The Silver Sword (33 page)

As her mentor, Novak was responsible for seeing Anika through her induction. After escorting her from the lord's chamber, he led her to a small room dominated by Lord John's wooden bathtub. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “You must cleanse your body as well as your soul this night,” he said, pulling his eyes away in a rictus of embarrassment. He thrust a bundled garment toward her. “And there is this, for after. Remove your armor, cleanse yourself, dress in this, and go up to the chapel. Lord John and Vasek will meet you there.”

Anika took the garment from him and placed it on a chair, then slowly closed the wooden door behind Novak. If she were male, this room would undoubtedly be filled with jesting squires and knights eager to “baptize” her into a new life, but Novak had forestalled that possibility by bringing her straight from the lord's chamber into this lavatory. She would be knighted on the morrow, but her comrades in the garrison would know nothing of it until sunrise.

After shedding her armor, hauberk, and gypon, the shirt worn under all garments, she turned a spigot that brought cold water from the cisterns on the roof, then climbed into the barrel-like tub. She gasped at the first shock of coolness, and then laughed, a tender little sound that seemed strangely out of place in this private and ceremonial act. But why shouldn't she rejoice? She had fooled them far longer than she had thought possible. And Lord John obviously admired something in her character, else he would have demanded that she leave when he first learned of her deception.

She scrubbed her skin until it was pink and tender, then pulled the plug and watched the water swirl out through a pipe that led to the moat. The memory of Novak's words brought a wry smile to her face:
If you take a man and woman and tell them to wash as well as they can, which water bucket will be fouler? The man's. For if you wash clay, you make mud, and if you wash a bone, you make no such thing.

The water swirling away between her toes seemed clean enough, but Anika knew it was invisibly polluted with her old life. From
sunset on the morrow she would no longer be Anika of Prague, but Sir Kafka, knight of Chlum, sworn to serve the gospel and avenge those who had died at the hands of corrupt priests, chief among them Cardinal D'Ailly.

After climbing out of the tub, she picked up the bundle Novak had thrust toward her. It contained two garments: a new white robe, simple and elegant, and another long-sleeved gypon which felt wonderful against Anika's clean skin. Over the gypon she draped the sleeveless robe, which fell in elegant pleats to her ankles.

One small parcel remained inside the bundle, and Anika's eyes filled with tears when she opened it. Inside lay fresh cotton strips and straw. Novak, despite his protestations, did believe in her, and he had proved it by providing for her womanly needs. The tender gesture touched her, and she smiled.

She pulled on her soft leather boots, then finger-combed her wet hair, realizing with dismay that it had grown over the tops of her ears. She would have to ask one of the kitchen women to cut it again, but she would no longer worry about the white streak near her temple. It no longer held any power as an identifying mark, for her old life had been completely washed away.

After piling her filthy old garments in a pile for the washerwomen, she paused by the doorway and took a deep breath. The iron hinges on the heavy door screeched in protest as she pulled it open, then she climbed the winding stone staircase that led to the chapel and murmured a prayer: “Holy God, Almighty Father, help me keep the vows I am about to make.”

Just as Novak had said, Lord John and the chaplain, Vasek, were waiting when she entered. Lord John refused to look at her, but simply gave the chaplain a curt order: “Begin.”

Anika advanced to the altar and sank to her knees at the simple iron railing. “Do you, Squire Kafka, wish to vow your life in the service of God and this family?” the chaplain asked, his voice cracking with age and disuse.

“I do.”

She thought she heard a soft, strangled sound coming from Lord
John, but she ignored it, watching instead the graceful movements of the chaplain's hand as he traced the sign of the cross before her wide eyes. “Then spend the night in prayer, cleansing your soul as you have cleansed your body. And may the Lord reveal his will to you and lead you in the way of everlasting life. Amen.”

“
Sepera in Deo, quoniam adhuc confitebor illi: salutare vultus mei, et Deus meus
…”

As the chaplain droned on, Anika closed her eyes and mentally translated the Latin text: “Trust in God, for I shall yet praise him, my Savior, and my God.”

And as she lifted her thoughts toward heaven above, she tried not to think about the handsome man standing behind her, the one to whom she was vowing her life … and to whom she was striving not to lose her heart.

J
ohn clasped his hands and bowed his head, trying to pretend that this squire was like all the others. How many squires had he taken into his service? Thirty? Forty? He loved them all, as a father loves a son or one brother loves another, but he was finding it difficult to love this one … like the others.

He found himself studying her soft profile. In some ways she was very womanly, yet there was an attitude of determination about her that fascinated him. The very air around her seemed electric as she joined the chaplain in prayer, and John felt an unwelcome surge of excitement as he contemplated those green eyes, that fair skin.

What had initially been an interesting experiment had become a reality beyond his control. Other noblemen of his acquaintance would surely have ordered the girl away or imprisoned her for her impertinence, but he could not bring himself to hurt her. What made a girl abandon everything a woman ought to be in order to strive for an impossible goal? What thoughts filled that impish and unorthodox brain? And why did he feel compelled to explore it further?

Part of her attraction lay in her sheer unconventionality, he knew. And in the most honest part of his soul he had to admit that even under a layer of dirt and a mail hauberk, Kafka was beautiful. The features which made a rather pretty boy combined to create a stunningly beautiful woman, and when she had first entered the chapel, flushed, damp, and rosy, he had to avert his eyes entirely lest he find himself staring at her.

Chaplain Vasek, he thought, feeling a wry smile lift the corner of his mouth, would find that a little
too
interesting.

John lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. 'Twas only her vitality that attracted him, the very uniqueness of her situation. He knew few men who made vows as fervently and followed their dreams as doggedly as she did. She was quite singular, this young woman, but she could prove useful in the days ahead.

He leaned back, suppressing a sigh. She could be useful … or she could be a torment. Only God above knew which.

She was supposed to spend the night in prayer, but an hour after the chaplain and Lord John departed, Anika felt her thoughts wandering as her eyes lifted to the night sky above. The sun had set while she bathed, and outside the chapel window the stars blazed like gems in a sky as black as the grave.

Could her father see her now? Could Petrov? And would they approve her actions? Petrov, she thought, would have been proud of the way she tripped Manville's horse. She knew just where to apply the point of her lance, and though she was far weaker than the seasoned knight, a warrior was only as strong and swift as his war-horse.
When you are at a disadvantage, forget your weakness and find your strengths.
Petrov's insistent voice rang in her mind, and her blood soared with unbidden memories—Petrov teaching her how to parry, how to feint, how to look right and move left, how to feign an injury so the enemy grew bold and overconfident.

In a surge of recollection, another beloved voice touched her inner ear:
Men will carry swords until they learn to carry the cross.
With memory's kind and loving eyes she saw her father's face framed in the chapel window, his humorous, kindly mouth, the age lines about his lips and eyes, muting his strength with gentleness.

Would he have approved her plan of vengeance? Somehow she didn't think so. Ernan O'Connor had been a righteous man, unable even to nurse a grudge.

“Father God, help my father understand,” she prayed, her eyes flitting over the stars in the night sky. “In the war between right and
wrong, we cannot afford to be neutral. We must fight; we must defend ourselves and our right to the truth. Please, Almighty God, let him understand.”

On and on she prayed, recalling those she had loved and lost, until the stars began to fade behind a blue velvet sky.

The sky was pure blue from north to south, with no more than a little violet duskiness lingering in the west when John stepped onto the portico of the castle. The knights, whom Novak had summoned, stood in a circle as they had the day before, but all signs of curiosity had vanished from their faces. As far as they knew, another squire had been tested and proved himself worthy to join the knights of Chlum Castle. Though the squire's curtailed test had been unusual, those with inquiring minds had been satisfied with the simple answer that Kafka's ingenious approach to unseating Manville was proof enough of his worthiness.

Now the knights stood arranged by rank in a formal circle, ready to witness the dubbing of yet another squire, a link in the chain of an endless succession of knights who had ridden into Chlum Castle as boys and had grown to manhood within its walls. Except this one, John thought, staring fixedly at the slender sword in his hands, had never been a boy and would never make a man.

In a moment she would descend those chapel stairs, kneel at his feet, and swear allegiance to him, his wife (if he ever took one), and his cause. He would promptly assign her to Master Hus, in part because it would remove her from his continual thoughts, and in part because if the preacher had known her in Prague, he might recognize her and persuade her to give up this ridiculous quest. If Hus discovered her identity, John was certain the preacher would waste no time finding her a suitable position with a godly family in Prague. John would have asked for the preacher's help yesterday, but Hus had locked himself in a solitary tower room to spend the day in fasting and prayer.

At a silent signal, the knights before him laid down their swords, uncovered their heads, and knelt in the sand. John knew without being
told that she had appeared behind him. The trumpeters at his side lifted their horns and blew a long, resounding note. Then the chaplain raised his hands and opened the ceremony with a brief prayer in the Bohemian tongue.

John heard the soft swish of her garments as the smooth cap of her hair appeared in the corner of his eye. He looked to his right hand where Novak stood and saw the older knight staring, a gleam of incredulity in his eyes.

John looked down when she knelt at his feet. Upon the red carpet, with her white robe gleaming like snow in the sunshine, she pressed her small hands together in an attitude of prayer and lifted her eyes to his.