The Silver Sword (40 page)

And while the other knights slapped her on the back and made insincere jokes about how lucky Kafka was to have caught the lady's eye, Anika clenched her hand until her nails entered her palm. Lord John had told her that Zelenka had seen through Anika's disguise. The earl's daughter was fully aware that she had just invited another woman to her father's table.

What sort of torture was this?
It is nothing. It means nothing. Zelenka only means to toy with me; this has nothing to do with Lord John.

Desperate to prove to herself that she was immune to anything
that might happen in her master's presence, Anika straightened her shoulders, brushed the dust from her surcoat, then strode toward the doorway that led to the earl's banquet hall.

Though she was starving, Anika could eat little, for her stomach churned with anxiety and frustration. She remained silent throughout the meal, content to be ignored so she could listen to her master's voice, but her attention to the conversation was distracted by Zelenka's actions and attitudes. The earl's comely daughter sat across from Anika but next to Lord John, and her face proved to be a study in contrasts. One moment she pouted, her rosebud lips pointed down in a gesture clearly designed to indicate her displeasure, but the next moment her hand was on John's arm and her blue eyes bright with admiration as she gazed up at him. Though many months had passed since she had visited Chlum, Zelenka looked more beautiful and irresistible than ever, and Anika found herself comparing her callous and ink-stained hands to Zelenka's dainty palms.

Why would John prefer the company of a girl whose face was streaked with dirt when he could have one who had painted her cheeks as prettily as a rose? Why would he cultivate friendship with a scrawny girl with chopped coppery hair when he could have lustrous golden braids streaming through his fingers? Zelenka displayed her smooth bosom and arms to her advantage, while Anika wore dusty layers: a linen shift, a mail hauberk, plates of iron, a shapeless surcoat.

Why would Lord John even think of Anika as a woman when he had Zelenka to fill his dreams? 'Twas a wonder he did not forget who and what Anika was, so well had she hidden whatever charms she might have had … once.

Swallowing the despair in her throat, she looked down at her trencher and uselessly moved her uneaten food with her spoon. Zelenka's laughter cut through the silence, a soothing sound like music on a quiet night. Anika lifted her head. Through tear-filled eyes
she saw Zelenka smiling, her hand on John's shoulder, her eyes glowing with—love?

The earl stood and pushed back his chair, and instantly Master Hus and Lord John followed suit. Anika nearly sat still until she remembered that as a man she, too, must rise, so she sprang immediately to her feet.

“This knight of yours has said little tonight,” the earl told his daughter, a faintly reproachful note in his voice. “I think he might have preferred to eat with his comrades in the yard below.”

“No,” Zelenka answered, her eyes crossing to meet Anika's. “We will have a private word now, my friends, as you go your way. Good night, Father, Master Hus.” She looked up at Anika's master with dreamy eyes. “Good night, my lord.”

Amid much shuffling and the exchanging of pleasantries, the men left the room. Anika bowed stiffly and tried to follow, but a stern command from Zelenka stopped her.

“I know your little game,” the lady said, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. She tented her dainty hands and stared at Anika over the tips of her manicured fingernails. “I know you are a woman. And if you think you can win Lord John's heart through this little pretense of yours—”

“My lady, I can assure you nothing lies further from my mind,” Anika interrupted, keeping her voice low. “Lord John is my master, and I have sworn fealty to him. That is all I ever wanted to do.”

“Oh?” A sudden icy contempt flashed in the other woman's eyes. “If all you ever wanted to do was become a knight, why do you remain at Chlum Castle? You have proved yourself; you are no longer a lowly squire. Are you so unnatural that you do not long for the love of a good man? Do you not wish to raise sons and daughters? To feel a man's arms around you in the night?”

Anika closed her eyes against the unexpected emotions that rose in her breast. “No,” she whispered, her voice strangled by anger and jealousy. “I only wish to serve him—and to fulfill a vow I made. And that vow has nothing to do with Lord John.”

“Then you are the most unnatural of women,” Zelenka answered. She gazed at Anika with chilling intentness for a long moment, then pursed her lips in a suspicious expression. “And yet, something tells me you are not.”

“How do you know anything about me?” Anika countered, irritated by Zelenka's mocking tone. “You do not know me at all. We have nothing in common.”

“But we do,” Zelenka answered, lightly bringing her fingertips to her lips. Her mouth pursed up in a tiny rosette, then unpuckered enough to continue. “We are women, and women understand each other. I can see from the look in your eyes that you love your master, even as you see that I am clearly out to claim the prize you cannot have.”

Shock flew through Anika. She stood by the side of the table, blank, amazed, and very shaken, until her tongue loosened enough to reply. “I am surprised,” she finally managed to say, “that you have waited so long for Lord John. Surely there are other unmarried lords with vast estates.”

“None so vast as Chlum,” Zelenka answered. She leaned back in her chair and contentedly sipped from her glass. “And there are no lords so handsome as Lord John. I will wait forever, if need be, or at least until this matter with the preacher is settled. Master Hus occupies Lord John's mind now, but soon that matter will be finished. And when it is, I shall be ready to return to Chlum … as its mistress.”

A flurry of protestations rose to Anika's lips, but she bit them back with a discipline forged on Novak's relentless training field. “If you have no further need of me,” she said, turning to face Zelenka in a deliberately casual movement, “I would like to join my comrades.”

“Go.” Zelenka leaned toward her, her eyes cold. “I hope I never see you again.”

“If God is good to us, my lady,” Anika answered, each word a splinter of ice, “you will not.”

She could not love Lord John. It was impossible. As the procession of mounted knights, clerics, and nobles moved southwestward through the Bohemian Forest, Anika reminded herself that her master had courted daughters of nobles, many of whom would bring dowries that would further enrich his estate. Many of them, like Zelenka, were beautiful and witty, others sweet and holy. When he could have his choice from any of them, why would he even consider her? He thought her strange, and though he respected her work, he probably thought her more fit for perdition than matrimony. He only allowed her to remain at Chlum because she was skilled with a pen and languages; he had no patience for her dreams and no understanding of her motivation.

Why, then, did her heart ache every time he walked by? And how had Zelenka known this? Had Anika somehow revealed her emotions on her face?

She was secretly pleased when Lord John decided to ride today in the carriage with Jan Hus, Jerome, and Lord Venceslas of Duba. Their days were filled with plotting and strategies, Anika suspected, and Lord John would have no time for romance or longings for Zelenka. If she concentrated on her work, perhaps her attention would be distracted as well.

Anika sighed. Passing a single hour without thinking of Lord John seemed about as impossible as counting the stars in the night sky.

B
aldasarre Cossa, more commonly known as Pope John XXIII, leaned forward in his gilded carriage, annoyed that a herdsman with an unstable flock of sheep had blocked the road. “Driver,” he called, rapping on the roof of his conveyance with his walking stick, “run them over, do you hear? The man obviously has no idea who rides in this carriage. Run over the filthy beasts, and let the man count himself blessed that God's representative has noticed him today.”

The crack of the whip rang out, the carriage jolted forward, and Baldasarre cursed softly under his breath as he was thrown off balance. What a lot of foolishness this council was. He hadn't wanted to leave Rome. He had only agreed to this council because not agreeing would most certainly lead to his condemnation from afar. And though he didn't know how they would evict him from his Roman palace, he feared that someone might try to do it by subtle means. After all, he had assumed the pope's crown after feeding his weakling predecessor, Alexander V, a healthy dose of poison.

Uncertainty gnawed at his confidence. One could never be too sure which way the winds of fate might blow. In his lifetime, Baldasarre had been many things—soldier, scholar, pirate—and through all his journeys he had come to see that only one thing mattered: power. With power came money, renown, and women, all the pleasures that lightened a man's soul, but without power a man was little
more than the dust of the earth, as useless and worthless as peasants who worked the soil outside a nobleman's estate.

And so he had cultivated power. Among the retinue of cardinals and bishops that followed him now in ornate carriages he had few friends; Baldasarre preferred to anchor his future to strongholds
outside
the church. He had paused in Tyrol to confirm his alliance with Duke Frederick of Austria, a genteel nobleman with no money and a great love for creative melodrama.

“Your Holiness!” A brightly uniformed servant rode up on horseback, bringing a choking cloud of dust into the carriage. Baldasarre bit back an oath and stared at the man.

“Constance is just ahead, Your Holiness. I thought you might like to know.”

There went that instinct again, seizing him by the guts and yanking for his attention. Fear blew down the back of Baldasarre's neck, but he shook it off and hunched forward, gesturing for the servant to fling open the door of the carriage.

“Let me out!” he screamed, not waiting for the red carpets which were usually spread before he would descend. The princely procession had halted atop a hill, and below, in the valley, Baldasarre could see the city of Constance glittering like a jewel by the shore of the lake.

Despite his earlier apprehensions, his confidence spiraled upward. “'Tis a pit for catching foxes,” he proclaimed, holding up both hands in delight. As his bewildered bishops scrambled out to see what had caught the holy father's attention, Baldasarre gathered his robes and climbed back into his regal chariot.

“Drive on!” he bellowed.