The Silver Sword (24 page)

A
pox on him!” Zelenka murmured under her breath as the door to her chamber opened. She had hoped that Lord John stood outside, but the loathsome toad that passed for a captain stood in the hallway, his hand at his sword, his mouth curved in a mirthless smile. By all the saints, did John purposely intend to annoy her by sending this creature to escort her to dinner? The humorless gray-bearded knight fairly exuded dour disapproval every time she crossed his path.

No matter. She would ignore him today as she had ignored him yesterday and the day before, and she would tolerate him for as long as it took her to win Lord John's heart. She had already outlasted the feeble attempts of that frail hothouse flower, Lady Ludmila, and Zelenka was certain she would eventually be mistress of Chlum Castle. After all, if John was as uninterested as he pretended, why did he continue to allow her visits?

She waved her hand, dismissing her two maids. “One moment,” she called to the knight in the doorway, then bent low over a looking glass to check her reflection. At fifteen, she was older than most marriageable girls, but she had convinced her father that nothing less than her marriage to the Earl of Chlum would enhance his own position. And so to that end she had applied herself, lightly anointing her head with olive oil until her tresses shone like gold, tinting herself pink and white through the delicate application of sheep fat and rouge, and propping herself up to sleep so her maids could work
through the night to complete the intricate braids said to capture a man's fancy.

Today she had chosen to wear her second-best gown of silver brocade woven with red roses and trimmed with fur at the sleeve. The myriad of delicate braids had been caught up in a headpiece of fine mesh crispinette topped with an embroidered and beaded roll that sat atop her head like a crown. A jaunty short veil hung from the back of the headpiece, a bit of frippery intended to catch a man's eye as a lady moved away.

Zelenka stepped back and sighed deeply, expanding the bodice of her fitted gown. All in all, she made a pleasing picture. And best of all, now that Lady Ludmila had been recalled by her father to accept betrothal to a more willing suitor, no competition remained on the horizon. Handsome, wealthy, aristocratic and melancholy Lord John was Zelenka's for the winning … and the wedding.

“Consider now, my lady,” the arrogant captain's voice broke into her thoughts, “the possibility that your face has not changed since you gazed at it two moments ago.”

Zelenka lowered the mirror, fury almost choking her. She would love to upbraid this knight before his master again, but she'd been fool enough to do that once and saw that it accomplished little. 'Twas obvious Lord John was fond of this rapscallion, though only heaven above knew why. If she voiced another complaint, she ran the risk of proving the knight's contention that she was a harridan and a shrew.

Better to handle this one on her own.

“God save you, knight,” she called, permitting herself a withering glance in his direction. “I had hoped you would be called away today. Isn't there a war in the Holy Land to which you must repair? Or perhaps King Wenceslas needs your able assistance.”

“My place is with Lord John.” He glared at her, frowning. “And if I may speak frankly—”

“By all means, do.” Turning, she shot a commanding look at him from lowered lids. “Let what is said here remain between you and me, for we need have no secrets from one another. You despise me, I
abhor you. I see no reason for us to cover our mutual antipathy with pleasant smiles and good graces.”

At this he raised his eyes to her face in an oddly keen, appreciative look. “Very well said, my lady. But to my point—you would not be happy as mistress of Chlum Castle, and perhaps it is best that someone tell you so. Your intentions are obvious for the world to see.”

“Are they?” She clasped her hands tightly together and lifted a brow. “Tell me then, does your master know the desires of my heart? Does the chaplain? The steward? Of course not. They believe I am here merely to spend time with my father's beloved friend. Our families are close, and it is only natural that I should go a-visiting near Christmastime. And since your lord has no mistress to help him celebrate St. Nicholas's Day,” she cast him a coy smile, “I am willing to remain here and help where I can.”

He did not answer but gave her a look of disbelief, rage, and frustration. She lifted her skirt and flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from her gown, completely pleased with herself. She'd won the point. Though this man hated her, the other men around Lord John thought her an angel from heaven. The steward believed her a thorough and talented overseer. Due to her regular attendance at daily mass in the castle's chapel and a series of heartfelt confessions, the chaplain believed her to be one step away from saintliness. Now, if only she could convince Lord John to see her as a woman who needed marrying.

“Come, Sir Knight,” she said, moving past him with her head held high, “we should not keep our master waiting.”

Zelenka smiled in secret pleasure when Lord John led her to his table and waited behind her chair until she had seated herself. 'Twas a small gesture, in truth, but one that a husband routinely performed for his wife. After a few more days and a few stolen moments under the mistletoe, surely she could win his heart and take this seat permanently.

The steward clapped his hands, and at his cue the servants and
squires began to bring in heaping platters of food. Zelenka nodded graciously to Jan Hus, who had been seated by her left hand, then inclined her head toward the chaplain who sat beside Hus. Once she had given those perfunctory acknowledgments, she turned her attention back to Lord John.

“My lord, how fared your hunt this morning?” she asked, folding her hands in a pose of tranquil gentility.

“Ah, Lady Zelenka.” His arresting face creased into a sudden smile. “I fear we have neglected you. We have no other women guests at Chlum, and I'm afraid we have not entertained you very graciously.”

Tilting her head to one side, she stole a slanted look at him. “I understand that you have been busy, my lord. I, too, have been occupied, for I spent a great part of the morning giving confession to your chaplain.”

“Aye, my lord, she did,” Vasek interrupted, beaming his approval.

“But I asked about your hunt.” Zelenka placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingertips, giving Lord John the fullness of her attention. “Tell me all about it. You speak to these other men throughout the day, but if I do not capture your attention at dinner, I am at an unfortunate loss—”

“We did not hunt, Lady Zelenka, so I am sorry to disappoint you,” John answered, tucking the edge of the tablecloth into his belt to serve as a napkin. As a squire approached and lowered a heaping bowl of pottage to the table, Zelenka frowned. John's attention had wandered again. His gaze rested on the face of the squire who served him.

“Are you well, Kafka?” Lord John asked. Zelenka detected a certain thawing in his tone. “You did not catch the ague after your swim the other night?”

“I am well.” The boy ducked slightly as a blush burned his neck.

“Then what do you say to an excursion on the morrow? My friend Master Hus wishes to ride to Husinec, his birthplace. He plans
on preaching to his own people before venturing farther, much as Christ himself did.”

The squire's emerald eyes met the master's for a mere second, then he returned his gaze to the pottage as if a world of fascinating information lay within. “If my lord wishes me to go, I will,” he said, his voice low and soft. His slender hands trembled upon the bowl he placed on the table, and as he straightened, he nervously wiped his delicate fingers upon his tabard.

Puzzled, Zelenka narrowed her eyes to study the boy's face. The face was well modeled and feminine, the skin glowing with pale gold undertones, the nose exquisitely dainty. A musk-rose flush, more appealing than the color Zelenka had applied to her own skin, adorned the boy's high cheekbones and deepened as the master continued to speak—

Zelenka's mouth dropped open. By all the saints, this squire was no boy! A girl stood before them, a young woman clothed in a man's tunic and leggings, her red hair cropped short, but a woman nonetheless. Could none of the others see it?

Zelenka twisted her head and gaped at her dining companions. Lord John was conversing with the lad in an offhand manner, the hungry chaplain had given his full attention to his trencher, and Master Hus seemed to be staring into heaven itself, his gaze distracted and focused on some distant calling.

Zelenka turned again to the disguised girl. The impostor's breath had quickened under her master's gaze, her cheeks colored in a still deeper hue, and her head had fallen so low that a shock of coppery hair hid her eyes. Why did she hide? And, more important, why did Lord John's attention make her blush?

Quickly Zelenka averted her own eyes, waiting until the squire routinely ladled a mess of pottage onto the trencher before her. Lord John might not have time for her today, but she would make this squire take time for her. This Kafka held a delightful mystery too irresistible to ignore. And where one found secrets, one usually found advantages.

Zelenka was determined to find and uncover them. Until she and Lord John were betrothed, no other woman, not even one in hiding, could be allowed to distract him from Zelenka's ambitions.

“You, squire.” An hour after dinner, Zelenka ventured out into the courtyard where she found the squire called Kafka involved in a fencing match. The deceiver lowered her sword, then cast a questioning glance toward Zelenka. “Yes,
boy,
I am speaking to you,” Zelenka called, gesturing for the girl to come forward. “Pray give me a moment of your time. Sheathe your sword and come at once.”

The squire murmured a word of apology to her fencing partner, then stepped aside and approached. “Now,” Zelenka commanded, lifting the hem of her gown as she began to walk. “Say nothing, but accompany me through the courtyard. I have a few questions to ask and would have you answer me truthfully.”

The squire nodded wordlessly, and Zelenka lifted a brow, impressed with the girl's ability to bridle her tongue. What sort of creature was this? Intelligence was etched into this sensitive face, lightly flushed now with exertion, but the effect was not unbecoming. The blush upon that cheek now was like the flush of sunset on snow, a natural beauty any fool ought to recognize.

Zelenka took a deep breath, striving to keep her tone as natural and friendly as possible. “I have been visiting Chlum for many years, and I do not remember your face. How came you, squire, to be in the service of my Lord John?”

The girl stared for a moment at the ground. “A friend of my family once served Lord John's father. When my father died a few months ago, my guardian brought me here.”

Zelenka smiled, slowly considering this information. “So you
are
new. Do you like this life?”

“Yes, very much.”

“I see. Better than your old life?”

The girl lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. Zelenka laughed. “Come now, you may loosen your tongue with me! I see that the charmless Sir Novak is your master. Do you like him?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her answer. Though Zelenka did not see how any woman could like the surly knight, apparently the girl spoke the truth. But Novak was not Zelenka's chief concern.

“What of the nobleman you serve?” she whispered softly, her eyes narrowing. “What think you of Lord John?”

The girl stopped abruptly and looked up, her green eyes wide and frightened. Zelenka smiled with warm spontaneity. “Come now, boy, don't think I intend to spy out your loyalty! I ask only because you are new here, and …” she lifted her chin and assumed all the dignity she could muster, “because it is very likely that I shall become your mistress within a few months.”

Was that a flicker of pain in the girl's eyes?