The Silver Sword (22 page)

“If a bottle is cracked, is it not better to pour wine into an entirely new bottle?” Novak countered, smiling blandly. “A bottle held together by glue and gum will still leak.”

“I am not the only one who weeps for the Church,” Hus
murmured in a tone of deep conviction. “There are others, even a few cardinals, who see what sin has done to the establishment of Christ's blessed church.” He sighed, and in the gentle light of the rising moon Anika saw that pain had carved merciless lines on his face. “But, Sir Novak, we are only men. Until he who is complete and holy comes to rule over us himself, no institution we establish will achieve perfection. Who is to say that the church I establish would not in ten years be as corrupt as the one we strive to reform? Men are imperfect, and power corrupts. It is only through humility that we learn to lead, and through knowledge of our ignorance that we learn to seek the truth.”

Night had completely fallen by the time Hus finished speaking, and a million sparks of diamond light brightened the dark canopy overhead. The trio of riders continued on in silence, each lost in thought.

Jan Hus repeated his convictions and concerns before Lord John the next day at dinner. Twice Anika nearly spilled water upon the enthralled guests so intent was she upon listening to the courageous preacher's exploits. Had so much happened in the four months since she left Prague?

“Last month a group of Romanist citizens attacked the chapel while I was leading prayers,” Hus said, folding his hands on the table as he addressed Lord John's household at dinner. “Fortunately, several of our men were keeping watch and repelled them. I thank God that our people, though determined, are peaceful. Even when a group of German fanatics attempted to seize me while I spoke from the pulpit, our men subdued the invaders without injury. God has been good to us.”

“How have you responded to these violent overtures?” Lord John asked, stroking his chin. Anika noticed that he had not touched the food on the trencher before him. “Surely it is not wise, Master Hus, to allow this sort of thing to continue. You should make an offensive move, keep your enemy off balance.”

The preacher's mouth curved in a smile. “I know nothing about
military matters, but I have made one special effort to end this strife. Since Pope John is not willing to hear my defense of my positions, I have lifted my appeal from the pope to the Lord Jesus Christ himself, the Judge who is neither influenced by gifts nor deceived by false witnesses. Last week I read my formal appeal from the pulpit and posted copies in Prague's public places.” His face fell for a moment. “I must admit, such an action brings me bittersweet pleasure. Every time I handle a published piece of my work, I am reminded that my favorite copyist has been most foully murdered. Ernan O'Connor was a friend and scribe unequaled in Prague, and I miss him most sincerely.”

Hus paused to stir the bowl of porridge before him, while Anika swallowed hard and bit back tears, comforted by the knowledge that she did not mourn her father alone.

“Surely there are other copyists in the city, Master Hus,” Lord John offered, lifting his glass from the table.

“Yea, but not like Ernan O'Connor,” the preacher answered. “He had a daughter who wrote and spoke French, Latin, English, and Bohemian with equal ease. She was more fluent and a faster copyist than Ernan himself.” He chuckled. “And she was much more pleasant to look upon.”

“What happened to the girl?” Novak asked, a polite smile on his lips. “Surely she could still work for you.”

“Alas, she is lost to me now. Lord Laco of Lidice took a dishonorable interest in her, and I'm afraid the girl was forced to hide herself on one of the estates in the country.”

“Laco,” Novak interrupted, lifting his hand in an emphatic gesture, “is a rogue. I beg your pardon, Lord John, for I know he is a nobleman, but I would not trust him any more than I would spit in holy water.”

“I hate to judge a man before God has finished with him, but I must agree with you,” Hus answered. “He said his son wanted to employ the girl as a chambermaid, but I saw the way the youth looked at her. He would have used her most cruelly, I am certain, and cast her out when he had finished taking his pleasure from her. I am not
certain where the girl has found a home, but I thank God that she managed to circumvent Lord Laco's purposes.”

Having heard enough, Anika turned quickly away, grateful that her duties allowed her to scuttle away to fetch a fresh pitcher of water. She had been fortunate that no one had required her to speak to Master Hus directly, for surely he would recognize her voice or her smile if she confronted him.

As she moved away, one sudden, cold, lucid thought struck her: With these men Jan Hus had been brutally honest about Lord Laco's intentions. Why hadn't he been as forthright with her? Did he think it necessary to shield a maiden from the harshness of life?

If you thought to protect me from evil,
she thought, shivering as the cold November air outside hit her in the face,
you are too late, my friend.

Anika couldn't sleep. The old nightmare had awakened her and now the steady, deep breathing of exhausted men filled the silence around her, punctuated occasionally by an abrupt eruption of baritone snoring. Before going to sleep, she had mulled the preacher's words for a long while, and with each passing moment her aversion to Lord Laco and his son grew deeper and her alarm more disquieting. She had some knowledge of the way men and women were supposed to interact in love, for she had read the romances of Chrétien de Troyes and Marie de France. But she had never considered that a man might actually want her for purposes less than holy marriage in the sight of God. She had never kissed a man's lips; she had never even
embraced
anyone but her father, Petrov, and Master Hus. While reading romances she had thrilled at the idea of a lover's kiss, but the thought of Lord Laco's blue-eyed son pressing his cold lips to her flesh made the hair of her head tingle with revulsion.

What drove a woman into a man's arms? Love, certainly, but how did love grow between ordinary people? In romances a handsome knight always performed some great feat of valor to prove his love to a lady in distress, but knights did not line up to rescue the daughters
of humble book copyists. And even though Anika had needed rescuing a few months before, no one but Petrov had risen to lend her aid.

She turned onto her side and pressed her hand over her ear, trying to block out the sound of so many snoring men. If her father had not died, she supposed that he would have eventually negotiated with a suitable and similar family with an eligible son. She would have been betrothed and finally married. Perhaps she would have learned to love her intended husband during the time of betrothal. She might even have welcomed his kiss. But such things took time. How, then, could Lord Laco's son have seen her and desired her without even knowing her? Surely what he felt was not love.

She sat up and silently slid out from under Novak's bunk, not willing to wake any of her companions. If her father were still alive, she would have asked him what made a man desire a woman, but she did not think she could ask any of the men of Chlum without revealing her ignorance and her true nature. For all men thought alike—she now understood that truth clearly. More than once she had stumbled upon the knights telling a crude story involving women. The men had all roared with laughter at the conclusion of the tale while she blinked in dazed exasperation, understanding nothing. There were some aspects of women they found irresistible, but it wasn't a woman's tongue, brain, or wit. These things men tended to criticize.

Anika crouched by the fireplace, hugging her knees to her. Why did men praise hair, breasts, and slender backs when those attributes counted for almost nothing? Long hair only blinded one's eyes on the dueling field, breasts were only useful for feeding infants, and slender backs were apt to break under heavy loads.

Understanding men, she decided, was as impossible as cutting your straight hair short and willing it to grow out curly. But though she could not understand her companions' motivations, she had found it easy to mimic their behavior and actions. She did not have the strength of other boys her age, but she more than made up for her weakness with her quick tongue and breadth of knowledge. She
had yet to successfully tilt at the quintain, but she had outpaced her fellow squires in music, poetry, and dancing. Though Sir Novak pretended merely to tolerate her, she knew her mentor took pride in certain of her accomplishments.

She glanced over at her sleeping master. His arm hung limply from his bunk, its dark hairs vibrating softly with the sound of his breathing. Fire shadows danced on the walls of the garrison, lighting the other knights' bearded faces with an orange-red glow. She bit her thumbnail, transfixed by the sight of square faces, round faces, pale faces, flushed faces, scarred faces, bearded faces, rutted faces—

Manly faces.
There was not a feminine face in the room, save hers.

The air suddenly seemed thick and heavy, filled with the smells of hay, leather, and sweat. Yearning for the bracing bite of the night-cold air, she pulled a woolen cloak from a peg near the door, slipped it over her shoulders, and stepped outside, her boots crunching on the rock-strewn sand of the courtyard. A guard pacing along the top of the castle wall stopped for a moment and stared, but she waved him off and pointed toward the lavatory in the tower. He nodded and turned away, dismissing her.

She did not stop at the lavatory, though, but moved on toward the small pool the servants used for watering the animals. This area was quiet once the servants had gone to bed, and she liked to retreat from the others and sit on the wide lip of the stone wall edging the water. The garrison often seemed too loud, too male, for her to sort her thoughts effectively, and this round reflecting pool was lovely in the dark.

She hopped up on the stone wall, then turned and tucked her knees under her chin. The bright pepper of the stars spangled the dark sky above, and she hugged her knees to her and drew in a deep breath, enjoying the solitude and the quiet. The wide courtyard gleamed like silver under the full moon. At her left hand the castle keep rose strong and solid; the barbican and gate stood like sentinels in the distance at her right.

Living with fifty men was more mentally taxing than she had
imagined possible. It felt good to get away and remind herself, if even for a few moments, who and what she was: Anika of Prague, a middle-class sparrow living among the partridges, cranes, and pheasants of the nobility. The bird analogy had come from the pages of
The Art of Courtly Love,
and that author continually reminded Anika that no matter who caught her eye or captured her heart, she could never belong among the nobility.
You can only hide and learn, in the hope that soon you will be free to return to Petrov and Prague.

From far outside the castle walls came the mournful call of a wolf, as lonely as the cry of a lost and wandering spirit. One guard upon the wall called to another, “Lo, did you hear that?” Then silence prevailed again.

Anika rested her chin on her knees, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. Snug in the warmth of her cloak, she would not mind passing the night out here under the stars—

“Would that I had your peace of mind, Kafka.”

Lord John's resonant voice brought her instantly awake. As her eyes flew open she threw out her right hand, ready to push herself off the stone ledge and retreat—

There was no stone beneath her hand—she had overestimated the width of the ledge. Tumbling over like a tenpin, she felt the waters of the pool rise up to meet her. Surprised by the darkness, she kicked and thrashed in the shallow water, disoriented and unable to see moonlight above.

A strong arm caught her and pulled her upward. Gasping for breath, she scrambled to place her legs beneath her, then abruptly stood up, embarrassed at her humiliating clumsiness.