Before she could weaken his resolve further, Novak turned and left her alone in the stable.
Seeking solitude, Novak climbed the winding tower staircase to the top of the castle walls, then spent the better part of an hour pacing along the ramparts, his hands behind his back, his head lowered in thought. Mixed feelings surged through him, emotions that grew more tangled and complex by the moment.
When Kafka had first revealed her deception, he had been angry enough to throw her to the wolves in the woods. Before he left her, however, he had not only agreed to keep her secret, but had promised to allow a mere slip of a woman to participate in a test that might result in her joining an exclusive and vaunted company of men—his men. It was true that several queens had worn armor and led armies into battle, but he had never heard of a queen taking the vows of knighthood. And though he had heard songs and poems extolling the valor of noblewomen who poured boiling oil over the heads of enemies who attempted to scale their castle walls, never had he heard of a woman who permeated the ranks of men in order to fight beside them.
His anger had evaporated, leaving only confusion. An inner voice reminded him that Kafka’s ruse was a sin, probably a mortal one, for she had forsaken the role God had assigned her at birth. But she had never lied to him, Novak realized. In all his recollection, she had never claimed to be a man. She had given straight, simple answers to his queries about her background, and they had all rung with truth. And Sir Petrov had been her earliest teacher, and that aged knight had acquitted himself as honorably in his death as in life. For Petrov’s sake alone, Novak thought he should give Kafka a chance.
But what if that chance resulted in the girl’s death? She had failed miserably today in their practice duel. She was unused to wearing heavy armor, and a womanly frame would never fit into it properly. She had learned to ride well enough, but if her opponent unseated her and confronted her on the field, she might be wounded by even a blunted blow. Now, knowing the truth, Novak did not want to be responsible if she were hurt. Lord John would be furious when he discovered the ruse, and Novak would be disgraced for sending a helpless girl out onto the tourney field.
A helpless girl—by Saint Agnes above, that was a joke! Kafka—Anika—whatever her name, she would always be ‘Kafka’ to him—was anything but helpless. She had the courage of a bull, charging in where no woman had gone before.
A guard on the tower called a greeting, interrupting Novak’s thoughts. The captain wordlessly lifted his hand to signal that all was well.
Maybe you should marry the girl and be done with it. The thought came from out of nowhere, stunning him with its clarity and incomprehensible logic. Marry her? An hour ago he’d wanted to fling her to the far side of the moon! But she had endeared herself to him as a boy, and surely she would prove to be a charming wife. She was of age, and maybe she could take satisfaction in knowing she was the wife of a knight instead of trying to fill out a suit of armor herself. Lord John would surely grant permission for Novak to marry and would likely give them a little house on the manor, much like the cozy cottage Demetr and his wife enjoyed.
Novak walked to the parapet and spread his palms over the railing, enjoying the solid reality of the stone beneath his broad hands. He closed his eyes and studied the memory of Kafka’s face, flushed with resolution and hope. Marry him? She wouldn’t. She would be embarrassed at the suggestion, for he was old enough to be her father. She wanted to carry arms, not marry them, and that bright spirit would not go willingly into the dim and demure gowns of a married woman.
He sighed heavily, abandoning his foolish notion. There was only one thing he could do. He had promised to let her joust, but he could at least make certain of her opponent. Tomorrow when Kafka put her hand into the helmet and drew forth a stone, Novak would make sure the stone she drew was his.
As the first pale hint of sunrise touched the eastern sky, Anika awoke and braced herself for her day of testing. Novak had returned to the garrison late last night, and had self-consciously turned his back on her as he unbuckled his armor and removed his surcoat. He lay down to sleep in his shirt and rested in unnatural silence as she slipped into the straw beneath his bunk.
He was still snoring as she rose, visited the lavatory, then returned to slip her heavy hauberk over her own shirt. She could manage the heavy shoes, the breastplate, and the other body pieces but would need help with the arm and shoulder plates. By the time she was ready, she hoped Novak would be awake and in an amiable mood.
She owed him a great deal. Yesterday she had been at the brink of discouragement and despair, and his anger had pulled her back. The necessity of defending her decisions had strengthened and fortified them. She smiled gently as she fastened the breastplate buckles. Though she had suspected he was more fond of her than his gruff voice and actions would indicate, his willingness to keep her secret for a few more hours had proved her suspicions.
“So you are still determined to go through with this?”
She looked up to find Novak’s gaze upon her, his dark eyes reflecting glimmers of light from the high garrison windows.
“Yes,” she answered, mindful of the other sleeping knights around her. She could not say more, for any one of them might be awake and listening.
“Then say your prayers, squire,” Novak answered, sitting up. He rested his hands on the edge of his bunk, a melancholy frown flitting across his features. “I will help you with the armor, and then I want you to find a place to pray for wisdom.”
“And for strength,” she added, extending the vambrace for him to strap onto her elbow. “I will need it for the test to come.”
“Pray for wisdom,” he repeated gruffly. He stood up and stretched the stiffness from his shoulders, then turned and took the vambrace she offered. “You will need wisdom most of all.”
Nineteen
Two hours later Anika heard the trumpet call to summon her out of the chapel. With her composure like a fragile shell around her, she rose stiffly to her feet and moved down the winding staircase, through the hallway, and onto the porch that extended into the courtyard.
The morning sun was as bright as crystal on this clear winter day. The armored knights of Chlum, more than forty strong, stood in a circle around the imposing entryway. Lord John, wearing a surcoat of blazing blue, stood on the porch to oversee her test. Anika sighed in relief at the sight of her master. Her secret still held. Novak had not broken his word.
She looked for Novak and saw him not ten feet away. Silently, awaiting her attention, he stepped forward, Lord John’s own crested helmet in his hand.
Silence loomed between them like a heavy mist. Anika breathed in shallow, quick gasps, then leaned forward to glance into the bottom of the helmet. At least forty small stones lay within.
“Squire Kafka,” Lord John said, his eyes flickering with some emotion she couldn’t decipher, “welcome to your day of testing.” He paused for a moment, his steady gaze boring into her in silent expectation. “Do you still wish to become my man?”
Anika faltered. Lord John’s man. A common phrase, but one which rang in her ears with deafening irony. She was not, and would never be, Lord John’s man. But she might, God willing, become his knight. “More than anything on earth,” she whispered, “I wish to become a knight of Chlum.”
He exchanged a smile with her, then nodded and gestured toward the helmet. “Make your choice.”
Half in anticipation, half in dread, Anika lifted her eyes toward the distant sky and thrust her hand into the helmet. Her fingertips kissed the stones—Please, Father God, let me choose the right one—then she pulled one into her palm and lifted it out.
Her fingers slowly unclenched; the stone was unmarked. She lifted puzzled eyes to Novak, then saw his lips move in barely audible words: “Turn it over.”
With a trembling hand, she flipped the rock upon her palm. It was marked with a single “N,” painted in a bright, bold stroke.
“Me,” Novak said, letting out a long, audible breath.
“You will joust against me.” He shifted Lord John’s helmet to his hip, then pointed toward the gate. “Take your mount to the east end of the field. The sun will be at your back.”
Anika frowned at this bit of fatherly advice. Why was he determined to make it easy for her? This was supposed to be a test, not a demonstration.
An intriguing, unsettling thought whipped into her mind. “Wait,” she called, stepping forward. Before the alert eyes of the entire company, she held Novak’s stone aloft with her left hand while her right hand reached again into the helmet.
“It is decided; you will joust against me,” Novak said, unsuccessfully trying to sidestep and turn away.
“It is not decided,” she replied sharply, lifting another stone from the basinet. She lifted the second rock to her eyes, then held it high for all to see. “Another stone marked with an ‘N,’” she called, bridled anger in her voice. “Who could this belong to? Have we a Nefen among the knights? Or perhaps a Nelek? A Neon, Neptune, or Neville? Perchance Lord John has a knight named Notus, Noble, or Nunzio.”
“Kafka—” Novak began, flushing miserably.
“Sir Novak,” Lord John broke into the uncomfortable situation. “Have you a particular reason for wishing to joust with your own squire?” He lowered his voice. “You are not intending to teach him a hard lesson during this test? For if you were, it would be an abuse of your power as teacher.”
“No, my lord,” Novak answered, his eyes large, glittering ovals of repudiation. “I did not intend to hurt the—my charge. I thought to protect him.”
“Is there some reason why he should not take the test today?”
Anika held her breath as a thrill of frightened anticipation touched her spine. With one word now Novak could destroy her dreams. Not only would she not become a knight, but she would be publicly humiliated and censured before Lord John, his household, and his knights—
She could bear anything but Lord John’s scorn.
“If you feel that he is not ready—” the master continued.
“Kafka is ready, my lord,” Novak answered, his voice resigned.
Lord John turned to Anika, his brown eyes wide with concern. “Are you, Squire Kafka, truly ready to do this?” he asked, lowering his voice so that only she and Novak could hear. “It is no disgrace if you wish to delay the test. Indeed, we could wait another year—”
“I am ready, my lord,” she said, clinging to her courage, praying she would not betray her inner agitation.
Lord John gave her a look that was compassionate, troubled, and still. “Then you must choose your opponent.” He placed one hand on her shoulder and with the other gestured in a sweeping motion toward the waiting knights.
Anika felt her mouth go dry. She had not expected this. In truth, she would have been happy to fight Novak had he not intended to mock her, for she knew how he fought and could at least anticipate his movements. But the other knights were a mystery, and therefore dangerous.
She clenched her jaw to kill the sob in her throat and turned to face them. She had taken a vow, and she would do this. Though no one on earth understood the fires of vengeance that burned in her heart, she would keep her word. To be a knight and fight in the cause to which she had sworn her life, she would have to face worse enemies than these friendly foes.
“I choose …” Her eyes swept her audience with a piercing glance, then came to rest on the tallest, bulkiest knight in the garrison, a giant known as Sir Manville. She knew very little about him, for he kept to himself, but if she defeated him, Novak would know once and for all that she was capable of handling whatever enemy might come her way.
She straightened and placed her hands on her hips. “I choose Sir Manville.”
“Kafka,” Novak warned, but she ignored him, stepping down from the porch to meet her opponent.
Manville stepped forward, offering her the smile he used to freeze other men’s blood. His head had been recently shaved, and the morning sunlight made his stubbled gray hair shine like a dead saint’s halo. He came closer, nodding with respect to Lord John, then pulled his sword from its sheath and pressed the hilt to his lips, a ceremonial pose for readiness to do his lord’s will.
Anika stared at the knight’s huge hands. Veins squirmed across the skin like fat blue worms, and tufts of grayish-red hair decorated his fingers.
Father God, let me faint before he knocks me from my horse. If I am unconscious, he will not have reason to bruise me.
“Sir Manville,” there was an edge to Lord John’s voice now, “do you accept Kafka’s challenge? Are you willing to participate in this test, or would you rather the squire choose another?”
Anika thought she heard a faint note of pleading in her master’s voice. She boldly met the giant’s eyes, determined that he not refuse her.
He didn’t. “I am honored to be singled out,” Manville said simply, lifting his heavy helmet. After sliding it onto his head, he stared at Anika through the slitted eye openings, and she thought she saw a spark of mischief—or malice—in those eyes. He lifted his sword in another formal salute, then turned on his heel and strode purposefully toward the stable.
“Lord John—” Novak called, his jaw tensing. “A word, please.”
“Indeed, I was about to ask you for the same favor,” the master answered, staring at Anika.
She felt the pressure of disapproval in his eyes but defiantly lifted her chin. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said simply, lifting her own helmet to her hip. “But I have a horse to prepare.”
Leaving her masters alone on the portico, she threaded her way through the milling knights and hurried toward the paddock.
“My lord,” Novak said, twisting his hands in his belt as they walked into the castle, “if a man has promised not to reveal a secret, does he sin if he does so before the permitted time?”
“You have a secret?” John lifted a brow, then turned to face his captain. “But you are not to withhold secrets from me, Novak. You have sworn your allegiance. Apart from your allegiance to our God and the king, surely you have none higher.”
“In truth, that’s how I see it.” Novak removed his hands from his belt and placed them squarely on his hips. “It’s about Kafka, my lord. Would that I had spoken earlier! I have learned something, you see, about that squire. And once you understand what it is, you’ll understand why I marked all the stones with my initial.”
“Trying to protect him, eh, Novak?” John pushed open the doors of his chamber and gestured to a pair of chairs near the balcony. His own mind was congested with doubts and fears about how he should manage Kafka. He had hoped the test would provoke the girl into either running away or confessing her deception and her reason for infiltrating Chlum, but even now she seemed determined to endure the experience. Why?
As casually as he could, he gestured for Novak to sit down. “Please, take a moment and explain your actions this morning. But be quick, for our squire is now preparing his horse for the joust.”
“Quite right.” Novak sank heavily into the chair. “Kafka can’t joust with Manville, my lord. If Manville even sneezes, he’ll blow Kafka right out of the saddle. No, my lord, you must stop this test. Only you mustn’t say why you’re stopping it, for then she’ll know.”
John ran his hand through his hair, grimacing with good humor. His captain was struggling to reveal what John already knew, but at least Novak was trying to share the truth.
John settled into his chair, resting his arms on the sturdy wooden armrests. “You’re trying to tell me,” he said, parking his chin in the palm of one hand, “that our squire Kafka is a woman.”
Novak’s jaw dropped. “Twice welcome, my lord, for sparing me the words! How did you know?”
John felt the corner of his mouth lift in a half-smile. “I’ve known for some time. I was only surprised that you didn’t know.”
“Well,” Novak averted his eyes, “of course I knew. But I was sworn not to tell. She’s had a hard time of it, this young girl, and she says she
had to come here in order to hide from Lord Laco. She grew up with Petrov, your late father’s captain, God rest both their souls, and she says she’s been handling a broadsword since she was ten. And I saw no harm in letting her continue with the other fellows, because she is quick, and a hard worker—”
A memory edged John’s teeth. He held up a hand, cutting Novak off. “Lord Laco? She was hiding from Laco?”
Novak nodded. “Aye, my lord.”
John closed his eyes, deliberately letting his mind run backwards. Jan Hus had said something at dinner about a bookseller’s daughter who disappeared, an educated girl who had to hide from Laco’s son—
He opened his eyes and stared at his startled captain. “She told you her name?”
“Aye. Anika. She said her father and mother were both dead.”
Relief washed over him. John leaned back in his chair, at ease for the first time in weeks. The girl wasn’t spying, she was hiding. And with good reason.
He turned his attention back to his flustered captain. “Truthfully, Novak, when did you discover her secret? This morning?”
The knight’s face fell. “Yesterday.” His eyes displayed with the tortured dullness of disbelief. “I should have seen it earlier, but I never dreamed such a thing would be possible.”
“Nor did I,” John answered, lowering his arms to the chair. “And if it makes you feel any better, Novak, I was blind, too, until Lady Zelenka pointed the girl out. It seems that one woman can flush another out of hiding better than a bloodhound.”
A flicker of a smile rose at the edges of Novak’s mouth, then died out. “What do we do about the joust?” His voice drifted into a hushed whisper. “You cannot let a woman joust against Manville.”
The Silver Sword Page 20