The Silver Sword (55 page)

She rode through the day and into the twilight, studying signposts and the setting sun to find her way. Within an hour after sunset, a shining net of starlight spanned the deep vault of heaven, and in the east a silvery glow outlined the mountains behind Prague. As she rode, a new and unexpected warmth surged through her. She wasn't afraid. Novak had trained her well, and the long sojourn in the woods outside Constance had prepared her for this overland journey. Everything in her life had led up to this coming day, and Anika basked in the knowledge of her skill.

She reached one of the small villages outlying Lidice just as she noticed a hint of thinner darkness in the east. She needed to stop now and hobble the horse, for she would need at least an hour of rest.

The velvet dark, with its smells of manure and animals, seemed to enfold her like a gloved hand as she slipped off her horse and led Midnight over the soft earth of the village road. Where could she rest? She was afraid to sleep near one of the houses, for an early-rising
villager might find her, or the stallion might whicker and reveal her whereabouts.

The moon peeked from behind a cloud, casting shadows and silver light upon the sleeping village, and Anika saw the church steeple rise from the patched rooftops. “Perfect,” she murmured, quickening her step. “A sanctuary.”

She hesitated when she reached the churchyard. She could go inside, but what if someone discovered her horse? 'Twould be better to rest outside, with Midnight hobbled nearby. Changing direction, she led Midnight to the small graveyard beside the church building. A few melancholy tombstones dotted the gray clumps of grass, looking insubstantial but faintly sinister in the dark, and one large slab of granite lay beneath a particularly imposing stone.

Anika hobbled the stallion within reach of a thick patch of grass, removed her helmet, then sank to the slab, her armor scraping against the stone. The huge headstone rose above her in the moonlight, reminding her that she was trespassing upon the eternal resting place of Pepik Tichacekov, 1386–1406. Underneath the name and date, the stonecutter had inscribed,
If revenge is sweet, why does it leave such a bitter taste?

“Unlucky Pepik,” Anika whispered, lowering herself to the chilly slab. “Only twenty years old—my age. What did you do, Pepik, to come to your grave so young?”

She stretched out on the granite block and closed her eyes, willing herself to rest, but through the embracing folds of sleep and snatches of troubled dreams her mind kept replaying the name and age of Pepik Tichacekov—born in 1386, died in 1406. Twenty years old, the sum total of his life represented by a single horizontal slash on a granite marker. As a copyist Anika had inscribed thousands of horizontal slashes; they represented sudden and dramatic breaks in thought or a sharp change in tone—just as the dash on the tombstone represented Pepik Tichacekov's short and unhappy life.

The voice of a solitary hound broke the quiet of the night, and Anika sat bolt upright, as wide awake as if someone had just poured
cold water on her face. The night was dying; already the India ink sky had turned to indigo. She had to go.

“Farewell, Pepik Tichacekov,” she murmured, turning to look at the granite marker one final time. The wind, steady and cool from the forest, hooted in response.

As she unhobbled the horse, she fortified herself for the task ahead by revisiting her past. She reminded herself that her flight to Chlum was precipitated by Lord Laco's evil intentions toward her, and Laco and D'Ailly were associates. A cold shiver spread over her as she remembered Cardinal D'Ailly's conduct toward Hus and his presence at her father's death. She had always dreamed of meeting D'Ailly on the field of battle, but since Lord John would not send his knights to fight, she would take her vengeance alone.

Dawn had begun to spread its gray light over the earth when Anika rode up to the quiet meadow outside Laco's castle. Midnight whinnied and shook his head, his jangling bit the only sound in the tranquillity of the woods. Staring at the castle before her, Anika pulled a sealed parchment from a leather sack at her waist. She had personally scrawled out a Latin message for the cardinal, suspecting that D'Ailly would be so alarmed to think the council might act without him that he would hasten to return to Constance. She could then confront him in the woods, without interference from Laco's knights.

Gathering her courage, she slipped on her heavy helmet, then mounted and spurred her horse forward.

“My lord.”

John looked up, surprised to see Novak entering his bedchamber with a great deal more trepidation than usual. One of the knights must have committed a serious offense.

“What is it, Sir Novak?” John answered impatiently, dreading the thought of another disciplinary action. That was the problem with knights—the men were too full of themselves, and their toys were too dangerous.

Novak's smile was strained, his eyes hard and wary. “He is missing. He did not sleep in his bunk last night.”

“Who?” John reached out to take a robe from his chamberlain. Demetr, who had entered to go over the household accounts, sighed loudly in exasperation.

Novak rolled his eyes pointedly at Demetr, and John knew in an instant that the captain spoke of Anika. “Sir
Kafka is
gone, my lord. He must have ridden out before sunset last night, for the black stallion is missing, and he was Kafka's favorite. No one has seen him this morning.”

A sourness rose from the pit of John's stomach as he sank back onto his bed and silently considered this news. Anika had made her choice, then. He had offered her a place in his home, and she had chosen her disguise instead.

A series of terrible regrets swept over him. He should have been firmer from the beginning. He never should have allowed her to become a knight. He should have been more open in his appreciation of her skills, and less quick to let his temper rise when she upbraided him about his sons. She had been right, after all, and had probably been Lev's and Svec's truest friend.

“Kafka has joined the Hussite League, then.” He stared at the floor, trying to hide his inner misery from Novak's probing stare.

“No, my lord.” Novak spoke slowly, and John looked up. The captain's charcoal eyes gleamed with a message that could not be voiced before Demetr and the chamberlain. “Kafka asked me last night about Lord Laco,” Novak went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I told him that Cardinal D'Ailly was visiting Lord Laco at Lidice. Kafka seemed excited to hear the news. I believe—no, I am positive—that Kafka has ridden to confront the cardinal.”

“Lidice?” John closed his eyes as frustration and despair tore at his heart. His failings had been double. Not only had he failed to convince Anika to remain in the safety of his home, he had also failed to save her life. For if she thought she could confront Cardinal D'Ailly at Lidice, she was severely mistaken. Laco's knights were known for shooting first and later asking questions of arrow-pierced bodies.

“What should I do?” he asked, more a prayer than a direct question.

Novak didn't hesitate. “Mount up, my lord, and I'll ride with you. If we take the mountain passes, we may be able to redeem that youth from his folly.”

“Yes.” The hunger to go after her gnawed at John's heart. He would find the stubborn girl, he would bring her back kicking and screaming if he had to, he would
make
her understand.

If only he did not find her too late.

The sunrise spread across the horizon like a peacock's tail, luminous and brilliant, and a sigh of relief broke from Anika's lips as she pressed her mount forward. She was approaching Lord Laco's castle with a great deal of noise and no sign of stealth, just as a legitimate messenger would.

She sat straighter, feeling as if her dormant resolve had renewed itself. She had been lulled into a comfortable life at Chlum, but today, finally, her vow would be fulfilled. Cardinal D'Ailly would pay the blood price he had demanded of her parents and Jan Hus, and tonight the world would weep with relief that such concentrated evil had passed out of it. The council, too, would grind to a halt, for D'Ailly was the draft horse behind which that body careened over the lives and souls of men.

Half a dozen heads appeared over the ridge of the battlement as she galloped forward, guards startled by her rapid and bold approach. “Who goes there?” one of them demanded, his bow already drawn in his hand. “Halt and identify yourself!”

Anika reined in her galloping horse, knowing she looked suspicious. She had hidden her blue and gold surcoat in the woods, not knowing if she would ever be back to get it. Now she wore only her hauberk, armor, and helmet.

“I have a message,” she cried, deepening her voice as best she could. “For Cardinal D'Ailly.”

The knight whispered to his companion, who whispered in turn to the next man in line. Then all but two of the guards disappeared,
but the two remaining had nocked arrows into their bows and stood ready to fire.

Anika could hear her own quickened breathing. Under her heavy helmet, a bead of sweat trickled down her cheek.

After a long time, another man appeared on the battlement, and Anika's heart went into sudden shock when she recognized him. The last traces of boyishness and youth had evaporated from his face, but Miloslav's arrogant, striking features had not changed.

Her fingers tightened around the reins as her temper flared. This evil boy's lechery had stolen her father's life and forced her to run for her own.

“Who are you, and why do you seek Cardinal D'Ailly?” Miloslav's voice scraped like sandpaper against her ears.

“I bring a message for the cardinal,” Anika repeated, the tight knot within her begging for release. She lifted the sealed parchment and waved it slightly. “The message comes from Constance.”

Miloslav seemed to pause; then his full lips lifted in a sneer. “I told him not to trust messengers from the council.” His words sent an apprehensive shiver down her spine. Was some new mischief in the making?

Miloslav gestured toward a road that led off to the west. “The cardinal and my father left for Constance yesternoon. You should have met them on the road.” His voice dripped now with malice. “But perchance you were sleeping in the weeds or making merry with a wench. Or perhaps you had too much ale. In any case, you are not the knight your armor says you are.”

Anika lifted her chin. Miloslav had always been arrogant and obnoxious. It would be an honor and delight to challenge and beat him on his own field, with his own men watching. She had unseated Manville and even Novak a time or two. She could certainly handle this brazen fool.

Her fingers moved toward her glove, ready to remove the gauntlet and toss it to the ground in the challenge he obviously desired to provoke, but an inner voice chided her.

Who was more important, the cardinal or this loudmouthed
youth? They had both made her suffer, but Miloslav's death would affect no one. A blow struck against D'Ailly, however, would resonate throughout the civilized world. Miloslav might be a braggart and a scoundrel, but the very root of perdition rode somewhere in the woods behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the road. If they had left only yesterday, they could not be far ahead. Cardinals traveled in ponderous processions; if she rode well, she could overtake them.

“I will be off, then,” she called, wheeling her stallion around. Ignoring the laughter of the men on the rampart, she spurred Midnight forward and followed the rutted path that would lead her westward to her quarry.