The Silver Sword (58 page)

“By your leave then, pray give me a moment to look for my possessions.” Pulling on his gloves, the young man turned and moved into the woods, seeming to search through the foliage and grasses beside the road. After a few moments he disappeared in the bushes, though John could still hear the rustling sounds of his movements.

John mounted his horse. “I am not certain I trust him,” he murmured in a low voice, uncomfortable with his inability to come up with a suitable explanation for the bizarre situation. “If he were more honest, we might come to a reasonable accounting of what happened here.”

“Let me confront him, then,” Novak answered, lifting his reins and turning his horse. The animal moved toward the woods where the youth disappeared, and Novak called over his shoulder. “If he has nothing to hide, he won't mind riding behind my saddle. But if he proves to be a problem, I'll truss him like a sack of potatoes—”

His voice broke off in midsentence, interrupted by a soft whizzing sound. John sat motionless, horrified, as Novak fell woodenly from the saddle, an arrow protruding at a garish angle from the side of his head.

Warning spasms of alarm erupted within him, but before John could move, another arrow flew through the air, this one piercing his shoulder precisely at the junction of his breastplate and arm guards. The mesh coat of mail had been designed to withstand a sword blow, but the arrow's sharpened barb pierced it like a hot knife through butter. John clutched the arrow as his stallion pranced beneath him, then jumped at the sound of the stranger's voice.

“I could have killed you,” the young man called, his tone imperious and bold in the thickening air. “And I will, if you do not obey my wishes.”

Through a blur of pain, John squinted at the woods behind him. The man was stealthily stalking through the tall weeds, a drawn crossbow in his hands, an arrow cocked and ready.

“What do you want?” John called, his voice harsh and raw. “Why would you attack those who are trying to help you?”

“Because you are the enemy, John of Chlum,” the man answered, a grin overtaking his bloody features as he came closer, “and my father, Lord Laco, has vowed to rid Bohemia of Hussites.”

Now the youth stood only a few feet from John's horse, the point of his arrow aimed directly at John's hauberk.

“Dismount, then lie on the ground so I may bind your hands,” the youth commanded in a shrill voice. “And then you shall follow your master Hus to Constance. I imagine you will be tried and burned like the other heretics.”

John paused, weighing the fiend's demands. He could make a stand and die beside his valiant captain, another martyr for the cause. But how could he help Anika if he surrendered now? This monster had already killed the worthy Novak, Anika's only other hope of rescue.

Fighting his own battle of personal restraint, John stiffly dismounted and lowered himself to the ground. Every movement of the
arrow in his arm sent such a brilliant pain flashing through his muscles and shoulder that he cried out in dazzled agony, but the youth ignored him, grabbing his hands and roughly tying them with rope from John's own saddle.

Across the path, John saw the frozen countenance of his beloved captain and friend.

“You will be remembered,” he whispered, his mind filling with sour thoughts. “Upon my word of honor, Novak, I will make sure your sacrifice is not forgotten.”

N
ight had spread her sable wings over the cardinal's encampment by the time Anika ventured out of the forest. Walking as slowly as she dared, she sauntered into the camp, paused at a kettle over the fire, then moved purposefully toward the ornate tent in the center of the settlement. The cardinal would be inside, ostensibly saying his prayers.

With each forward step her heart pounded harder in anticipation. Tonight she would have her vengeance. Her mother, her father, Petrov, Jan Hus, the three student martyrs, Jerome of Prague—every innocent who had ever died under the battering arm of the corrupt church would be avenged. She, a knight like no other, would do what none of the others dared do. She would strike a blow for righteousness, innocence, and truth. She would strike the dragon's head.

She slipped inside the emblazoned tent without a sound. God must have approved her plan, for the cardinal sat inside, alone. He had draped himself over a chair, a golden goblet in his hand, a book upon the table before him. A small brazier with glowing coals warmed the space; a small oil lamp on the table lit it.

It was her moment of truth, the moment she had waited and prayed for. And he would see her face, know the one who brought God's righteous vengeance to him at last. She jerked the helmet from her head and dropped it at her feet.

“Cardinal D'Ailly!” Her voice, juicy with contempt, startled the man so that he jerked upright, spilling wine over the blood-red cassock he wore.

He cursed, then glared up at her. “Why do you disturb me, boy?” he called, sponging uselessly at the wine stain with the fabric of his flowing sleeve. “Who gave you leave to enter?”

Her blood slid through her veins like cold needles. “Jan Hus gave me leave,” she whispered, pulling her sword from its sheath. A silken thread of warning ran through her voice as she advanced toward him. “Ernan O'Connor gave me leave. Megan, his wife and my mother, gave me leave. Jerome of Prague gave me leave. The three student martyrs, beheaded in Prague, gave me leave. Almighty God himself has given me leave to come to you.”

D'Ailly stared at her with a cold, hard-pinched expression on his face. “Who are you? What do you want?”

His stammering voice only buzzed in her ear. “For the deaths of these and many other innocent people, you are sentenced to die tonight, Cardinal D'Ailly. Article one: You have ignored the Word of God and followed your own ambition and hunger for power. Article two: You have entertained the plots of evil men, including Lord Laco of Lidice, who sleeps outside this tent. Article three: You have approved divers sorts of evil for your own profit's sake—”

The cardinal made a harsh keening sound in his throat, then gasped, “Guards!”

Within striking distance now, Anika flicked her sword at him, positioning the sharp point against D'Ailly's throat. “No—stop,” he whispered, his terror like a scent on him. He swallowed, his Adam's apple doing a dance in that pale, thick neck. “Just tell me what you want. Gold? I have plenty. Position? The church can always use a brave knight.”

“I want you,” Anika replied firmly, her eyes impaling him. “Your life must be forfeited. As long as you live, innocent souls will perish.”

“No.” The cardinal swallowed again, then lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I will not harm anyone. I have not harmed anyone. Look there, on the table. I have been reading the works of Jan Hus—he was one of your people, was he not? Look there, at the book I found.” He gave an anxious little cough. “Master Hus would not approve of what you're doing.”

Anika stared at him with deadly concentration. Either the man was a very good liar, or he thought her a complete fool. “You hated Hus!”

“No!” The cardinal trembled like a leaf. “Look there, I beg you. Upon the table.”

Still holding her sword at his throat, Anika cut a look from the cardinal to the table. The book was open, its pages scrawled with a familiar handwriting. Intrigued, Anika leaned closer. The handwriting was her father's! 'Twas a book he had transcribed in Prague, during the early days of his work for Hus. The words were Hus's appeal to Christ, written shortly after the pope condemned him in 1412.

A paragraph leaped up at her.
“I was as a gentle lamb who is carried to the slaughter, and I did not know they devised their counsels against me. You, however, Lord of angelic hosts, who judges justly and tries the reins and the heart, let us see your vengeance upon them.”

“If you are studying Hus, you are only seeking to find ways to discredit him.” Anika turned back to the cardinal, her eyes raking his face. “And even from the printed page, Hus's blood cries out for vengeance. I have come to obey the call.”

“Who
are
you?” D'Ailly asked, his nose quivering like a root for water. “You speak like a woman, and yet—”

“It matters not. Prepare to die, Cardinal D'Ailly.”

“Wait.” Nervously he moistened his dry lips. “You would not send a man to meet God without saying his final confession? Even your beloved Master Hus was allowed to confess himself before he died.”

Anika paused a moment, the point of her sword wavering at the prelate's throat.
A knight shows mercy to whoever asks it.
This worthless sack of skin deserved no mercy, but she could show Christian charity where he had failed.

“Confess yourself then,” she murmured, lifting her chin in an abrupt gesture. She lowered the tip of her sword a few inches. “And be quick about it.”

Without rising from his chair, the cardinal pressed his fleshy hands together and closed his eyes. Anika did not take her eyes off
him but listened as he began his confession: “Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor. Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.”
Thou shalt sprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop and I shall be cleansed; thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow. Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy.

Yes, confess yourself to God,
she thought.
Be sprinkled with hyssop and washed. And pray God to have mercy on you, for great are your sins.

Anika's heart hammered in anticipation; she breathed in ragged gasps. The adrenaline rush of her blood eased somewhat, and the chamber around her began to swirl in her peripheral vision. She felt herself trembling all over and clung tighter to her sword.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.
The cardinal struck his breast three times, then went on. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem …”
I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin …

In Anika's inner ear her father's voice kept mingling with the cardinal's.
“I would prefer the most unfair peace to the most righteous war,”
she heard her father saying.
“There should be no war in a God-directed world.”

The sound muffled and changed; now she heard Lord John speaking, his voice velvet edged and strong.
“Between Christ and war there is unalterable opposition; there cannot possibly be harmony. The day of war is nothing but a harvest for the devil.”

Petrov's face, deeply seamed yet shining with love, momentarily superimposed itself over the cardinal's flushed countenance. “
Anika,
little bird, in disarming Peter, Christ disarmed every knight. Peace is not an absence of war; it is a virtue we all must cultivate.”

Her father's voice rang through the tumult in her brain:
“Revenge is the poorest victory in all the world, me lass. To kill a hornet after it has stung you does not make the wound heal any faster, does it?”

In another round of painful memories, Jan Hus appeared.
“There will come a time when you will want to lay down your sword, Anika. When that time comes, do not resist the impulse. God speaks in a quiet voice, too. And his will lies in surrender.”

“If revenge is sweet, why does it leave such a bitter taste?”

“In disarming Peter, Christ disarmed every knight.”

“Turn the other cheek.”

Anika dropped her sword and pressed her hands over her ears, clenching her eyes tight. Was she losing her mind? She had come so far, accomplished so much, and yet these meddlesome memories would not let her continue! Was she weak? Or had she misinterpreted the signs that led her to this place?

“… beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam …”
Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist …

She could not kill the cardinal. Anika opened her eyes, dredging that admission from a place beyond logic and reason. No matter how hard she trained, she was not and could never be a cold-blooded murderer. But now that she had boldly entered and threatened this man's life, how could she escape certain death?

“Father God, give me light!” she begged, slipping to her knees on the cardinal's thick carpet. Ignoring the suddenly silent prelate, she clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to heaven.