The Silver Sword (57 page)

“Liar!”

Miloslav laughed as if sincerely amused. “Do not worry, my dear. I am a devoted lover. I have stored the memory of your lovely face like a seed in the dark and fertile soil of my imagination. And now I am delighted to find that in the bright light of this day, that memory has bloomed to flesh and blood within my grasp.”

Keeping the weight on his foot upon her back, he lowered his remaining glove to her face, delicately tracing the outline of her eyes, nose, cheek, and chin. “Though your lovely face is not so pretty, today, hmmm? I do believe that cheek will have a bruise on the morrow … if I decide to let you live long enough to feel it.” His voice went softer still, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its control. “You see, Anika, you have displeased me mightily. I
offered you a place in my home, and you spurned it. No one says no to me … and lives to enjoy the consequences of such folly.”

Resisting the urge to panic or protest, Anika took a deep breath. Why was she lying here like a dove in the coils of a snake? She was not helpless; she had trained hard and long. As a knight of Chlum she had passed her test and proved her mettle. Though she might never be as strong as others, she was not a quitter. She would not let this brute hurt her. She had not come this far and suffered silently to be left broken and bruised and humiliated in an anonymous patch of forest.

After a instant in which she struggled for self-control, Anika strengthened her voice and made a solitary demand: “Release me.”

“Release you?” Miloslav waved his gauntlet before her gaze, then dropped it next to her face, sending another spray of dust into her eyes. “You wanted to throw down the gauntlet before me this morning, didn't you, fair knight? 'Tis a pity you didn't. We would not have had to postpone this pleasurable encounter.”

His cloak fell in the dirt, and Anika realized he was removing what little armor he wore. Why wouldn't he? He thought her as helpless as a baby.

“Perhaps,” he droned on, slightly increasing the pressure of his foot upon her back, “if you are quiet and agreeable, I won't kill you now. When we are done here, I will escort you to the Council at Constance where you can explain why you wanted to find Cardinal D'Ailly. There was no message, am I right? I know you, Anika O'Connor. When you could not be found, I set out to learn all I could about you. I know you and your father were close to Hus. And now you are an enemy of the Church and a spy, else you would not be here dressed in such an unnatural fashion. Only the heresies of Jan Hus would induce a woman to surrender her womanly garb.”

His sword made a distinctly metallic sound as he dropped it on the ground behind her. Anika closed her eyes, her clamped lips imprisoning an angry sob.

“Whether you wear a kirtle or armor makes no difference to me
now. You are a lovely wench, Anika, especially when your eyes are flashing with fire.”

She heard gravel crunch as he knelt beside her. She felt the pressure of his hands upon her hips, then he turned her as easily as if she were a sheaf of straw. Sweat and blood had soaked the hair at his neck and stained his hauberk where she'd cut him, but his mouth curved in a predatory smile.

“Little Anika,” he said, his hands pinioning her arms to the ground. “So strong! Where did you learn to wield a sword like that? Who has been hiding you all these months?”

His face loomed closer, and she turned her head to avoid his noxious breath. On the ground she saw her sword, her helmet, the tools of a calling she would disgrace if she could not escape.

His eyes followed hers, and his hands left her arms as he reached out and grasped her helmet. “This basinet is marked with the ensign of Chlum,” he said, studying the emblem engraved into the metal. He held the helmet to the side while he grinned down at her, his weight heavy as he leaned over her. “So Lord John has been hiding you? No doubt you have repaid him with your favors. But the time has come to share his secrets, so let
me
kiss your pretty face as well—”

Obeying an impulse that sprang from some place deep inside her, Anika lifted her hands and grasped her helmet as Miloslav prepared to toss it away. For an instant they grappled for possession, but the strength of desperation flowed through Anika's veins. In one movement she jerked it from his grasp, then swung it, hard, toward her attacker's head.

He did not cry out at the blow. He merely stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise, then crumpled sideways like a rag doll, a thin trickle of blood running from the place in his forehead where the edge of her basinet had cut him.

Sobbing in relief, Anika turned and scrambled away on her hands and knees, dirt and gravel sticking to the damp skin of her palms. “Oh, Father God,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her face as she crouched behind a bush next to the road. Her thoughts whirled in tumult. “Have I killed him?”

She knew she ought to go over and check for sounds of breathing, but she could not bear to be near that body again. Miloslav would have to remain in God's hands. Rising to her feet, she gingerly retrieved her helmet and sword, then turned to whistle for Midnight. The stallion stood only a few feet away in the woods, his eyes wide and fixed upon her. At Anika's signal he cautiously emerged from the trees and trotted over.

Before mounting, she glanced again at Laco's son. Blood from the wound in his forehead had painted his visage into a glistening devil mask. With a shiver of vivid recollection, she remembered how Petrov had scolded her:
Believe me, child. If you had seen but one day of war, you would pray to Almighty God that you might never see such a thing again.

If war was anything like this, she wanted no part of it after today, but this scoundrel was just another in a long string of reprobates firmly attached to Cardinal D'Ailly's belt. That evil man corrupted everyone he influenced.

She placed her booted foot in the stirrup and swung herself up, determined not to look back.

Not until sunset stretched glowing fingers across the sky did Anika find her enemies' camp. From the camouflaging safety of the woods, she saw that Laco's servants had pitched several tents inside a meadow between the fork of two roads. Anika had no trouble determining which tent housed his Eminence the cardinal. One tent, gaudy with red and purple ornamentation, sat aloof and reserved at the center of the camp. She knew she'd find Cardinal D'Ailly inside.

Tying Midnight's bridle to a nearby tree, she dismounted, rechecked her armor, and again touched the hilt of Petrov's silver sword. The weight of the blade at her side was comforting, like a rune, something to hold on to. She had come a long way in four years, and every moment of labor had pointed toward this hour.

She was grateful to have found the cardinal's caravan at the end of the day. As the other knights removed their armor and settled in for a few hours rest, she could wander into the camp in her armor
and without an identifying surcoat. No one would think her appearance odd. She could walk straightway into the holy man's tent, and there confront him with his sins.

She leaned back against a tree and crossed her arms, waiting for twilight.

“So she left when you said we would not go to war?”

Numb with exhaustion, John of Chlum nodded in answer to Novak's question. They had been traveling for an entire day and had endured a cool reception at Lidice only to learn that a strange knight had appeared that morning, then promptly galloped off in the direction of Constance. Though Lord Laco's steward had been pointedly rude, John had managed to be polite.

Novak shook his head. “I would not have thought a maid would be so eager for the bloodshed of war. In truth, she is a gentle soul.”

“Yes.” John's back ached between his shoulder blades; he stiffened and pressed his hand to the base of his spine. The sun was sinking in the west. Soon they would have to find a place to rest for a few hours. But how could they stop when Anika was still out there, still pursuing a fool's path?

“What do you think, my lord?” Novak asked, folding his hands atop the pommel of his saddle. “Some of the men are ready to go to war. They say the Catholics aren't our Christian brothers, that we are right to fight them. They mean you no disrespect and they'll abide by your decision, but I've got to be truthful and tell you that they are wondering what you're thinking.”

“I am thinking,” John released a long, exhausted sigh, “that only God knows who his true children are. There are Hussites who place more faith in freedom than in Christ, and there are Catholics who have found the truth of the gospel even amid the trappings of Rome. Remember, Novak, there were sympathetic cardinals on the council at Constance. Not all of them wanted Hus executed.”

“But their protestations were weak,” Novak pointed out. “Or they did too little, too late.”

John nodded, too drained to debate the issue. “Be that as it may,
I will not fight in a war against the Catholic League. Just as the Shepherd went out to find his wee lost lamb, I will not attack the Catholic Christian brother who seeks peace. Let the ninety-and-nine aggressors come, and I will defend my home. But I will not go out against them.”

“Look, my lord—someone is in the road!”

Following Novak's pointing finger, John peered ahead through the gathering dusk to the place where a body lay sprawled across the road. Even from this distance he saw that the head and neck were mottled with dried blood, and a bruise marked the forehead. John slipped from his mount and hurried forward, half-afraid he had found Anika.

But this was a man of not more than twenty-five years. The mouth was a wide, lipless line, like a cut in dead flesh, and the sharp, hawkish face seemed disdainful even in unconsciousness.

John pressed his fingertips to the young man's neck. “He lives!” he called to Novak, who was still astride his horse. “Bring the water pouch, will you?”

Novak dismounted stiffly, then brought the pouch. John splashed a few drops of water upon the man's face. For a moment he feared the stranger would not awaken. Then the youth sputtered for a moment and thrust up his hand as if to ward off an attack.

“Have no fear.” Crouching by the wounded man's side, John spoke slowly, feeling his way. “You are among friends. I am John of Chlum, and this is my captain. Were you beset by robbers?”

The youth's eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened. “Lord John of Chlum?”

“Yea.”

The youth's blue eyes flashed with cold. “The knights of Chlum are cursed Hussites.”

John stiffened, resisting the urge to drop the ungrateful man's head back to the hard ground. “The knights of Chlum are allied with God, the king, and peace,” he said, helping the stranger sit up. “We do not believe men of God should fight one another.”

“I see.” The youth lifted a hand to the cut on his forehead, then
winced and gave John a rueful smile, the first sign of friendliness he had exhibited. “Bandits, as you said. I'm afraid they have taken off with my money purse.”

“Your sword lies yonder,” Novak called, pointing to the weapon on the ground. “And your gauntlets and cloak there.”

“Thank you.” As the young man slowly stood and moved to retrieve his belongings, John tried to catch Novak's gaze. What sort of bandit would leave a valuable sword in the road? And why would a brigand remove his victim's gloves and cloak?

“A lying tongue leads to death, my friend,” Novak suddenly drawled, leaning casually forward upon his horse. “Confess—this was no robbery; 'twas a duel. The gauntlets on the ground prove it.” Novak's eagle eye stared down his heavy nose. “Whom did you fight?”

“No one, I assure you,” the youth answered, his eyes snapping with malice. “Though I do not know why the bandits removed my gloves. They have doubtless scattered my belongings throughout this area, and perhaps my horse as well.”

“We will give you a ride,” Lord John offered, conscious of the setting sun. “But you must hurry. We should move on before darkness falls.”