The Silver Sword (32 page)

Manville heard the crowd boil to life. He had the fleeting impression of someone shouting, the throng cheering, neckerchiefs waving in excitement. And before him Kafka drove relentlessly forward, his tilting lance alive and carving wobbly patterns in the air before his onrushing stallion.

Manville lowered his head and held his own lance steady, aiming it across the tilt toward the squire. His arms were stronger, his lance longer than the squire's lightweight weapon, and he was not surprised when his lance hit the squire's shield. The sharp and brittle crack of wood tore the air, and Kafka's shield flew away like a kite in a gale. Manville brought his own shield to his chest reflexively, but there was no answering blow—

Before he knew what had happened, his horse went down on its knees, flinging Manville aside like a discarded cloak. A gasp from the crowd spiraled down as Manville fought to control his balance, then the earth rose to meet him. Dirt and soft grass pillowed his hands and cheek; the sweet and salty taste of blood touched his tongue.

Manville looked up, disoriented. Twenty paces away, his stallion scrambled in undignified haste to his knees, then tossed his great head and moved away, apparently interested only in browsing the lush grass at the edge of the field.

Across the tilt, the squire turned his horse and trotted back, his lance still in his hand. Riding like a triumphant peanut atop an elephant, Kafka looked out from the slit in his visor. “God save you, Sir Knight,” he called, pitching his voice low so the crowd could not hear. “Are you hurt?”

Manville shook out his heavy arms and legs to be certain nothing was broken. Age had not lessened his strength, but his bones did not take as kindly to bouncing off horses as they once had.

He rose to his feet with stiff and brittle dignity, leaning hard
upon his lance. “I am not hurt,” he called. He looked again at his horse. Though the animal had fallen, he seemed no worse off for his mishap.

“I do beg and pray you, squire—tell me what sort of curse you put on my horse,” Manville drawled with distinct mockery. “He used to be a surefooted beast.”

“I pointed my lance at his breastplate,” Kafka answered, his voice slick with satisfaction. “I knew you would take my shield, so I decided to let you have it. And while you waited for me to fall, I struck your horse. I knew he would not be hurt.”

Manville bit back an oath, then spat the blood from his mouth. “So be it.” He moved his hand toward his sword. “Dismount then, and prepare to face me. This test is not yet finished. I am still on my feet, so I am not defeated.”

Through the narrow aperture of the helmet, Manville saw a shadow of alarm flicker in the squire's eyes. Surely the boy hadn't thought a mere fall would break Manville's spirit! Slowly, reluctantly, the young man dropped his lance, then stood in the stirrups and dismounted.

“Kafka!” Novak's abrupt shout cut through the murmurs of the crowd. The captain vaulted easily over the fenced barrier and charged toward his squire. “You will report to Lord John. Now! This test is forfeited. It should never have begun!”

Manville thought the boy slumped slightly in relief. “Wait, squire,” he barked, unsheathing his sword.

“The captain calls me.” Kafka pointed toward Novak.

“Indeed,” Manville remarked dryly, lifting his sword as if to inspect the gleaming blade. Eyeing Kafka over the hilt of his sword, he watched the squire take his horse's reins and lead the animal from the field behind his blustering teacher.

Manville lowered his blade, swiped a grass stain from his breastplate, and smiled beneath his helmet. To be sure, Kafka was an unusual youth. He'd broken several unwritten rules today, spoiling Manville's victory and angering Novak.

But on a field of battle a knight would want someone like Kafka
by his side. Someone who wasn't afraid to be unconventional or take a chance. Someone who dared to act.

“Congratulations, Kafka,” Manville murmured as he turned to tend to his own stallion. “If anyone would ask my opinion, I'd say you passed your test today.”

John sat in a cushioned chair and stared at his captain and his female squire, both of whom stood before him with faces as set in fury as his own. His shock at the girl's actions had yielded quickly to anger—and then a defeating sense of impotence. What was he supposed to do? He had planned to send the girl away after telling her she could never pass a test of knighthood, but with one sure stroke she had unseated his best horseman.

He decided to dispense with the usual formalities and meet fire with fire. “I never intended for things to go this far,” he said, glaring at Novak. “You, Sir Knight, should have had better control of your squire.”

A momentary look of discomfort crossed the captain's face, then his lower lip pushed forward in something akin to a childish pout. “Consider now, my lord, the situation. Was I supposed to tie her hand and foot?” Novak spoke in a choking voice, as if he were strangling on repressed epithets. “You said, my lord, that we might let her continue—”

“I said you should quietly pull her out of the test,” John answered, grinding the words between his teeth.

“My lord.”

John jerked his head toward the girl. Her face was flushed, but an air of calm and self-confidence shone from her like a halo. “My lord, I think we can say that I passed your test.”

“The test was halted. You did not defeat Manville. You had no chance to complete the duel.”

She set her chin in a stubborn line. “How do you know I could not have defeated him in a duel? You did not expect me to unseat him in the joust, but I did. Other knights have not performed as well as I, and yet they wear your emblem.” She looked up at him with
eyes glittering in restless passion. “May I, my lord, take my vows and become a knight in your service? All who saw me today on the field will support your decision to make me a knight.”

“No,” John snapped, his voice hoarse with frustration. He opened his hands, trying to disguise his annoyance. “You are a woman, and knights are men. Can a rose become a tulip? No. Though it may share the same color, though it may even smell as sweet—”

“Tulips,” she interrupted, seeming very pleased with herself, “do not smell.”

John flung his hand upward, thrusting her objection away. “You cannot be a knight, and that is final. King Wenceslas would think I had lost my good sense were I to knight a woman.”

“The king,” she whispered, lifting a brow, “does not have to know. No one has to know, only you and my mentor Novak. I have kept my gender a secret until now; I can keep it forever, if need be.”

“Lady Zelenka saw through your disguise,” John retorted, irked by the girl's cool, aloof manner. “She told me your secret weeks ago.”

The delicate brow—too delicate for a boy's he now realized—lifted again. “Weeks ago? And yet you said nothing.”

“I was curious,” he insisted with returning impatience. “I wanted to see how committed you were—and if my captain could be as blind as I.”

“My lord!” Novak burst out, shocked.

“I am very committed, and Novak has found no fault with my labors,” the girl answered, taking charge with quiet assurance. “I have worked without complaint, fought until my arms ached, mounted every horse I fell off. I have shared no secrets, spread no rumors, and drunk none of your wine. In respect to my moral behavior,” her green eyes narrowed slightly, “I have behaved better than the men in your service. The chambermaids and village girls are safe in my company, and that is more than you could say for half the men in yonder garrison—”

“Enough.” John folded his hands, determined to try another approach with this stubborn young woman. “Why do you want to
be a knight? I understand that you are an orphan and destitute since the burning of your father's shop, and I have heard that you seek refuge from Lord Laco. But you could be safe and yet genteel as a lady's maid or a companion to some gentlewoman. You could enter one of the convents in the countryside.”

Her expression clouded in anger. “I would not enter a Romanist convent if the gates of heaven lay therein,” she retorted, rancor sharpening her voice. “I love God and Jesus Christ truly, but those red-robed cardinals and foul priests are my sworn enemies! My mother died due to a cardinal's selfishness, and my father, who would turn the other cheek to his cruelest enemy, was struck down with Cardinal D'Ailly's blessing. So I have sworn to fight for the righteous gospel taught by Jan Hus and Jerome of Prague and all those who carry the holy Word of God to the people. And I have vowed to take vengeance upon those who have hurt the people I love.”

Feeling suddenly weary in the face of her fierce anger, John shook his head. “I can find no reason to spoil the peace of a convent or another lord's house with this ferocious temper,” he muttered, turning his gaze to Novak. “Can you, Sir Knight?”

“No, my lord,” the knight answered, sighing in what looked like relief.

John paused, taking a frank and assessing look at the girl before him. She had proved her bravery and courage, she had demonstrated her wit and skill with languages, and she was as educated as any nobleman's daughter. In truth, she might be an asset in the cause he had undertaken with Jan Hus. In the days to come they would need a scholar, a scribe, and perhaps even a woman who could slip unnoticed into council rooms and churches, past guards and priests. And, truth be told, she was a pleasure to look upon, even in men's clothing, and her reading a delight to the ears—

He learned forward, reining in his thoughts. He couldn't afford to be distracted by inappropriate romantic notions. The girl was half his age, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to court a woman pretending to be a man. But what could he do with her? She would not go quietly into one of his villages—he had the feeling she
would not go quietly anywhere. Allowing her to continue in this masquerade was unthinkable, but surely she would not persist in this role forever. And while she served, she might be useful to Hus's cause.

“Then thus shall it be,” he said, regarding her with a speculative gaze. “You shall spend the night in prayer, as any squire would, and if on the morrow you feel that God would have you join us in knighthood, you shall take a vow of fealty. But you shall not swear to serve me for life. You shall instead swear to serve me as long as I serve Jan Hus, the preacher of the gospel you cherish. And when I wish to discharge you from your vow, you must relinquish it.”

Her face fell in disappointment. “I have taken a vow of my own and cannot deny it. If you discharge me before my own vow is fulfilled, I shall have to continue in this knightly path.”

“But not as a knight of Chlum.” John rested his chin upon his fingertips. “You can accept my conditions, or you can return to Prague.” His conscience smote him as he spoke, for he would never willingly cast a penniless young woman into the streets. Maybe she would not know he was bluffing.

Her delicate face shone with courage and determination as she lifted her head. “As you wish, my lord,” she said, bowing. “I will swear whatever you command.”

Sinking back in his chair, John motioned for Novak to take her away and prepare her for the night-long vigil. And as he watched them go, he congratulated himself on finding an answer to a difficult quandary. He was, he thought, either one of the most clever men in Bohemia … or the most foolish.

Anika now found herself on the brink of joining an elect company of valiant men who vowed to follow the ideals of chivalry: to be brave and loyal, to be faithful to the king, to defend the Christian faith, and to protect widows and orphans, the old and the weak. For over four hundred years knights throughout the European kingdoms had pledged their lives to their masters and sealed the agreement by the giving and receiving of a kiss, a visible sign of peace and loyalty.
In return for a lifetime of service, a knight was trained, fed, lodged, and provided with weapons.