Night 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.
The answer, when it came, was not audible, but more real than anything Anika had ever experienced. A presence filled the tent and a new kind of reverential fear shook Anika’s body from toe to hair, lighting her face and quieting her heart.
I, the God of your fathers, will defend myself.
Despite her fears and confusion, Anika felt a hot and awful joy flood her soul. God had heard her; this voice was his!
Who are you, daughter of dust, to defend and avenge the Almighty God? Do not take revenge, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is mine to avenge; I will repay. You have looked upon this man of sin and striven to make yourself virtuous, but you have only created yourself in his image. The opposite of sin is not virtue; it is faith.
Anika trembled as a rush of comprehension, love, and compassion flooded her soul. Knowledge too deep for words and emotions too powerful for description lifted her heart and mind from her heavy vow. She opened her hands to heaven and breathed deeply of the celestial air that seemed to have filled the tent.
In a blinding instant she realized that revenge is a sword that wounds the one who wields it. If she killed the cardinal, she would be as corrupt and hate filled as the council that had executed Master Hus.
She had thought that by obeying the rules of knighthood and chivalry she could please God and slake her own thirst for vengeance. But Lord John and Sir Petrov were right. Christ did not want her to wield a sword on his behalf. He didn’t want her to do anything. He wanted her to have faith in his plan for her life.
Men like Cardinal D’Ailly took great pride in their outward righteousness, just as she had taken pride in her knighthood. She had become as self-centered as the cardinal, thinking that the truth lay in her rather than in God. She had been certain that her work and the fulfillment of her vow would set things to right, but faith required that she surrender her will, her desires, her hurts to God. She was more than a knight—she was whatever God wanted her to be. And if that included being a woman, a wife, or a chambermaid, Anika was willing.
The light, the glory, lasted only a moment, but it was enough. As the mighty rushing sound faded, Anika sank back on the carpet beneath her, tears of relief coming in a rush so strong it shook her body.
Cardinal D’Ailly stopped speaking and stared, astounded, at the young knight swaying on his knees. ’Twas probably a Hussite boy whose zeal had caused him to attempt this bit of butchery, but the Hussites should have known better than to send a boy to do a man’s job. The youth was quaking now, his face lifted toward the ceiling of the tent, his eyes closed, his hands clasped in prayer.
D’Ailly opened his mouth to shout for the guards, then thought better of it. This gutless boy was no danger, not anymore, and if he handled the situation himself, he might bring a bit of embarrassment to Laco’s pompous knights. They deserved to be humiliated for whatever egregious blunder had allowed this boy to enter the camp.
Quietly, smoothly, he drew his own dagger from a belt under the folds of his cassock. This blade would pierce the boy’s mesh hauberk, and he would strike right through the heart, putting an end to this foolish youth.
He lifted the dagger and paused for a moment, distracted by the purity of the boy’s delicate face. What was the youth thinking? He had undoubtedly been caught up in that intellectual sweep of comprehension known only to adolescents and university scholars like Hus. Well, in the morning the Hussites would realize the dangers of allowing their zealous and misguided youngsters to wander the woods at night. He would order this boy’s body to be left upon a rock, covered in the white and gold banner of the Catholic League.
He smiled, thinking about it.
Open your eyes, Anika.
Her eyes flew open. D’Ailly was leaning forward in his chair, a dagger gleaming in his hand like the tooth of a monstrous serpent. A satanic smile wreathed his face as he moved resolutely forward, his sweeping sleeves fluttering over the table as he rounded toward her—
“No!” she cried, scrambling backward to avoid the blow. The cardinal grimaced and rose from his chair, but his sleeve passed over the open oil lamp. Red-orange flames licked the fabric of his robe, leaping up the cardinal’s arm with fiendish exuberance.
A scream clawed in his throat.
Anika rushed toward him, trying to beat the flames out with her gloved hands, but the cardinal resisted her help. For a few moments the two struggled against each other. In a dance of death they circled around the tent, until the flames ran down the cardinal’s cassock and the man became a human torch.
With an inhuman, eternal bellow the cardinal stumbled from the tent, startling the knights outside. A blizzard of anxious commands filled the air as Anika coiled back into the flickering shadows, her mind paralyzed with terror and surprise.
She had to get away. Delay could cost her life.
As a hard fist of fear grew in her stomach, she turned toward the dark forest, then followed her heart into the night.
Intense exhaustion bore down on her with an irresistible warm and delicious weight. Tired of running, Anika stopped in the forest and curled up on a large boulder beneath a tree. As tides of weariness and despair engulfed her body, she pressed her hand over her eyes and thanked God that the cardinal still lived.
She had barely managed to escape, for as soon as Lord Laco’s knights doused the flames, they spread into the woods to search for the young man the cardinal insisted had tried to kill him.
Hiding in the brush only a few feet away from her horse, Anika heard Midnight’s whinny and a knight’s triumphant cry. She crouched in a hollowed-out spot in the earth, too frightened to move, as the knights of Lidice led Midnight away.
For hours she shivered there, occasionally lifting her head to catch voices that brushed past her on the wind: “He’ll live, thank God.” “Who do you suppose could have done it?” “He was never a handsome man, but nobody deserves the face he’ll have after this.” Finally the woods grew quiet, and the only sounds Anika heard were fluttering leaves and the quiet sigh of the night.
She rose to her unsteady feet and turned so that the cardinal’s camp lay behind her. She knew she would have to be miles away by the time the sun rose or Laco’s knights would be able to track her. And so she ran and walked and ran again, trying to follow the stars, hoping that she ran toward Chlum, toward home.
The first tangerine tints of the rising sun had lit the forest when she awoke the next morning. She climbed down from her rock, grateful for the silence of the moist black earth and wet parchment texture of the leaves beneath her feet. The woods vibrated softly with insect life, and a few feet away a road pointed a curving finger through the trees.
That road led home—to Chlum, and to Lord John, if he still cared for her. Though she had spurned his offer of protection and flown in the face of his convictions, she knew she could stand before him now as a woman and as a knight and say she had been wrong.
If only Lord John would forgive and receive her again.
The morning had nearly died when she spied another pair of riders on the road. Two men were coming her way on horseback, both horses walking at a slow and steady pace. The man on the biggest horse carried the reins of the second rider, and even from this distance Anika could see that the second rider’s head was bent forward as if he’d had too much to drink.
The fool. A sour grin twisted the corners of her mouth. Someone’s master would be terribly displeased. She grimaced and kept walking, determined to ask for water or a bit of bread, but stopped when one of the horses lifted his head in a broken whinny. Lord John’s favorite stallion had always trumpeted in just that way.
She took a deep breath, resisting the sudden bands of tightness in her chest. The horses wore blue and gold livery like that of Chlum, but neither rider wore a knight’s surcoat. The horses moved closer, and Anika felt the wings of tragedy brush lightly past her, stirring the air and raising the hair on her forearms.
“Greetings!” she heard the first rider call, his voice high-pitched, reedy, and horribly familiar. Her breath caught in her lungs. Miloslav! He seemed not at all surprised to see her and lifted his hand in a casual gesture. “I am glad to see you again, my dear. Your lord is wounded and needs attention.”
As the horses drew nearer, a cold lump grew in her stomach, spreading chilly tendrils of apprehension through her body. A frightened glance at the second rider confirmed what she feared—Lord John was wounded, and Miloslav’s prisoner.
Was her ordeal not over? Had God spared her yesterday only to kill both her and Lord John today?
Lifting his head, Lord John met her eyes. His gaze held no rancor or blame, but a familiar softness settled around his mouth, the way he always looked just before he smiled. “Sir Kafka,” he called, his voice breaking with huskiness. “Faith, it is good to see you.”
“My lord,” she began, eager to explain, but Miloslav stopped her with a cold glance.
“If you are loyal to this man, you will do as I say,” he said, grinning at her with cruel confidence. “I have no loyalty to him, so I care not whether he lives or dies. And since he is wounded, it may be a mercy to place a dagger in his heart and ease his pain.”
Anika knew hurt and longing lay naked in her eyes. “Don’t,” she replied in a low, tormented voice. “Don’t hurt him … any more. Tell me what you want.”
“That’s much better.” Miloslav eyed her with a calculating expression. “Much more cooperative today, aren’t you? That’s good.” His dark gaze traveled from her helmet to her shoes. “You are walking today. Where is your horse?”
Anika shook her head. “Lost. In the woods.”
“And that sharp sword of yours?”
She shook her head again. “Lost.”
He winked at her broadly. “Ah, the trials of knighthood. Not what you expected, is it, little woman?”
She licked her lower lip and stared at him, managing to quell her anger. She would need all her wits about her this time.
Miloslav jerked his head toward a stand of trees a few feet away from the path. “Go there,” he said, untying the knot of his cloak. He pulled the garment from his shoulders, then gathered it into a bundle and tossed it toward her. “Take off that hallowed armor; you do not deserve to wear it. Put on the cloak and wait for me … or he dies.”
Catching the cloak in her arms, Anika shot one look toward Lord John. His eyes were large and fierce with pain and something else—worry? For her?
She cast her eyes downward and turned toward the woods, not wanting him to share her shame.
“Well, Lord John, we have found the bird that flew from your coop,” Miloslav taunted, drawing his thin lips into a tight smile. “Surely you didn’t expect to keep her all to yourself?”
Clamping his jaw tight, John strained uselessly at his bonds and stared into the shrubbery where Anika had disappeared. Was he to blame for the tragedy that would occur here today? Hiding a homeless, hopeless girl had not seemed such a bad idea… until she worked her way into his heart. Perhaps if he had shared his feelings, if he had been honest, she would not have insisted upon leaving.
What a fool he had been. His aloof pride was the seismic fault of his life, driving away all those who ought to be precious to him. He had been reared to be conscious of his position, his title, his responsibilities, and that consciousness had kept him at arms’ length from his parents, his wife, even his children. He had only dared share his heart with Novak, his captain, and Jan Hus, his friend, but all the safeguards in the world could not protect him from hurt and anguish. For what is your life? the Scriptures reminded him. It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.
He would not let the rest of his life evade him. If he lived another hour or another thirty years, he would live it to the fullest and in the light of God’s love.
Almighty God, release me, allow me to escape, and I will never hold myself aloof again. I am not a tower of strength. I am not above needing someone to love. Forgive me, God, for I have shunned the good you sent my way.
With his remaining strength he flexed and jerked against the ropes that held him. As his body sang with pain, he locked a scream behind his teeth. Useless. The suffering of the last twelve hours had left him drained, hollow, lifeless. He might as well be lying with Novak on the forest road, for he could not help Anika now.
“I hope you have said your farewells to the girl,” Miloslav said, withdrawing his dagger from his belt, “because I cannot risk leaving you here while I take my pleasure with her. Even in your weakened condition, you might ride off and carry this story to someone who will believe it.”
“You, sir,” John answered, forcing dignity in his voice, “will not live long enough to enjoy the pleasures of your sin. And then you will rot in hell.”
The insolent young man contradicted him with a smile that set John’s teeth on edge. “Ah, but you are the one appointed to die today.” He yanked the reins of John’s horse until the animal stepped closer, bringing John within striking range. The rebellious youth lifted the dagger, and John closed his eyes, bracing himself for the blow.
Amid the chatter of birdsong he heard Miloslav’s quick intake of breath, then a cry. John opened his eyes in time to see the young man slowly topple from his horse, a blade buried to the hilt in his chest.
John sat motionless as wave after wave of shock slapped at him. Turning toward the woods, he saw Anika standing in a clearing, her arm still extended from her throw, her lovely face locked with anxiety.
Anika watched the dagger hit its target, then held her breath until the son of perdition fell from his saddle and lay unmoving in the soft grass by the path. She had nearly forgotten about the blade Petrov instructed her to carry always in her boot, but the slender dagger had proved quite efficient.
Slowly she made her way out of the woods, her eyes intent upon the body. Miloslav had risen up once before to challenge her and hurt someone she loved; she did not want to meet him yet again.
“He is dead,” Lord John called from his horse.
She stiffened at something she heard in his voice, something jagged and sharp, like words torn by the blade of a knife. He was looking at her, not with eyes of love and gratitude, but with a melancholy and weary expression, like one who has spent too much time with an active child. He sighed heavily, his voice filled with anguish. “Novak is dead, too. I am sorry, Anika.”
She stood in lonely silence, biting her lip until it throbbed like her pulse. Her teeth chattered, and against her will her body began to tremble. “It is my fault, isn’t it?” she asked, not daring to meet her master’s eyes. “Was he with you? Were you looking for me?”
“Yes.” John spoke softly as if to spare her feelings. “But do not blame yourself. He was a knight, and he died doing what he loved to do. He died defending someone he loved.”
Her emotions bobbed and spun like a piece of flotsam caught in a roaring river. “This one,” she whispered, pointing to the fallen Miloslav, “never did believe I was a knight. He thought this armor, my sword, were only a disguise. And they would have been, if not for Novak. He taught me everything—how to use a sword, pull an arrow, throw a dagger—” Her gaze clouded with tears. “Though he always claimed to hate women, with me he was as gentle as a father, as understanding as a friend.”
“I suppose I should thank God Novak tolerated you,” Lord John answered, a faint smile upon his face. “If he had not taught you how to toss a dagger, this hour would have ended far differently.” He winced in pain as he turned slightly in the saddle. “We will have to go back and fetch his body home to Chlum, where he belongs.”
Lord John’s usually lively eyes were ringed with dark circles. Suddenly aware of her master’s pain, Anika wiped her tears and hurried forward to untie his bonds. His body was obviously hot with fever. The arrow shaft still protruded from his arm, yet he sat upon his horse in a pose of weary dignity.
“What is your choice, then, Anika?” he asked as she used his dagger to cut the ropes.
Her mind whirled at his dry response. “My choice?” His implacable expression unnerved her, and she paused, choosing her words carefully as she looked up into his eyes. “My choice, my lord, is to serve you. To join your household, to honor you in any way I can. I do not recant my vows of fealty, my lord, but with your blessing I would recant my vow of knighthood.”
She glanced away, feeling herself flush, rattled by the pressure of his gentle eyes. She cut upward with his knife until the rope broke and his arms fell stiffly to his side. Anika knew each movement brought her master great pain, but he said nothing as she slipped his dagger into her own belt.
“Anika—what do you want to do?” He made a credible attempt at coolness, marred only by the thickness in his voice.
Placing her hands on his foot in the stirrup, she lifted her gaze and searched his face, reaching into his thoughts. She thought she saw a faint flicker of doubt in the depths of his soft dark eyes. “Employ me as a maid or a servant, my lord, but do not cast me off.” Tears blinded her eyes and choked her voice, but she pressed on, unwilling to consider the future apart from him. “You are all I have. You are my life … my home. Whatever I do, I would like to do it for you.”
With a grimace of pain he slid from the saddle and stood beside her. His dark eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “I have no need of maids or servants,” he said, lifting his good hand to her shoulder. Slowly his palm opened, and he cupped her cheek. “What my castle needs is a wife, a position I should have offered you long ago.”
Anika felt the touch of his gaze, as gentle as the surf on a sandy shore. “I was wrong, Anika, not to let you know the depths of my feelings for you. You are a friend, you are a delight, you are the love I never dreamed could exist.”
She felt a trembling thrill as his voice echoed her own longings, but her senses reeled in confusion. “Yet you are a nobleman, and I am only a merchant’s daughter.”
“You are more noble than any woman I have ever met.” The warm wave of his breath reached her ear as his voice softened. “Anika, I need you at my side. My sons need you. I need you to teach me how to be a father.”
She pressed her hand over his as a tremor caught in her throat. What would The Art of Courtly Love advise her to do now? Surely there was some formula, some set of words she was supposed to use in response …
But she had never done anything by the book. “I love you, my lord John,” she whispered, reveling in the heartrending tenderness of his gaze. “I can think of nothing I would rather do than spend my life by your side.”
He extended his arm and bent toward her, and she was powerless to resist the silent invitation. She moved into his embrace, fully aware of his strength and his need for her.
“We must get you to a physician,” she said, afraid to hold him too tightly. “That arrow must come out, and the wound be cleansed.”
“There will be time enough for that,” he answered, and before she could protest further, his lips brushed against hers. Anika gently wrapped her arms about his neck as her pulse pounded in her ears and the song of the wind whispered among the trees.
“Time enough,” she promised. Then her lips caressed his with exquisite tenderness.