The Silver Sword (31 page)

A memory edged John's teeth. He held up a hand, cutting Novak off. “Lord Laco? She was hiding from Laco?”

Novak nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

John closed his eyes, deliberately letting his mind run backwards. Jan Hus had said something at dinner about a bookseller's daughter who disappeared, an educated girl who had to hide from Laco's son—

He opened his eyes and stared at his startled captain. “She told you her name?”

“Aye. Anika. She said her father and mother were both dead.”

Relief washed over him. John leaned back in his chair, at ease for the first time in weeks. The girl wasn't spying, she was
hiding.
And with good reason.

He turned his attention back to his flustered captain. “Truthfully, Novak, when did you discover her secret? This morning?”

The knight's face fell. “Yesterday.” His eyes displayed with the tortured dullness of disbelief. “I should have seen it earlier, but I never dreamed such a thing would be possible.”

“Nor did I,” John answered, lowering his arms to the chair. “And if it makes you feel any better, Novak, I was blind, too, until Lady Zelenka pointed the girl out. It seems that one woman can flush another out of hiding better than a bloodhound.”

A flicker of a smile rose at the edges of Novak's mouth, then died out. “What do we do about the joust?” His voice drifted into a hushed whisper. “You cannot let a woman joust against Manville.”

“No, but I cannot openly shame the other knights by revealing her, either,” John answered, leaning his elbow upon the armrest of his chair. “They will not take kindly to the news that a woman has been hearing their secrets and sleeping in their garrison. You will have to go out to the field of contest and quietly pull her aside. Maybe we can take her to the village and house her with a peasant family until we decide her future.”

“That is well spoken.” Novak pushed himself up. “I will see to it now.”

Slouching down, John lowered his chin to his palm again and grinned at his captain. “She did do well, though, didn't she? She might have made a knight, after all.”

Anika mechanically played the test over and over in her mind, trying to forecast Manville's probable moves. The joust would take place on a long rectangular field outside the castle walls. As soon as Lord John had taken his seat upon his balcony, a trumpeter would blow, and two fluttering blue pennons, one at each end of the field, would fall. She and Manville would spur their horses and charge toward each other from a distance of one hundred yards. The tilt, a wooden barrier that reached to her horse's flank, would separate the two opponents, and Anika would aim her lance across the tilt, directly toward Sir Manville's breastplate, until the point of impact… unless she was unseated first.

No. She blocked the thought; the contemplation of failure
would be anathema. Moving into the weapons room, she selected the lightest wooden tilting lance from the wall, then checked to be sure Midnight, now her favorite mount, was properly saddled. The grooms, always eager to view a competition, hurried to dress the horse in his jousting armor, a breastplate and a metal headpiece known as the chanfron. Anika eyed the metal spike protruding from the chanfron like a gleaming horn and hoped that Midnight's size and strength would intimidate Sir Manville … because her slight figure certainly wouldn't.

She checked the girth strap, then slipped her left foot into the stirrup and threw herself over the horse's broad back. Manville, she noticed as she glanced toward the far side of the stable, had already mounted his favorite steed. A servant held his horse's reins and was leading him toward the castle barbican.

“Hurry,” she told the groom in a low voice.

The stableboy attending her grinned foolishly, then gave the horse's flank a slap. “In a hurry to get yourself killed, are you, Kafka?” He grinned and handed her the reins. “You are as ready as you will ever be.”

She straightened, then made a quick clucking sound with her tongue, turning the stallion toward the doorway. Nervous flutterings pricked her chest as the huge animal moved out of the stable, through the barbican, and onto the tournament field. Averting her eyes from the crowd of onlookers gathering behind a rope, she faced the opposite end of the jousting field and forced her riotous emotions to settle down. In a few moments she would have completed her test. If she acquitted herself well, she would earn the right to be dubbed a knight. Of course Novak would feel compelled to tell Lord John her secret, and the Lord of Chlum might not agree to knight her.

But it wouldn't matter. In the eyes of her fellow knights, she would have proven herself. Her parents and Sir Petrov, watching from heaven, would see and know that she had not failed them. And if Lord John cast her out of Chlum Castle, she would take her newfound skills to another manor and continue her quest of vengeance.
For she had begun to believe her father was right—war did lie just over the horizon, and she was sworn to be involved in the battle.

She gave the stallion a slack rein and cantered slowly across the field toward her position. Midnight's speed and power exhilarated her, and her blood raced in response. Let the test begin. She had no intention of permitting herself to fail.

The air outside Chlum Castle rang with the uncontrolled sounds of a holiday crowd anticipating fine entertainment, for a host of servants, knights, and villagers had gathered around the outer barriers to watch the midday joust. The noise and anticipation made Midnight nervous; he danced in place, his head high and his tail arched. Biting her lip, Anika glanced up at Lord John's balcony. He had not yet appeared, nor had the trumpeter.

Anika shivered. A frosty wind blew over the field, knifing her lungs and tingling the exposed skin of her nose. Impatient to charge, Midnight blew gustily and then lowered his great head to graze the grassy border. “No,” Anika commanded, jerking back on the reins to bring the animal to attention. The stallion could not relax; neither could she.

What was keeping Lord John?

On the opposite side of the field, Sir Manville waited, too, a pair of grooms at his side. Lev alone had followed Anika to the starting gate, and he stood silently beside her horse, nervously cracking his knuckles.

A meowing wail from one of the villagers' children rose from the crowd and raked across Anika's tense nerves. Beneath that sound she could hear her heart battering against her ears. Why was Lord John making her wait?

“Lo, look there.” Lev pointed toward movement in the crowd. “Novak comes.”

Lev's voice was curiously flat, and the sound of it chilled her. This was not customary. As her mentor, Novak should have been on the balcony with Lord John, awaiting her fate and praying for her success—

Unless he had revealed her secret.

And Lord John had forbidden her test.

“No.” She uttered the word between clenched teeth and tightened the reins in her left hand.

“What?” Lev lifted his face toward her.

“Lift the bar,” she ordered in a voice of authority.

“But Novak comes—”

“Lift the cursed bar!” she snapped, pretending not to understand his warning look.

Lev slid the restraining bar from its place and stepped back, nervously wiping his hands on his robe. Anika gripped the lance in her right hand and lowered herself behind her shield, willing herself to be as small as possible, a tiny target for the enemy.

“Kafka!” Novak's voice rose above the crowd now, demanding her attention.

With a slight smile of defiance, she gripped the reins again and leaned forward, spurring the horse.

The nervous stallion was more than willing to respond. As the spur raked his flank, he reared back, pawing the air with his front hooves. With Novak's bellow ringing in her ears, Anika urged her stallion forward to meet her opponent.

A
plague on him!” Manville gripped his reins and kicked the meddlesome grooms away. Somehow he had missed the trumpet. That cocky little Kafka was already advancing, his stallion throwing up great clods of earth behind those thundering hooves.

Manville tucked his lance under his arm and leaned forward, violently thrusting his spurs into the animal's tender flank. The great war-horse lunged from the gate, bellowing in rage, and Manville gripped the animal with his knees, balancing the lance easily along his muscled right arm. This boy would be easy to unseat, and once the lad lay on the ground, Manville would dismount, vault over the tilt, and press his sword to the lad's breastplate, confirming his defeat. Today this arrogant squire would be humbled before the entire manor.

Manville's mouth curved into an unconscious smile as his stallion shot forward.

From inside his chamber, John heard the crowd roar. Flying from his chair, he strode to the balcony and stared out at the jousting field. Squire Kafka, dressed in that ridiculously large armor, had prematurely charged out of the gate. And Manville, not one to let a challenge go unanswered, had raced forward to joust with a girl.

John clenched his fist as sheer black fright swept through him. He should not have been silent; he should have stopped this charade as soon as he discovered it. This foolish girl would die on yonder grass unless—

“Novak!” he called over the balcony, spying his captain in the crowd. “Stop them!”

He could not tell if Novak heard, for his voice was swallowed up in the clamor of the cheering mob.