The Silver Sword (26 page)

Zelenka sighed with exasperation. She had been waiting outside Lord John's chamber long enough to recite four “Our Fathers.” The men lingered over supper far longer than usual, but in the past five minutes servants had carried out the empty bowls and a guard had escorted Master Hus to his chamber. In a moment she would be able to steal Lord John's attention—

She smiled as his long, lean form finally filled the doorway. “Lord John.”

“Yes, Lady Zelenka?” His eyes seemed burdened with some troubling concern, but he broke into an open friendly smile at the sight of her. Zelenka folded her hands, congratulating herself on another small victory. “My lord, if I might borrow your ear for a moment—”

“I am sorry,” he interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. “I know the routine here must bore you. I suppose you expected parties in this season of merriment, but we are so caught up with Master Hus—”

“I am not bored.”

A wry but indulgent glint appeared in his eyes. “I suppose you will be wanting me to send you home on the morrow. I don't blame you. Now that Hus has left Prague, gaiety can return to the city. And you, dear child, are the gayest of them all. I hate to see you marooned out here away from all your young friends.”

“I can be merry anywhere,” she answered, trying to still the wild pounding of her heart. The man was perceptive; surely he knew why
she sought his company. “And I would not leave you so soon, especially not now.”

“Not now?” He quirked his eyebrow teasingly. “Why not now, pray tell. Is there some suitor in Prague you are seeking to escape? Is that why you have hidden yourself out here?”

“Nothing in Prague concerns me a whit,” she answered, looking down at her hands. “Just you … and your household, of course. In the faint hope that I might be of some service to you, I have been trying to learn about your estate. Demetr runs an orderly household, but he does not know everything. In my endeavors I have discovered—” She lifted her hands in a helpless shrug. “I scarcely know where to begin. You are being deceived, my lord.”

“Deceived? How so?” His smile faded slightly, but still he looked at her as if she were ten years old.

She felt a lurch of excitement within her as she boldly met his gaze. “A trickster has infiltrated your household. I am not certain, but I wonder if the pretender could be a spy for your enemies, which, I understand, are legion.”

Zelenka rejoiced when his jaw muscle clenched angrily. Finally she had managed to pierce that complacency and indifference! “Surely you are mistaken.” His eyes became somber again. “My people are loyal.”

“But this one, I fear,” she looked down, idly smoothing her fingernails with her thumb, “has escaped your suspicion. For who would suspect a mere squire of being a spy?”

“A squire?” He pulled back his shoulders and lifted his granite chin. “Which squire could you mean? There is only one new boy, Kafka, and he came directly from my father's old captain of the guard. And since he has come, he has done nothing amiss.”

She leaned forward, every curve of her body speaking defiance. “His very presence here is a lie, a pretense. For the one you call Kafka is no boy.” She paused, watching her words take hold. “Kafka is a girl.”

Intense astonishment touched his face. “A girl?” he repeated dully, a grayish pallor blooming beneath his skin.

She parted her lips in a secretive smile. “A woman, in fact.”

“Impossible! Such a thing would be impossible to hide. I would have seen the truth!”

“Perhaps, my lord,” she remarked, pleased at how nonchalant she sounded, “we see only what we want to see.”

Her words were playful, but he understood that her meaning was not. Two deep lines of worry appeared between Lord John's dark eyes. “How do you know this?”

“My lord,” Zelenka let the words roll slowly off her tongue, “just as you can spot a hip-splayed hound from forty paces, so one woman can recognize another. One has but to look at her with open eyes. The truth is written there for anyone willing to see it.”

He did not dispute her but leaned back against the wall, staring into space. “Why would a girl spy on us?” he finally murmured, more to himself than to Zelenka. “If he—she—was sent to harm Master Hus, she has had opportunity already, and yet she has done nothing.”

“Yet Kafka has volunteered to ride with you on the preacher's excursions, has she not?” Zelenka let the question fall into the silence. “And who can say what opportunities this false squire will have in the days to come?”

“Kafka
is
exceedingly well versed for a squire,” John murmured again, still staring into space. He turned slowly until his gaze met Zelenka's. “I ought to have suspected something. How many squires enter a castle speaking four languages? She must have come from a noble family, but what father would send his daughter on such a dangerous mission? If she were discovered by the knights in the garrison—”

His voice trailed off as he turned his eyes away, and Zelenka knew he had stumbled onto a subject not fit for a gentlewoman's ears. She stepped back, disappointed. This was not the reaction she had hoped for. He was expressing compassion and wonder, while she had expected anger and hostility.

“My lord, whatever her reasons, you should dismiss her at once,” she said, daring to reach out and place a hand on his arm. “And you
should consider the possibility that your man Novak knows about this spy, as well. Is Kafka not Novak's shadow night and day? If so, surely your captain knows. And if he knows, he has deceived you, his sworn master. Far be it from me to advise you, but perhaps Kafka and Novak should both be sent away.”

“Thank you, Lady Zelenka,” Lord John said, his hand abruptly falling over hers. She thrilled to his touch, but when she lifted her gaze, she found no trace of warmth in his eyes. “Thank you,” he repeated, firmly lifting her hand from his arm. “But I should consider the matter and lift my thoughts in prayer before taking any action. You must excuse me now.”

Without a further word, he turned and left her alone in the empty hallway.

John was not surprised when Lady Zelenka decided to return home the next day. After sending Demetr to convey best wishes for a safe journey and a merry St. Nicholas's Day, John watched from the balcony of his chamber as the chariot and armed escort trotted through the barbican and down the road that would return Lady Zelenka to her father's estate. The poor girl would make someone a fine wife, but she had cast her bread upon the waters one time too many at Chlum Castle. John wasn't certain why she had been so intent upon pursuing
him,
but she had shown stubborn persistence and resolute strength of character.

And, in a strange way, Zelenka may have been useful. He pulled his eyes from the departing carriage and looked toward the circle where a group of squires and knights were training for an upcoming Christmas tournament. Novak stood outside the ring, his hands on his broad hips, a scowl upon his bearded face. Before the grizzled knight, in the ring, Kafka and Lev circled one another, blunt wooden swords in their right hands, unlit lanterns in their left.

In a surge of interest, John leaned forward upon the balcony railing. If Lady Zelenka spoke truly, his son was dueling with a girl. Surely Lev would have noticed something.

“En garde!” Novak called, and the two squires assumed their positions:
lanterns held up in back, right hands pointing the blunted swords toward the opponent's chin.

John crossed his arms and squinted toward the dueling pair. He had spent many sleepless hours considering Zelenka's charge and had decided to investigate himself before confronting either Novak or Kafka about the lady's supposition. He suspected Zelenka's story was a lie born out of a vindictive desire to strike at Novak.

Was the squire in the courtyard below a woman? Surely not. With an adventurous toss of his head, Kafka urged Lev to lunge, then swiftly parried the blow. The dubious squire moved with a quick agility unlike that of the other boys, but his quickness was offset by a lack of power.

John lowered his chin into his hand and frowned. In the belted robe that swirled around Kafka's slender legs, John thought he could discern the hourglass shape of a tiny waist and wider hips. That fullness around the bosom could easily be explained by padding and armor, but Kafka's figure was certainly more rounded than Lev's. But then again, the youth was older.

Squire Kafka lunged and leaped back, twirled and parried a blow, then moved a second too late. Lev's sword struck Kafka's padded jacket.

“Score one for Lev!” Novak roared.

John pressed his fingers over his lips, still watching and wondering. Kafka turned toward him, and beneath the ridiculously boyish haircut John saw an oval face with a daintily pointed chin, wind-whipped color in the cheeks, and sweetly curled lips of soft pink. At another cry from Novak the duel began again, and this time Kafka rushed forward with surprising aggressiveness, startling Lev. Kafka's sword struck home, winning the point.

“One for Kafka!” Novak roared. Delighted, the squire threw back his head and let out a great peal of girlish laughter.

The truth crashed into John's consciousness like surf hurling against a rocky cliff. This Kafka was no pre-adolescent boy. Zelenka spoke truly—this squire was a woman.

John stood as still as stone as the shock of discovery hit him.
During the night he had been able to convince himself that the spoiled Zelenka hated Novak and his charge enough to mistake a gentle and sensitive boy for a girl, thus casting doubt upon the knight's loyalty. But this was not of Zelenka's doing.

Kafka's voice floated up to him from the courtyard. “Sir Novak, do not leave us! Another round, please!”

That voice would
never
deepen.

How could they have been so easily deceived? And why would Petrov, who had proved his righteous character even in his death, attempt to deceive his former master's household? During the months Kafka—or whatever her true name was—had been at Chlum, she had conducted herself wisely and with great discretion. John was reasonably certain no one else knew her secret. Even Demetr, who saw and knew everything, had been thoroughly duped.

We see only what we want to see.

Pensively John stared across the courtyard to the horizon, where a gray winter haze veiled the sun. Could the girl have been planted by Hus's enemies? It did not seem likely. Her guardian had died in Hus's cause. The girl had journeyed with Novak to escort Hus from Prague, so if she had meant him harm, she could have already committed it. And when Kafka spoke of Hus the night John found the squire by the pool, her eyes had shone with admiration and conviction. Traitors did not wear such faithful faces.

So why was she here?

John's mind reeled with uncertainties, but quick questions needed slow and thoughtful answers. Straightening himself, he returned to his chamber, determined to wait… and watch.

Lord John of Chlum