Laughing, he fell back into his seat as the carriage lurched away.
Four
Laco’s words seemed to come to Petrov through strangely thickened air.
Use your swords.
His sword! It hung by his belt as always, a symbol of his knighthood and his skills in warfare, but how many years had passed since he unsheathed it for anything but training or an empty bluff?
The sound of dear Anika’s cry propelled him forward; his hand reached for the instrument that years ago had completed him, made him whole. The hilt felt cold and foreign in his hand, and when had the blade become so heavy?
There was no time to wonder. The two knights riding behind the carriage had spurred their stallions at their master’s command; the closest was already closing in upon Anika, his arm extended to sweep her up across his saddle.
“You shall not do this!” Petrov’s blade sliced through the air, striking the knight squarely on the forearm, right at the point where the heavy leather gauntlet joined the metal vambrace that protected the arm. The blow did little more than startle the knight, but it gave Anika time to whirl away.
“Run, Ernan, take Anika!” Petrov yelled, turning to brace himself for the second man’s attack.
“I will not run,” Ernan answered, pulling a dagger from his belt. “I am within me rights to resist.”
Petrov shook his head, his blood rising in a jet. “Can you not see that they intend to have us? This is no debate, Ernan—it is war!”
The first knight, cursing his injured arm, wheeled his mount around and trotted slowly toward a hitching post. The second slipped from the saddle and drew his sword, advancing steadily toward Ernan.
Petrov glanced behind him. In his younger days he would have taken on two men without hesitation, but he had seen sixty-five summers and was no longer the warrior he had once been. Ernan was a man of books, not the blade, and might prove to be worse than useless in a fight. Behind them lay the winding streets and alleys of Prague, a veritable maze if they should choose to escape. But they would have to run now, for the knights were coming closer, as confident as cats intent upon a pair of sag-bellied rats.
“Ernan, listen to me,” Petrov commanded. “Take your daughter and run through the alleys! I will meet you later.”
“No! I am not willing to let this lord take me daughter or me honor, and both must be defended. If Lord Laco wants a fight, by heaven above, I’ll give him one!”
Like a fool running for gold, Ernan let out a yell and charged the knight Petrov had wounded. The knight, grinning as his quarry sprinted forward, waited calmly until the last possible moment, then drew his sword. With a quick parry and thrust, he ran Ernan O’Connor through.
Staring in horror, Petrov watched his dearest friend clutch the raw edges of the knight’s blade with both hands, then spin in a half-turn. He caught Petrov’s eye and offered the older man a trembling smile. “’Twas not the fight I hoped for,” he whispered, glancing down to see blood on his hands. His eyes lifted to Petrov’s for a moment, a look of intense and clear longing filling his gaze. “I’ve been a wee bit unwise today. Take care of Anika, Petrov. Live—and take care of me daughter.”
Petrov scarcely had time to nod before the second knight commanded his attention. Half-blinded by hot tears, he managed a reasonable defense of himself before tripping backward over a planter some well-meaning housewife had set out to beautify the street. Laco’s knight, chuckling at his helpless quarry, stood ready to dispatch Petrov’s soul to heaven, but a summons from his comrade broke the silence.
“Leave the old man, Oswald; he’s nothing. The master wants the girl, and she’s vanished.”
Still grinning, Petrov’s assailant lowered his blade. “I’ll not do you the honor, old man,” he whispered, his eyes glinting with malicious glee. “Old men should die in their beds, not flat on their bums in the middle of the street.”
Furious at his helplessness and vulnerability, Petrov pushed himself up, ready to charge the retreating knight’s back, not caring if he was struck down. But Ernan’s dying charge rang in his ears. Anika was still in danger, an orphan now and in need of his help.
Biting back his pride and anger, Petrov took one last look at Ernan’s motionless body, then furtively shadowed his way into the alleys, searching for Anika and whatever remained of his wounded pride.
“Now she will never come willingly!”
Feeling restless and irritable, Cardinal D’Ailly turned from the impetuous youth’s face and stared out the carriage window, bracing himself for yet another of Miloslav’s temper tantrums. He had been Lord Laco’s guest for only a month, but already he longed for the peace and quiet splendor of his apartments in Rome. No amount of gold or influence could compensate for having to endure this youth’s constant yammering for attention.
“Shut your mouth, Son.” Lord Laco pressed his lips together in anger. “She would never have come with you; the girl has pride—a great deal more than you, from what I can tell.”
“Father!” The son recoiled from his father’s hot eyes and tried on a smile that seemed a size too small. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” For a moment Laco’s eyes met D’Ailly’s, and he smiled in apology. “Forgive us, Your Eminence, while we participate in a small family squabble. My son has no patience and no sense.”
“Father, you can’t ruin this for me. I’ve wanted her ever since I saw her in the marketplace, so you’ll have to get her. There’s not another girl as pretty within miles of Lidice, and if she won’t come willingly, you’ll have to send someone to fetch her.”
Laco closed his eyes, opened his mouth—his signal that Miloslav had transgressed the bounds of human understanding. “I have heard, Son, about the knights you sent to follow the girl. And I myself saw her blushing in church that Sunday we went to Bethlehem Chapel. I can only imagine what you did to embarrass her so.”
The self-centered youth lifted a brow. “Nothing. I only smiled at her.”
“Nothing less than a glimpse of the devil himself could have put such fear and loathing into her eyes,” Laco answered, propping one of his heavy boots on his knee. “I warned you to stay away from her, but you would not.”
“You said I could have her.”
“I said you could inquire after her. But you approached her yourself and scared the maiden away. So now her father would rather die than allow her to come to us.”
“Is he dead, do you think?” Miloslav turned slightly in the seat and looked out the window as if he could look back down the road and see into Prague.
D’Ailly crossed his legs, wearying of the conversation. “I cannot imagine your father’s knights letting him live,” he dryly inserted, offering his host a small smile of acknowledgment. “Nor can I imagine a father allowing his daughter to be spirited away. Yes, I would imagine he is dead, and probably the old knight, too.” He lifted his arm and rested it in the window frame. “The old knights are doggedly stubborn about such things as virtue and honor.”
“Then can I have the girl?”
D’Ailly looked at Miloslav and felt his stomach churn. He had seen many faces as hard, cruel, and pitiless, but rarely upon men so young. In the past month he had observed that the younger nobleman would commit almost any act to gain his father’s attention; this was probably just another ploy to earn Laco’s notice.
The Lord of Lidice wasn’t watching even now; his cold eyes were fastened to the window and the passing scenery.
“Wait and see, Miloslav,” D’Ailly suggested, turning his gaze to the mountains outside. “Patience is a godly virtue, remember?”
Running, stumbling, sobbing, Anika ran through the alleys and streets, purposely taking a circuitous route to confuse anyone who might attempt to follow her. What had they done to her father? And what had they intended to do with her? She would have gone willingly with the loathsome lord’s men if she had known her father’s life would be at risk if she did not, but she had n
ot been given a chance to negotiate. And now her father—a harmless copyist, for heaven’s sake—remained behind, battling for her life and honor. Only God knew what would become of him and Petrov.
“Are you all right, miss?” A tall and richly dressed nobleman suddenly stepped out of a doorway, and Anika shrank from him as if she had seen a ghost. One of them. Trembling in every sinew, she turned and darted down another alley, confusing her already muddled sense of direction.
She walked quickly, her head down, not knowing or caring where she went. At least an hour passed before her heart steadied to a beat that allowed her to breathe normally. Crouching on the ground, she braced her back against a building and forced herself to think. Lord Laco had recognized her father, so he would know where the bookshop was located. She dared not return home, so she would have to go to Petrov’s small house. The old knight lived alone, and she would be safe there. Her father (God, I pray he still lives!) would seek help immediately, taking his case before the magistrates (Can they be trusted?) or even King Wenceslas, and thus the matter would be resolved. Both the king and queen admired Jan Hus, so the preacher would eloquently plead her father’s case in the royal court. In a matter of days the issue would be settled, and Lord Laco’s vile threats would cease.
But what if Father has been hurt? What if Sir Petrov is captured? What if my father is wounded, lying unconscious somewhere, unable to care for himself? Or, if Father has escaped and gone home, will he be safe, or will Lord Laco send others to look for me?
Her face burned as she remembered the keen probing eyes and mocking expression of the younger man. All of this trouble could be laid firmly at his feet, she decided, though she had no idea why he had chosen to turn his depraved attention upon her. Surely a nobleman’s son could have his pick of Bohemia’s beautiful maidens. If he truly wanted a chambermaid, he had only to visit the nearest inn, where women aplenty brazenly advertised the services they offered. And if he wanted more than a maid …
She shuddered, thinking of some of the stories she had read. At sixteen she was untried and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but she had read enough to understand that an amazing variety of people lived in it. She knew about liars, thieves, and murderers, cut-purses and cutthroats, pirates and pillagers. She knew what harlots sold and lechers bought; she understood the scriptural references against all sorts of fornication.
She did not consider herself a blushing maiden, and yet she had never done anything to spoil her own innocence. As a motherless child, she had traveled the world through the pages of the books she copied. In her vicarious adventures she had memorized poetry, thrilled to war songs, and giggled at ribald satires from the Monk of Montaudon who had regaled the king of Aragon one hundred years before. She had studied books of law and medicine. She had explored and questioned the philosophies of ancient Greeks and Romans.
But what good would any of that knowledge do her now? Grief welled in her, black and cold, and she huddled against the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, waiting for the sunset. When the cloak of darkness fell upon the street, she would venture to Petrov’s house and pray that two precious people would be waiting there to greet her.
Alone in her misery and weariness, Anika lowered her head to her knees and slid into a fitful sleep.
Five
Your mama has gone to heaven.”
Anika stubbornly shook her head. “My mama is asleep.”
“No, child, her neck’s broke.” The innkeeper’s wife dashed a tear from her soot-streaked cheek, then knelt and clasped Anika’s hands. Her eyes darkened and shone with an eerie light as her damp hands squeezed Anika’s fingers. “Your mama’s dead, child, and it’s all that cardinal’s fault. Don’t you ever forget it, you hear? As God is my witness, the Roman church and her meddling priests will be the death of us all.”
Anika did not understand, but she nodded until the woman released her. Not knowing what else to do, she stood silently as the woman rose to watch her home burn. In the distance she heard the ragged cry of her father’s weeping.
The man in the red robe gathered his bundles and turned from the ghastly scene. Anika clamped her eyes shut, afraid to look upon the selfish man who would not surrender the ladder to her mother.
“Go away,” she murmured, afraid to open her eyes. “Go away, please.” She felt a tremor run down her throat and heard the gulp as she swallowed her fear. “Go away, go away, go away!”
“Anika! Open your eyes!”
Her eyes flew open, eager to see her father’s broad face, but another face loomed before her, a face with eyes as wide and blank as black window panes, as though the soul they mirrored had long since flown.
The face belonged to Cardinal D’Ailly.
“No!”
Horror snaked down her backbone and coiled in her belly as Anika woke and stared into the darkness, trying to see the face that had slashed her sleep like a knife. In a rush of remembrance the features formed again in her memory, and her stomach churned and tightened into a knot as fear brushed the edge of her mind. A cold sweat prickled on her forehead, and she could feel her heart beating like bat wings.
Had Cardinal D’Ailly truly been at the fire where her mother died, or had the horrific events of the past day superimposed his face on the clergyman in her recurrent nightmare?
She clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it to her mouth, unable to make sense of the terror locked inside her dreams. She was as defenseless now as she had been on the night her mother died. Again she was alone in the dark, but she was no longer a child. Though an enemy might lie in wait for her, she could elude him.
Now that darkness had fallen, she would find her father. She rose to her unsteady feet, stretched her cramped muscles, then slipped through the alleys until she recognized Broad Street. Her father’s shop was not far away, but she moved slowly and cautiously, lingering in the shadows, darting forward in silence. The curfew bells had already rung. She knew she would be questioned if the king’s soldiers discovered her, but maybe her pursuers had withdrawn, not wanting to violate the king’s curfew.
Or would they care? How powerful was Lord Laco?
After dodging splashes of moonlight and torchlight for nearly an hour, she crept into the doorway of Petrov’s house and turned to study her father’s bookshop across the street. No candle burned in the window; nothing appeared to move within. The window blinds had not been lowered for nighttime’s approach.
Her father was not home.
She whirled around to study Petrov’s house. There! Through the shutters she did see a light burning inside, though ’twas only a small candle, not a proper lamp. Still, that single flame was a sign of life, and life meant hope.
Holding her breath, she knocked on the door. After a long moment she heard Petrov’s husky voice. “Who goes there?”
“Anika,” she whispered, surprised that her lips had the power to speak at all.
A latch clicked, the hinges protested, then the door swung open. Petrov opened his arms to her, and Anika fell into his embrace with joy and relief. “Sir Petrov! I am so glad to see you! I was so frightened!” With her arms locked around his waist, she looked up. “Where is my father?”
“Hush, little bird.” The old knight’s spidery hand rested on her head for a moment. Then he hurried her inside and bolted the door.
An odd coldness settled upon Anika, a fearful and darkly textured sensation, heavy and threatening. “Sir Petrov,” she asked, an unusual note of command filling her voice, “I must know. Where is my father?”
The old man’s features went dead white. “With Master Hus.”
Anika closed her eyes and sighed. “Good. You are clever, my friend! Lord Laco would never dare to search for him at the church. Can you take me to him now, or must we wait until morning?”
The old man gave her a quick, denying glance, then lowered his bony hands to her shoulders. “Anika, dear one, your father truly is in heaven, for a more godly man I never knew.” His face seemed to crack;
pain and sadness and regret poured forth from his eyes, his voice, even his quivering nose. “His body alone is with Master Hus; his spirit is with the Lord. And you cannot be with him now.”
Anika clamped her jaw shut and stared at nothing as the old feelings of abandonment tugged at her soul like a powerful undertow. Death had visited her again, and again it was somehow her fault. She had left her mother’s side before the fire; today she had abandoned her father … and now he was dead, too.
She felt as though devilish hot hands gripped her heart, slowly twisting the life from it. The gypsies would say she was cursed, born under an unlucky star, destined to lose both parents through her own inattention …
“Anika, listen to me.” Petrov’s voice still scraped terribly, but the words began to come faster. “You cannot go back to your father’s shop. It is not a safe place for you.”
“Why not?” she answered thickly, her sense of loss beyond tears. “What does it matter?”
“He died defending you, little bird. Lord Laco’s son insulted you, and your father certainly knew enough of young men to see malice in the youth’s eyes. If you return to your home tomorrow, Laco is certain to send someone to fetch you. And now you have no defender, save me.”
Defender. She looked up at the old knight, suddenly not caring whether or not she hurt him. “Why didn’t you save him?” Her breath burned in her throat. “You’re a knight, Sir Petrov. You know how to fight. My father is not a fighter. He couldn’t have prevailed against those men without your help.”
“I tried.” Trembling with sorrow, Petrov’s hands fell from her shoulders. His gentle brown eyes overflowed with tears as he sank to a chair and lifted his eyes toward heaven. “God above knows I tried. Would that I had my youth, my strength, my ardor! But I am not what I was, Anika. I could not prevail. I would have been run through with the sword, too, but—”
The Silver Sword Page 7