The Silver Sword (60 page)

She licked her lower lip and stared at him, managing to quell her anger. She would need all her wits about her this time.

Miloslav jerked his head toward a stand of trees a few feet away from the path. “Go there,” he said, untying the knot of his cloak. He pulled the garment from his shoulders, then gathered it into a bundle and tossed it toward her. “Take off that hallowed armor; you do not deserve to wear it. Put on the cloak and wait for me … or he dies.”

Catching the cloak in her arms, Anika shot one look toward Lord John. His eyes were large and fierce with pain and something else—worry? For her?

She cast her eyes downward and turned toward the woods, not wanting him to share her shame.

“Well, Lord John, we have found the bird that flew from your coop,” Miloslav taunted, drawing his thin lips into a tight smile. “Surely you didn't expect to keep her all to yourself?”

Clamping his jaw tight, John strained uselessly at his bonds and stared into the shrubbery where Anika had disappeared. Was he to blame for the tragedy that would occur here today? Hiding a homeless, hopeless girl had not seemed such a bad idea… until she worked her way into his heart. Perhaps if he had shared his feelings, if he had been honest, she would not have insisted upon leaving.

What a fool he had been. His aloof pride was the seismic fault of his life, driving away all those who ought to be precious to him. He had been reared to be conscious of his position, his title, his responsibilities, and that consciousness had kept him at arms' length from his parents, his wife, even his children. He had only dared share his heart with Novak, his captain, and Jan Hus, his friend, but all the safeguards in the world could not protect him from hurt and anguish.
For what is your life?
the Scriptures reminded him.
It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.

He would not let the rest of his life evade him. If he lived another hour or another thirty years, he would live it to the fullest and in the light of God's love.

Almighty God, release me, allow me to escape, and I will never hold myself aloof again. I am not a tower of strength. I am not above needing someone to love. Forgive me, God, for I have shunned the good you sent my way.

With his remaining strength he flexed and jerked against the ropes that held him. As his body sang with pain, he locked a scream behind his teeth. Useless. The suffering of the last twelve hours had left him drained, hollow, lifeless. He might as well be lying with Novak on the forest road, for he could not help Anika now.

“I hope you have said your farewells to the girl,” Miloslav said,
withdrawing his dagger from his belt, “because I cannot risk leaving you here while I take my pleasure with her. Even in your weakened condition, you might ride off and carry this story to someone who will believe it.”

“You, sir,” John answered, forcing dignity in his voice, “will not live long enough to enjoy the pleasures of your sin. And then you will rot in hell.”

The insolent young man contradicted him with a smile that set John's teeth on edge. “Ah, but you are the one appointed to die today.” He yanked the reins of John's horse until the animal stepped closer, bringing John within striking range. The rebellious youth lifted the dagger, and John closed his eyes, bracing himself for the blow.

Amid the chatter of birdsong he heard Miloslav's quick intake of breath, then a cry. John opened his eyes in time to see the young man slowly topple from his horse, a blade buried to the hilt in his chest.

John sat motionless as wave after wave of shock slapped at him. Turning toward the woods, he saw Anika standing in a clearing, her arm still extended from her throw, her lovely face locked with anxiety.

Anika watched the dagger hit its target, then held her breath until the son of perdition fell from his saddle and lay unmoving in the soft grass by the path. She had nearly forgotten about the blade Petrov instructed her to carry always in her boot, but the slender dagger had proved quite efficient.

Slowly she made her way out of the woods, her eyes intent upon the body. Miloslav had risen up once before to challenge her and hurt someone she loved; she did not want to meet him yet again.

“He is dead,” Lord John called from his horse.

She stiffened at something she heard in his voice, something jagged and sharp, like words torn by the blade of a knife. He was looking at her, not with eyes of love and gratitude, but with a melancholy and weary expression, like one who has spent too much time
with an active child. He sighed heavily, his voice filled with anguish. “Novak is dead, too. I am sorry, Anika.”

She stood in lonely silence, biting her lip until it throbbed like her pulse. Her teeth chattered, and against her will her body began to tremble. “It is my fault, isn't it?” she asked, not daring to meet her master's eyes. “Was he with you? Were you looking for me?”

“Yes.” John spoke softly as if to spare her feelings. “But do not blame yourself. He was a knight, and he died doing what he loved to do. He died defending someone he loved.”

Her emotions bobbed and spun like a piece of flotsam caught in a roaring river. “This one,” she whispered, pointing to the fallen Miloslav, “never did believe I was a knight. He thought this armor, my sword, were only a disguise. And they would have been, if not for Novak. He taught me everything—how to use a sword, pull an arrow, throw a dagger—” Her gaze clouded with tears. “Though he always claimed to hate women, with me he was as gentle as a father, as understanding as a friend.”

“I suppose I should thank God Novak tolerated you,” Lord John answered, a faint smile upon his face. “If he had not taught you how to toss a dagger, this hour would have ended far differently.” He winced in pain as he turned slightly in the saddle. “We will have to go back and fetch his body home to Chlum, where he belongs.”

Lord John's usually lively eyes were ringed with dark circles. Suddenly aware of her master's pain, Anika wiped her tears and hurried forward to untie his bonds. His body was obviously hot with fever. The arrow shaft still protruded from his arm, yet he sat upon his horse in a pose of weary dignity.

“What is your choice, then, Anika?” he asked as she used his dagger to cut the ropes.

Her mind whirled at his dry response. “My choice?” His implacable expression unnerved her, and she paused, choosing her words carefully as she looked up into his eyes. “My choice, my lord, is to serve you. To join your household, to honor you in any way I can. I do not recant my vows of fealty, my lord, but with your blessing I would recant my vow of knighthood.”

She glanced away, feeling herself flush, rattled by the pressure of his gentle eyes. She cut upward with his knife until the rope broke and his arms fell stiffly to his side. Anika knew each movement brought her master great pain, but he said nothing as she slipped his dagger into her own belt.

“Anika—what do you
want to
do?” He made a credible attempt at coolness, marred only by the thickness in his voice.

Placing her hands on his foot in the stirrup, she lifted her gaze and searched his face, reaching into his thoughts. She thought she saw a faint flicker of doubt in the depths of his soft dark eyes. “Employ me as a maid or a servant, my lord, but do not cast me off.” Tears blinded her eyes and choked her voice, but she pressed on, unwilling to consider the future apart from him. “You are all I have. You are my life … my home. Whatever I do, I would like to do it for you.”

With a grimace of pain he slid from the saddle and stood beside her. His dark eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “I have no need of maids or servants,” he said, lifting his good hand to her shoulder. Slowly his palm opened, and he cupped her cheek. “What my castle needs is a wife, a position I should have offered you long ago.”

Anika felt the touch of his gaze, as gentle as the surf on a sandy shore. “I was wrong, Anika, not to let you know the depths of my feelings for you. You are a friend, you are a delight, you are the love I never dreamed could exist.”

She felt a trembling thrill as his voice echoed her own longings, but her senses reeled in confusion. “Yet you are a nobleman, and I am only a merchant's daughter.”

“You are more noble than any woman I have ever met.” The warm wave of his breath reached her ear as his voice softened. “Anika, I need you at my side. My sons need you. I need you to teach me how to be a father.”

She pressed her hand over his as a tremor caught in her throat. What would
The Art of Courtly Love
advise her to do now? Surely there was some formula, some set of words she was supposed to use in response …

But she had never done anything by the book. “I love you, my lord John,” she whispered, reveling in the heartrending tenderness of his gaze. “I can think of nothing I would rather do than spend my life by your side.”

He extended his arm and bent toward her, and she was powerless to resist the silent invitation. She moved into his embrace, fully aware of his strength and his need for her.

“We must get you to a physician,” she said, afraid to hold him too tightly. “That arrow must come out, and the wound be cleansed.”

“There will be time enough for that,” he answered, and before she could protest further, his lips brushed against hers. Anika gently wrapped her arms about his neck as her pulse pounded in her ears and the song of the wind whispered among the trees.

“Time enough,” she promised. Then her lips caressed his with exquisite tenderness.

Epilogue

Dr. Henry Howard
Professor of Medieval European History
New York City College

Dear Dr. Howard:

I don't know if you'll remember me—we met in the college library about six months ago. You told me about Cahira O'Connor and suggested—none too subtly, as I recall—that because I had red hair marked with a white streak I might be connected to the legendary O'Connors of Ireland.

It's probably impolite for me to say what I thought of you and your story that afternoon. Let's just say I was a little
skeptical,
shall we? But after I began to investigate a bit, I found I couldn't let the story go. The manuscript you've just read is the first fruit of my efforts. I worked on Anika's story for my semester English project and plan to research Aidan and Flanna next year. (If you have any professor friends in the English Department, you might want to take them to tea this summer and tell them to fortify themselves for next term. I expect they might find me a wee bit long-winded.)

Why am I so interested in these women? I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm afraid World War III will break out after the millennium, and the president will issue a call for red-haired piebalds to fly B-52s or something. Seriously, I've been having nightmares about what might happen … if I'm really one of Cahira's chosen few. But at least Anika's story had a happy ending.

As you probably know, the war Anika anticipated did break out in 1419. In that year the new pope, Martin V, with the support and urging of Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund, declared a crusade against the Hussites. To the emperor's surprise, the Hussite army handed the invading Crusaders several stunning defeats, then took the offensive, attacking Catholic strongholds in Slovakia, Silesia, and Lusatia. Anika herself did not fight in the war but worked as a copyist, sending copies of Hus's letters to those who fought for the Hussite cause. She and her husband, Lord John, did much to keep the flames of reformation alive. Together they had four children, none of whom was known for having red hair
or
any sort of piebaldism.

Baldasarre Cossa, formerly Pope John XXIII,
was
eventually reinstated as a cardinal. Unlucky pennies do always turn up, hmm?

The Hussites celebrated a partial victory in 1431 when another church council convened to settle the dispute. As a concession to the Hussites, the Catholics agreed to allow the celebration of Communion of bread and wine in Bohemia. This satisfied the Ultraquists, a moderate group who limited their demands to the four articles cited by the Hussite League, but a more radical faction, the Taborites, refused to compromise. This group, drawn mostly from the rural peasantry, called for the complete abolition of clerical vestments and the Latin liturgy. They also attacked the monarchy and the feudal system. (The Powers That Be weren't too thrilled with the Taborites' demands. I'm afraid they were doomed to fail.)

Finally, at the Battle of Lipany in 1434, a combined force of Ultraquists and Catholics defeated the Taborites, effectively ending the Hussite wars. Sadly, over the next two hundred years, the concessions won by the Ultraquists were eliminated.

Despite the setbacks, however, Jan Hus did not die in vain. Over one hundred years later, the great reformer Martin Luther found a volume of Hus's sermons preserved in a library at Erfurt. “I was seized with a curiosity to know what doctrines this great heretic had taught,” Luther wrote. “The reading filled me with incredible surprise. I could not comprehend why they should have burned a man who explained Scripture with so much discernment and wisdom. But the very name
of Hus was such an abomination that I imagined that the heavens would be darkened and the sun would fall at the mere mention of it. So I shut the book with a sad heart, consoling myself with the possibility that it was written before he fell into heresy.”

Later, in 1529, Luther wrote to a friend, “I have hitherto taught and held all the opinions of Hus without knowing it. With a like unconsciousness has Staupitz taught them. We are all of us Hussites without knowing it.”

So, Professor Howard, I must thank you for spurring me forward. I have just discovered that not only may I be a direct descendant from Cahira O'Connor, but I have been a Hussite for many years … and had no idea.

I stopped by your office one afternoon, hoping to find some information on the Ultraquists, but your assistant, Mr. Taylor Morgan, said you were out. He was very helpful, though … and I'd like to call upon him again sometime, if you don't mind. (Did you discover him in the library, too? Maybe I should spend more time there!)

If you have some free time during the summer, please give me a call. I'll begin my work on Aidan O'Connor soon and could use some information about the seventeenth century.

Sincerely,

Kathleen O'Connor

P.S. If Mr. Morgan is available, perhaps I could take you both to lunch! It would be my pleasure.