itself into a corner of the lady's mouth. “Father, I see an old friend, a knight I met at Chlum. Will you allow me to invite him in to dine with us?”

Surprised out of his graciousness, the earl turned and gaped at her. “One of the knights?” he stammered, obviously reluctant. “At our supper?”

“Yes.” The girl threw the crowd a triumphant smile that set the knights to cheering. Anika felt her heart contract in pity for whatever unfortunate the girl had singled out. The other knights, with the sole exception of Novak, leaned forward, hoping for the summons from on high. Zelenka's pale arm lifted, the delicate finger pointed—in Anika's direction.

“The wee one,” Zelenka called, her voice brimming with false sweetness. “The little knight there, in the hooded hauberk. I believe his name is Sir Kafka.”

Anika's heart turned to stone within her chest, weighing down her legs so she could not move. She saw—no, felt—every head in the courtyard turn and strain to see her, and suddenly she wished the sand under her feet would part so the earth could swallow her whole.

“I don't suppose one wee knight will disturb our fellowship. Have the man come up.” The earl raised his daughter's hand in an elegant gesture and turned to leave the balcony. Anika lifted her eyes in time to see Lord John look toward her with an inscrutable expression on his face, while Master Hus sent her a smile of bemused pity.
You have made your bed,
his smile seemed to say.
Now lie in it.