With You Here

by Sarah Monzon

  When she turned her back on him and left the room, it felt like a door closing on their relationship.

  Dear Lord, couldn’t he do anything right?

  Chapter Four

  Holy Roman Empire, 1527

  Christyne slumped against the cold stone wall of the undercroft, perspiration running a line down the middle of her back. Only by a miracle from God had she been able to help the wounded stranger back to the castle without being seen. Even now she wondered at the events of the past hours. If she had not witnessed all, she would not believe the happenings true.

  A moan escaped from the injured man’s chapped lips and echoed around the empty space. He had hobbled through the woods, using her as a crutch, his body burning against hers. How long had he sheltered under the brush? Long enough to catch a fever, though she prayed not a poisoning of blood. At present he lay prostrate on the floor, still as death.

  And mayhap death would claim him yet.

  She pressed a hand to her heart, offering up a prayer of praise and thanksgiving. And another for wisdom and guidance.

  She had delivered the man to safety for the moment, but what should she do with him now?

  A man chased by heretic hunters, and my father loyal to Pope Clement and the Church. If Prince Ernst were made aware of the recusant concealed within his own castle walls, he would hand the man over to the authorities himself.

  Christyne rose to her knees and crawled the few paces to where the man had collapsed, all her strength drained from having supported most of his weight from the woods beyond. She pushed his hair, streaked with mud and sweat, from his brow. He had a wide forehead that bespoke intelligence, and she was struck again by the impression that this man had once graced the hallowed halls of academia as a scholar.

  Was he a follower of that professor, Martin Luther? If so, his fate need not be so dire. Once his wound healed, he could escape and seek refuge within a state that had made Luther’s new religious beliefs the law of the land.

  She firmed her lips, strength returning to limbs that had trembled under impossible weight and strain. As prayers and vigilance had their place, so did action.

  She rose and dusted off the skirts of her borrowed clothing. Dark crimson stains had dried in spots, evidence of her harrowing morning. Hette would need her kirtle replaced, for Christyne feared the blood would stubbornly cling to this one.

  “I shall return,” she assured the man, though she did not know if he heard her. His striking eyes had yet to flutter open since they had settled in the undercroft.

  “Wait,” he croaked, and her feet stilled. “Wine. Honey, Indian saffron if you have it, or barley flour. Some probes.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Wine for cleaning the wound. Infection.” He winced. “Honey and Indian saffron to make a poultice. Expedite healing. And bindings. We will need bindings. Mayhap a knife.”

  She nodded and stepped around him, making her way to the door that had been ignored by all for many years—herself included, until recently.

  Prithee, Father, continue it to be so.

  She lifted the latch and pushed against the groaning wood with her shoulder. There seemed to be no sound on the other side, so she stepped out and quickly shut the door behind her lest someone witness whence she came and grow curious.

  On hasty feet, she traversed the cobbled ground around the outer walls of the great hall, passed the larder and buttery, and entered the kitchens. A lone servant stood at a long central table chopping a mountain of vegetables. Christyne lowered her head and hunched her shoulders. If she acted the part, no one would have reason to pay her any heed. She could collect the items requested of her without raising the suspicions of the rest of the household.

  She moved past the threshold but caught her toe on a protruding stone in the floor. Her arms swung wide to regain her balance, and she tipped over a broom leaning against the wall. It clattered to the ground.

  The servant raised her head at the ruckus, her eyes going wide at the sight of Christyne. She dropped into a curtsy. “Princess.”

  Christyne swung her gaze around the room in alarm, even as she recognized the servant with relief. “Arise, Hette. No one is to know it is me, remember?”

  Hette rose and cast her own furtive glances to the doorways. “Pardon me, princess, but what are you doing here? Were we not to meet in your chambers when the sun was between its zenith and the horizon?”

  Christyne closed the gap between herself and Hette, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I came upon a complication. A man who has been near run through with an arrow.”

  Hette gasped then whispered the names of the Holy Trinity. “Is he dead?”

  “He lives, but the head of the arrow yet remains in his flesh.”

  “Should I send for Nikolaus?” Hette clasped her rosary.

  “Nay.” Christyne shook her head, clutching Hette’s elbow until the girl gave Christyne her full attention. “You must not mention him to anyone, even your brother.”

  She paused, not sure if she should add the rest. She trusted Hette, but the maid considered Pope Clement infallible. If the Church deemed the stranger a heretic, Hette may consider it her religious duty to turn him in lest her own soul be tainted and destined to languish in purgatory.

  Hette’s lips moved, but no sound came forth. Her fingers caressed the beads around her neck. Ave Marias. For them, or the man suffering in the undercroft?

  Christyne squeezed Hette’s arm. “I need you to gather supplies.”

  Hette nodded and moved to the kettle hanging over the open fire in the hearth. Hot water steamed as she ladled a portion into a pitcher and then wrapped a sharp knife in a length of cloth. Christyne grabbed a jar of Castile soap as well as the items the scholar requested. She would make use of the linens freshly laundered and hanging in the sunshine. Hopefully no one would be punished over a few missing bedclothes.

  Christyne led Hette through the courtyard and rounded a corner. How was it that so few servants were present? As if an unseen hand had parted and cleared the path for her.

  The same had occurred earlier. With the man hobbling beside her and his arm draped across her shoulders, she had not been able to walk like a doe among the trees. The guards posted along the parapet should have easily spotted them and sounded an alarm. But even though they had tramped the ground with less grace and more noise than a herd of sheep, no one had witnessed their advance on the castle.

  With a quick look around to be certain no one watched, Christyne unbolted the door to the undercroft. Hette hastened down the steps, and Christyne followed, shutting out the world behind her.

  Rustling sounded at the far end of the empty, tomb-like room followed by a grunt then a thud. Christyne raised her head as soon as she descended the crumbling stone steps. The man had his palm pressed to the ground, his arm shaking as he attempted to push himself up.

  “Do not move,” Christyne commanded, many years of watching her father order men about putting a bite into her words.

  Hette stood along the periphery, her eyes wide, lips still moving over rote prayers. Christyne wasn’t sure if her heart should be gladdened by her servant’s pious commitment—for surely they could all use a double measure of heaven’s blessing this day—or alarmed at the fear that seemed to have rooted the maid to the spot. She could not help the man on her own. Neither in his physical healing nor in keeping him from discovery.

  She rushed to the man’s side, glad for the ease with which she could gather the skirt of her borrowed clothing so her strides were not impeded. She lowered herself to the dusty ground, arranging the supplies she had gathered at her side. Her gaze flicked up to Hette, who still wore an expression nigh to terror.

  “Hette, attend me.” Though others of a royal station oft spoke to servants thus, it was not Christyne’s way. Hence, the barked order worked to slap the maid to the present and focus her attention on the duty at hand. Hette stumbled forward and sank at Christyne’s side, placing her own collection of supplies next
to her mistress’s.

  The man’s head slowly turned to face them, his muscles tensing with the effort. Blood dribbled out of his wound and soaked into the fibers of his black hosen.

  “Hold still,” Christyne said again, this time with more gentleness in her voice.

  The man looked up at her, his eyes clear though shadowed in pain. And still as brilliant and captivating as she remembered.

  She dipped a small square of cloth into the pitcher of warm water then squeezed out the excess. Her hand hovered over his face, doubts assailing her. Who was she to minister healing? She could very well do more harm than good in her absence of knowledge. Maybe she should have left him among the underbrush. He could be dangerous, both to her physical as well as her spiritual health, if he truly was a heretic.

  Words from the Holy Scriptures floated to her. The forbidden book, translated into her own language, was hidden in a locked chest in her chambers. “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” A flash of the crucifix hanging in the chapel. A crucified Christ with blood seeping from wounds her sins afflicted.

  The matters of state were beyond her, as her father said, but not the concerns of humanity. And not of conscience. Whether this man deserved his hunted fate, she knew not. She only possessed a firming feeling in her middle that he had been delivered unto her for a purpose, and that God would desire her to love and help all men, no matter the station they were born into or their personal spiritual beliefs.

  She lowered her hand and extended the damp cloth to swipe at the grime along his forehead. “What is your name?”

  “Lorenz Meier.”

  His face was nearly clean, so Christyne clasped her hands in her lap. She needed to garner as much information as she could while he remained lucid. She feared he would faint again once she began to remove the arrow’s head. “Do you recall what happened to you?”

  “All too vividly, I fear.” He didn’t offer more.

  She thought to press for details, but then her gaze caught on the exposed flesh beneath his torn hosen. Red, angry, and swollen.

  First, she needed to dislodge the metal, then she would probe for further information.

  Mayhap after that she could decide what to do with him.

  Her eyes moved back to capture his gaze, and she sucked in a breath. Would the otherworldly color never cease to startle her? Or the directness and intelligence written across every fleck?

  She pushed her shoulders back and straightened her spine. “The arrow remains lodged in your leg. I can send Hette for a physician who has skill to—”

  “Nay!” He gentled his tone. “Nay, I beg your mercy. That will not be necessary. I trust the angel the Lord has sent above human hands.”

  Christyne raised her palms with a small smile. “These are no ethereal limbs, Gelerhte Meier.”

  His brow creased. “How did you know I am a scholar?”

  She motioned down the length of him. “Your clothes, for one. Your high brow and ink-stained fingers, second.”

  “I see.”

  Christyne paused. “No physician then?”

  “No. I thank you.”

  She sighed but nodded assent. He rolled to his side and exposed the wounded area to her scrutiny. Fabric soaked with blood that had since dried clung to the outer edge of the injury. She would never be able to see properly with his clothes still covering his skin.

  She turned to Hette, who yet clutched at her rosary beads but with knuckles that had returned to a natural skin hue. “We need to expose the wound.” She widened her eyes at the girl and then returned her gaze to their patient. Understanding washed over Hette’s face, and she lowered her hands from the beads and picked up the knife.

  A ripping sound rent the air and sent a quiver through Christyne’s muscles. For the second time that day, her lips formed the words of the Lord’s Prayer.

  Pushing her shoulders back, she turned then stilled. She had never seen a man’s unclad limb before. The stark flesh caused heat to climb up her neck. “What…” She swallowed down her trepidation. “What shall I do?”

  “Though the tip can be seen, the arrow is yet too deep to pull out. You must push it through from the other side.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Will that not cause great pain?”

  “Verily.” He pulled a stick out of his schaube cloak. “I will bite down on this so as to not cry out.”

  She nodded and he continued.

  “Wrap the ends of two probes in linen then dip them in honey. You will need to use them to enlarge the opening around the arrowhead. Mayhap the knife, also.”

  Christyne blanched but willed herself to focus on the scholar’s instructions.

  Lorenz grimaced as he adjusted his position slightly, then continued. “Once the opening is wide enough, you must push the shaft until the arrowhead has completely passed through. Then you should be able to grasp the base of the shaft, just above the arrowhead, and pull the rest through.” His eyes closed momentarily, his head tipping back as though this speech had sapped the last of this strength, but a moment later he raised his head again and regarded her intently. “It is important you remember these instructions, in case the pain causes blackness to overcome me. And it is especially important that you do not try to pull the arrow through by grasping the arrowhead. To do so may detach the arrowhead from the shaft, leaving it lodged in my leg.”

  Christyne swallowed nervously but nodded, injecting as much confidence into the action as she could.

  “Once the arrow has been removed, clean the wound thoroughly with wine then pack the wound with the honey poultice and bind it tightly with linen. I know not how much bleeding there may be. We can but pray the bindings will be enough to stem the flow.”

  Christyne stared at the few inches of shaft protruding from the scholar’s leg. Did she possess the strength needed for such a task?

  Lorenz Meier’s gaze captured hers. “You can do this.”

  Imbued with his faith in her, she prepared the probes as instructed, ignoring the slight trembling of her hands. Their steadiness increased over the next several minutes as she focused on her task, blocking the hissed breaths and muted moans of her patient as his teeth ground against the wood they clamped. Finally, she fixed her palm against the shaft of wood and began to push.

  The effort, combined with the scholar’s suppressed cries, made Christyne’s muscles quake, but she pressed on. A few moments later, resistance gave way and the bodkin arrowhead exited thoroughly from the other side of the his leg. She gripped the bloody offender at the base of the shaft as instructed and pulled the rest of the weapon clean from the scholar’s body.

  He panted, his chest rising and falling in a quick, erratic rhythm. Christyne seized the cask of wine and poured the pungent liquid over the arrow’s abuse of sinew and flesh. Gelehrte Meier’s body arced as he hissed out another breath. She wiped away the excess, then slathered the honey mixture over the wound, noting that it didn’t seem to be bleeding excessively before wrapping a long strip of cloth around the injury in a tight bind.

  The young scholar lay still for several moments, the stick now resting on the ground beside him, and Christyne began to wonder whether he had finally been overcome after all. But then he spoke. “I am sure you suffer great curiosity about me.” His words were breathy, his eyes still closed as she worked.

  Perspiration once again dotted his hairline, and she wondered if the fever still clung to him or if his ashy complexion were due to pain.

  “‘Suffer’ seems a strong word when you are the one in such discomfort.”

  “Even so. Though it may be to my detriment, I find myself compelled to tell you why you have found me in such a state.”

  She swiped an errant hair from her forehead. “You have already revealed that you are being hunted as a heretic. Do you follow Luther then? Are you a dissenter?”

  “A dissenter, yes. But Luther did not go far enough.” He paused, allowing a few br
eaths to pass before continuing. “No government should be allowed to dictate a person’s worship of the Lord.”

  Hette’s Ave Marias grew in volume, and Christyne feared the religious rebel would cease to speak amid such open devotion to an establishment he no longer supported. “If not Luther, then who?” She poured water into a basin and began to scrub the blood from her fingers.

  He shifted his weight until his back rested against the hewn-stone wall. “We seek to return to the apostolic church as led by Peter and Paul. We are called”—he massaged the muscles in his thigh—“the Brethren.”

  Christyne’s eyes widened. Both Catholics and reformers alike would wish for her to take the knife beside her and plunge the blade into his heart. He was nothing more than a cursed Anabaptist.

  Chapter Five

  Germany, Present Day

  “Guten Morgen.”

  The smile Mila greeted Amber with should be outlawed at that exact moment. She stifled a yawn behind her hand and blinked to help clear the bleariness from her eyes. Germany was six hours ahead of the Eastern Standard Time her internal clock was used to. That meant for her it was—she glanced down at her wristwatch, mentally calculating—two o’clock in the morning. Her eyes slid shut. Would anyone object if she curled up in a ball right there in front of the entrance and went back to sleep for a few more hours?

  Mila grabbed her arm and pulled her more fully into the reception area of the Excellency Center, pushing a cup of hot, black coffee into her hands. “There is only one cure for jet lag, yes?”

  Amber brought the mug to her lips and sipped. She tried not to show her disgust, but the muscles in her face wouldn’t be reined in, and they twitched against the bitterness. She’d need a copious amount of cream and sugar before she could consume the needed caffeine.

  “And that cure is?” If there were a remedy for the way she felt, she’d empty her measly savings account right there. Anything to get her head cleared of the thick fog slowing her brain and the invisible weights dragging about her muscles.