The Silver Sword (18 page)

“To wrestle?” For a moment Anika lost custody of her tongue. She had not imagined herself stripped down to her chemise, circling in the blazing sun, grappling with men more powerful than she—she could not do it! Her secret would be revealed.

“Have you a problem with wrestling?” The corner of Novak's mouth twisted with exasperation. “Honestly, boy, are you already a coward? How do you expect to fight an enemy if you will not grapple with your comrades?”

She lifted her chin. “I am not afraid, sir.” Pride kept her from arguing. She would find a way to prove herself, and she'd face whatever challenges lay ahead as they surfaced. If Novak forced her to wrestle, she'd just find a way to make certain her opponent never laid a hand on her.

“I will do whatever needs to be done,” she continued, stiffening at the challenge in his eyes. “And I can offer my skills to help you. I am a good scribe and reader—”

“A knight must learn to fight, not write,” Novak groused, fingering his graying beard in a gesture that signaled his irritation. “He is not fit for battle who has never seen his own blood flow, who has not heard his teeth crunch under the blow of an opponent or felt the full weight of his adversary upon him. If you are to train with me, young man, you must do all these things and whatever else I ask of you. If I am pleased, I shall present you to Lord John. If he accepts
you, you shall take the vows of knighthood before God and all this company.”

He lifted his hand in a gesture which encompassed the entire garrison, and for a moment Anika felt her resolve falter. Perhaps she had been too optimistic in thinking she could hide here. She had thought herself agile and quick, and maybe she was, but the men loitering in this chamber were giants who had undoubtedly survived tournaments and armed conflicts and jousting. The knights of Chlum had faced encounters in which they either defended themselves or accepted disgrace, and none of the men around her looked as if they accepted disgrace easily.

She closed her eyes and clenched her hands, aware that Novak watched her with a speculative expression. She could not let him see her doubts. She must not give in to fear, or she would find herself at Lord Laco's manor, a slave to his treacherous son—

“I am not afraid,” she repeated, opening her eyes. She leaned her head back and met his gaze, then folded her arms as tight as a gate.

“Aren't you?” Before she had time to answer, Novak's arm jerked in a sudden movement, and Anika was dimly aware that he had pulled something shiny from his sleeve. Something sharp and swift whirled past her head, then struck the wall behind her with a faintly metallic clink.

She turned and saw a blade vibrating in the mortar of the stone wall. His dagger had missed her head by inches. And, thanks be to God, she had been too surprised to even flinch.

Novak's left eyebrow rose a fraction. “Very good,” he said, his voice cool. “Very good indeed, Kafka. Perhaps you shall make a knight after all.”

Anika struggled to maintain her fragile control. Courage had not kept her still; she had merely been too startled to react. But even this could work in her favor. “I certainly hope,” she managed to say, her stomach clenching in a delayed reaction to the danger she had just faced, “that you will teach me to throw like that, Sir Novak.”

His face split into a wide grin. “I will, lad, if you please me.”

Anika shifted her weight. “What would you like me to do first, sir?”

Novak jerked his head toward a darkened chamber beyond another doorway. “You'll find my bunk in the farthest corner. There's hay in the storeroom, so make yourself a place to sleep under my bed. That will be your place from this night until the day you become a knight, Squire Kafka.”

The corners of his mouth twisted upward as he lifted his tankard in her direction. “Welcome to Chlum Castle.”

An hour later, Novak reclined on his burlap mattress and folded his hands beneath his head, watching the lad who was now his charge. His temper had flared when Lord John proposed the arrangement, for Novak had already trained his share of squires, and he looked forward to a time of relative ease. But this lad seemed bright and willing, and he hadn't retreated under Novak's lashing tongue or wet himself when tested by Novak's blade.

Thus far, the lad had represented himself well. He had the makings, too, of becoming a favorite at court, for the ladies would like this handsome youth. His fair skin magnified the inky shadows in his green eyes, though the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. His features were so perfect, so symmetrical, that any more delicacy would have made him too beautiful for a boy, but that obstinate chin saved the face from perfection.

Novak grinned. God help the woman who had a chin like that. And God help the man who married her.

The knight turned slightly on his mattress, pretending to sleep but not quite ready to quit the day. The boy was fumbling now with the discarded pieces of Novak's armor, trying to hang them properly while still treating them with due respect. The heavy hauberk lay on the floor like a molten pool of fabric; the greaves that had covered Novak's legs and the vambraces for his arms were scattered like discarded limbs. Novak had shed his armor with a simple command, “See to it,” and 'twas obvious that the boy had little or no experience with dismantling and storing a valuable suit of armor. But he would
learn, and he had already proved himself adaptable. His hands, though small, were stained with work, and that was good. He possessed an unflappable temperament; the exercise with the dagger had proved that point. And though his tongue was sharp, it might prove to be as valuable as a sword in days to come.

The boy bent to lift the heavy breastplate, then managed to fumble and send it clanging to the floor.

“Mount the breastplate on the pole yonder, and hang the other pieces from it,” Novak offered in a sleepy voice, closing his eyes. “One piece hangs upon another.”

“Thank you, sir.” The boy's whisper was as light as a woman's, and Novak nodded, grateful that his sleeping companions would not be disturbed.

All in all, Novak supposed, this judgment of Lord John's was not so harsh. The boy was not as fragile as he appeared, and it might be nice to have someone to polish his armor and tend to his horse. For a while, at least, it might not be too arduous a task.

W
ell?” Lord Laco of Lidice lowered his glass to the table and glared at the two knights who crept furtively into the room. “Where is the wench?”

“Not there,” his captain answered, loosely crossing his arms. “We went to the bookshop, then to the church, then to the preacher's house. They say she's been set to work for a family in the country—”

“Impossible!” Laco hissed, flashing them a look of disdain. “The girl was a nobody; she had no connections. No one in Prague would have dared take her in, and she couldn't even
know
any of the nobility!”

“Nonetheless, my lord,” the second knight offered, “she is gone.”

“Father!” From his place at the end of the table, Miloslav's features contorted with shock and anger. “You promised you'd get her for me!”

“I will.”

“But when?” His son's cold eyes sniped at him. “Some powerful man you are, Father! You cannot even convince a wench that your grand castle is preferable to scrubbing floors in some lord's kitchen. She was just a common girl, no lady, nothing special—”

“Then why,” Laco choked on his own words, “do you want her? Take any girl you want, Miloslav. Go out into the fields, find any farmer's daughter, and do what you like with her! But forget this red-haired wench!”

“I can't forget her.” Miloslav's voice was cloyingly sweet now, like a spoiled woman's. “I saw her, I want her, she interests me. Her eyes
were like green ice, Father—she would be a challenge! And so,” he leaned back in his chair and studied his nails, “I must have her. Search all of Prague, send messengers and spies to every castle in Bohemia. But find her for me, Father. Just because I want her—and because I'm your son. And no one ever says
no
to you, do they, Father?” Laco leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his hand. “No,” he repeated with contempt, “no one
ever says
no to me.”

L
ooking back, Anika realized that her life as a squire began when Novak flung his dagger toward her head. In that moment she understood she could not let her guard down for an instant, not while she lived in this masculine world where knights of power, brawn, and strength jostled continually for position.

After wrestling with Novak's armor for an hour that first night, she slipped out of her tabard and slept fitfully on her bed of straw. During the night she awoke several times, scratching at her arms and legs as some variety of minute creatures crept from the straw to warm themselves between her leggings and her skin. How did the knights live with fleas and bugs? She had been no expert in the art of housekeeping, but she knew that alder leaves spread around the room would draw the fleas and imprison them in sticky sap. She made a mental note to ask one of Lord John's servants about the possibility of cleaning up the knights' garrison. The floor needed sweeping, the straw cried out for freshening, and half the tankards were coated inside with fuzzy growths.

In the days that followed, she silently shadowed Novak and did his bidding without question or complaint. The day began with the sunrise, and she rose quickly, slipped her tabard over her leggings and undershirt, then helped the knight into his hauberk and embroidered surcoat. Novak, like the other knights of Chlum, wore the heraldic colors and symbol of Lord John's family. Two hundred years before, the first Earl of Chlum had chosen a gold cross as his family emblem and embroidered it upon a field of blue, the color representing
heavenly trust. All of the knights wore the emblem proudly, Anika noticed. Their shields, lance pennons, and even their horses' regalia were all emblazoned with a gold cross upon a vibrant blue background.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Anika noticed that the knights never bathed—at least not in an organized fashion. They routinely washed their hands in small finger bowls at the dinner table, but though hands were to be kept as clean as possible, no knight seemed to care what sort of stains the rest of his body bore.

After helping her mentor dress in his suit of mail and surcoat each morning, Anika quietly fell into step behind Novak and followed him to the great hall. There the knights entertained themselves with games or conversation until Lord John appeared. The master of the household liked nothing better than to begin the day with a rousing hunt, and Anika frequently found herself with the other squires, trotting on foot behind their mounted masters as the hunting party pursued a stag or wild boar through the woods outside the castle.

If the hunt was successful, the task of skinning the beast and carting home the bloody meat fell to the squires. The first time Anika was instructed to slit the throat of a stag she felt her gorge rise in horror. But the animal was already dead, she reminded herself, and this bloodletting was necessary in order that the meat might be properly drained and fit to eat. And so, gritting her teeth, she withdrew her dagger from her boot and brought it across the animal's neck in a swift, sure stroke.