by TJ Bennett
Miguel’s laugh suddenly tumbled into the obscene silence, and both she and Papa jumped. Her father moved toward him, prepared to finish the task he had started. Miguel did not move, however, but kept laughing with a horrible sound. He turned his head, his black eyes shifting to hers as blood trickled from his mouth.
“Listen to me, miro-chi,” he rasped. “Listen well. I loved you. Now I curse you.” His eyes glowed with fire. “When he loves, death will follow.”
With that, the light in his eyes died, and he laughed no more.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten years later, in the Lombardy Region, just outside the city of Pavia
“INÉS, MAKE HASTE!”
Alonsa shouted to the market woman handling the reins of Alonsa’s merchant cart on the God-cursed, thrice-damned byway the Lombards thought of as a road. Clenching her teeth, she tried to urge the cart, laden with her goods and wounded betrothed, faster by sheer force of will.
Tight-lipped, Inés glanced over her shoulder. Her gray eyes darkened for a moment, touching on the soldier’s shivering form lying prostrate beside Alonsa in the back of the cart.
“SÍ, Señora” Inés gave the reins another sharp snap, and the dray horse increased its pace.
Alonsa felt Martin Dietrich move, his body jerking in concert with each bump and sway of the cart over the rock-studded road. She stared into his eyes and touched his brow, stroking his dark hair away from his solid square face. His heavy lids drifted down as though he had received from her hand a benediction, and not a curse. She knew she would always live with the haunting memory of that look.
The eyes of her betrothed … and the eyes of her last victim.
There would be no more.
Even as she pressed the makeshift bandages soaked in healing herbs against Martin’s side, she swore it to herself. While the cart bounced across rutted country paths, she swore it to God. Lips trembling, she laid her hand upon the case containing the emblems of her family’s trade: blades of the finest quality, handcrafted in her father’s artisan shops in Toledo. She took her oath upon them as though they were a relic of the Church.
It ends here. No matter what else is to come, it ends here.
They passed through empty farmland dotted with bare-branched trees, the air filling with the footfalls of several hundred women, children, and merchant men in the baggage train escaping to safety. Murmured voices carried above the snorting of the horses, and the rumble of wheels dragged across open land. Far ahead of them, as well as taking up the very rear, a few ranks of soldiers marched in ragged flanks, guarding them as best they could.
The families of the soldiers and the merchants who catered to the moving army constantly in need of supplies hurried alongside the carts of the baggage train, grim-faced. In the endless territorial battles between the king of France and the Holy Roman Emperor, these people were casualties of war just as often as the soldiers who fought in it.
The cart jolted and Martin moaned, muttering words of nonsense in his pain. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and she felt the first flush of fever on his skin.
“Shh, Martin,” she crooned to him. “All will be well.”
He turned his deep brown eyes toward her voice, and she saw his doubt.
“Will I die?” he whispered.
Her heart clutched. “I … think not.” She did not lie. Only God knew the answer to his question, and she prayed it would be otherwise.
He closed his eyes. “I am sorry … my beloved.”
She drew back. A stab of fear stopped her breath. He had never called her that before. The words of a lover.
She forced herself to breathe once more. She had no cause to fear such words. The fever spoke for him, not love. She knew Martin, a mercenary soldier, admired her, but she knew also his desire for her father’s fortune was stronger than his desire for her.
She did not mind the lack of love; indeed, she had relied upon it. Though they shared a mutual affection, she knew Martin was no threat to the curse; she thought he would be safe, and together they could continue to sell the blades despite her late husband’s untimely demise. Except…
Now Martin lay dying, and unless she carried out the plan forming in her mind, another man might soon take his place.
Alonsa’s gaze shifted to the imposing figure of Günter Behaim riding alongside the cart on a commandeered horse. A study in counterpoint, his dark-blond hair revealed bronze highlights glinting in the sun. It made for a surprising contrast with eyebrows dark as a raven’s feathers over emerald green eyes. A slash of high cheekbones and a wide jaw covered in beard stubble opposed the marble smooth curves of his mouth.
He had removed his breastplate and cuisses, but had left his two-handed great sword strapped to his back. The black stones on the cross guard glittered in the sun. Mud and blood spattered his doublet, which clung to his broad shoulders like a lover. His unkempt clothing could not detract from the bearing of a professional mercenary, a Landsknecht in the service of Emperor Charles V. Despite being worn from battle, he was still the most striking man Alonsa had ever met.
She stifled the guilty yearning that always came with his presence and forced herself to think of her vow.
Günter contemplated Martin in the cart and turned his probing gaze her way.
“How fares he?” he asked in German.
“¿Qué?” she responded, startled into her native speech.
His eyes narrowed. He repeated his question in Spanish. “Martin. How fares he?”
Alonsa flushed and tore her gaze away from his. She removed the sodden bandages from the wound, transferred them to the water-filled bowl in her lap, and refused to look at Günter again. “The injury still bleeds. We must find rest for him soon. He cannot travel much longer this way.”
She spoke in her best German, wringing out the bandages in the now-crimson water.
Günter nodded and responded in kind.
“When I rode to the rear, one of the wounded said the attacking French column has broken ranks and now moves west, back toward Pavia. We ride north to San Angelo to regroup and tend our wounded. It won’t be much longer.”
Alonsa felt Martin’s eyes upon her. She smiled at him reassuringly, and he stared at her, his gaze intent. Then, closing his eyes, he reached for her hand.
“Yes,” he whispered. “All will be well.”
She nodded, though she did not agree.
Alonsa had not known their destination until Günter spoke of it. She had not thought to ask. She knew only they fled from the unexpected dawn attack on their troops’ position near Pavia. The Swiss mercenaries hired by Charles V’s sworn enemy, the French King Francis I, had struck them with little warning. Mounted knights had gone into battle still strapping their armor to their backs.
She had trusted Günter to know the way because Martin trusted him. Reason enough, and yet she’d almost let her fear of him convince her otherwise.
Yes, he frightened her. Günter had raised an unnamed apprehension for her the first time Martin had introduced them. He had stared at her with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, his green gaze flicking over her. Something hot, possessive, speculative gleamed in that look. Then his gaze had shifted to Martin, and back again, and his face had gone blank as a slate, as though that look had never been.
He’d been unfailingly polite ever since, but she had never forgotten it. She would never have chosen him, of course, after her husband’s murder; Günter was so loyal to Martin she doubted he would have shown any interest in her once he knew of Martin’s suit in any case.
Still, she glanced up at Günter now, unable to prevent herself.
She shamed herself. She owed poor Martin all of her attention. When she should have eyes only for him, when she should be attending to his needs alone, yet she stared at Günter’s impassive profile, her gaze drawn to him like iron to a lodestone.
It terrified her. It cursed him. It betrayed Martin.
God help them all.
His eyes lingered on h
is friend, and in them she saw bleak despondency.
“Can you care for him?” Günter finally asked. “I must ride with my contingent to retake our position. It’s necessary, or I wouldn’t go.”
“I will,” she promised. “He will lack for nothing, if it is within my power to provide it.”
Günter looked at her. A curious series of expressions passed over his face. Longing? Denial? Resolve?
“I knew you wouldn’t leave his side,” he murmured, his brief smile bittersweet. He turned away from her. His back straight, his reins in hand, he wheeled the horse around without a backward glance.
The cart jolted again. Martin groaned.
“Inés, take care!” Alonsa snapped.
Inés’ hands tightened on the reins, and she gave a sharp glance backward. “I am sorry, Señora, but it seems these people have neglected to level their back roads. It makes for an inconvenient escape.”
Alonsa sighed. The market woman did the best she could under such conditions. “Forgive me. It is just…” She looked helplessly at Martin and then back at Inés.
Sympathy flooded Inés’ beautiful but jaded features. She sighed. “I know, I know. I will try to avoid the worst places.”
Although two years younger than Alonsa, Maria Inés Villanueva Haraña had served so long in the service to one man or another in the mercenary company called the Fähnlein that Alonsa often felt clumsy and inexperienced beside her. Though they had established a friendship of sorts, outwardly they were very different women.
Where Inés was tall with thick auburn hair, Alonsa was tiny, her hair a silky earth-brown. The tanned hue of Inés’ skin reflected the many hours she had spent laboring out of doors, marketing, washing her soldiers’ laundry, and cooking their meals. Alonsa was paler, but she remained certain this day that every year of their unforgiving lives showed on both their faces.
Inés gazed down the long column of the baggage train where Günter had just ridden away.
“At least the other one is safe,” she murmured, “for now.”
Alonsa did not follow Inés’ gaze. Instead, she rinsed and reapplied the bandages to Martin’s side wound, examining it for infection.
He had been injured in the raid protecting Günter. Günter had carried Martin from the battle and brought him to her. She had some expertise in healing, but she was no physician. Still, she knew the hail shot in his body could not stay. It would have to be removed, the wound cauterized with boiling oil. Otherwise, putrid air could infect it and kill him. Nevertheless, to remove the shot might kill him even quicker. The matter came down to a choice of deaths. Which would Martin prefer?
While the cart bounced toward the low, whitewashed buildings of San Angelo, she came to a resolve. If Martin grew worse, she would choose for him. She would not have him suffer any more than he did now. She would not have a mongrel cur suffer in such a way, let alone the man to whom she owed her life and loyalty, if not her love. The sin of such a choice could not make her soul any blacker than it already was. Even so, she hoped the decision would not need to be made before Günter returned.
Because she doubted if God still heard her prayers, Alonsa bent her head over Martin’s motionless form and began to entreat the Holy Virgin instead.
Muted fingers of light stretched across the dawn sky as hours later Günter, intent on finding Martin, entered the temporary encampment outside San Angelo. He gave the proper hand signal to the guards posted on duty, and they let him pass. As he did, he spied Fritz Vorbeck a few paces behind the others. Günter stopped, his glance measuring the young man in one sweep.
Fritz slept standing up, his mouth open, his red knuckles gripped hard around a halberd he leaned upon for precarious support. His worn, broad-brimmed hat perched dangerously atop flaxen hair flopping down over one closed eye.
Günter sighed and unsheathed his Katzbalger blade, then held it at an angle against the young man’s throat. He put his mouth near Fritz’s ear. “This is no way to practice for the muster, Fritz.”
Fritz jerked awake, his eyes wide as he felt the blade at his throat.
Günter shook his head. “If there ever came a day when you could afford your own weapons and join the company, I’d have to gut you for sleeping on watch.”
Günter lowered and sheathed his blade, and then pointed to the real sentries who stood behind them, watching the scene with sly amusement.
“There are four hundred men of our own Fähnlein, not to mention their women and children, depending on these sentries to warn them of approaching danger. If you ever wish to be one of them, you will find a way to stay awake.”
Fritz blinked, and a band of color appeared high upon his fair cheeks. “I—I … that is—”
When the other men chortled, Günter slanted them a speaking glance. They coughed, hemmed, and returned their attention to their posts. Deciding he had made his point, he turned away.
The campsite spread out in a circle much like the spokes of a wheel, a giant beer barrel at its center, the tree line serving as its boundary. Several of the women had set up kettles and kegs for their men sometime in the night. The smell of wood smoke and frying bacon drifted toward him.
Günter looked about for Alonsa, for he knew there he would find Martin. Fritz seemed to know his mind.
“Over there,” Fritz whispered.
The younger man pointed to the two figures lying intertwined beneath several blankets near a campfire. The sounds of murmuring voices, coughs, and a woman crying reached him from other fires, other camps, but Günter forgot all else and moved to Martin’s side.
He slept fitfully, shivering in the cool morning mist. Skin ashen with pain marred his face. Still, he looked no worse than he had before, though no better, either. Günter didn’t know whether to feel relief or dismay.
Alonsa, fully dressed except for her ever-present black shawl, lay close against Martin with her arms about his shoulders, her hands fisted in the blankets. Even in sleep, exhaustion made her features taut. Her strong jaw clenched, and her plump lips seemed thinner. Heat flushed her skin; she must be sweltering beneath the layers of wool. Günter resisted the urge to brush his fingers across her damp forehead, to trace the dark pattern of brows over wide-set, equally dark eyes.
She wasn’t his to worry about.
When he stepped down, his foot disturbed fallen leaves. Alonsa jarred awake, her gaze focusing slowly.
“Günter,” she breathed, and he could not mistake her obvious relief at the sight of him. “You have returned?”
“Yes,” he answered. “It took most of the night, or I would have done so sooner. Did you find the camp surgeon?”
She nodded. “He dressed the wound. There was not much else he could do.” Her gaze skittered away, the despair left unsaid.
Günter leaned forward and drew back Martin’s blanket just enough to check his bandages. Satisfied, he sat on the ground beside them, his legs crossed. His gaze swept over their entwined bodies.
Alonsa colored, and her eyes sparked with defiance. “He could not be warmed. We tried everything, but only this succeeded. He was far too ill for it to be anything but a mercy to him.”
Günter held up his hand in peace. “You have done well,” he said quietly.
Alonsa blinked at his simple praise. “Oh.”
She sat up, disentangling herself from Martin, and tucked the blankets around him once more. Then she looked over her shoulder at Günter. Behind her liquid gaze shifted oceans of emotion, carefully controlled.
Günter clenched his jaw and looked away, reaching for indifference. What was it to him where her thoughts flowed?
“You do not inquire how he fares,” she ventured.
He looked back. “I can see for myself.”
She frowned. “He asks for you. There is something of great import that he wishes to say, but he will not tell it to me. Perhaps when he awakens …”
Her voice trailed off as she returned her gaze to Martin.
If he awakens, Günter heard in
that silence. He felt the bonds of debt—yes, and of friendship—draw tighter. He had tried to free himself from them, but Martin had a way of making a man want friends again.
His eyes burned. Surprised, he blinked the sensation away.
“I won’t leave him,” he decided aloud. “When he awakes, I’ll be here.”
Alonsa glanced up, a shadow of surprise in her eyes.
An hour passed, and though the sun rose, its face remained cold. Alonsa huddled beside him, shivering. Absently, Günter put his arm around her and drew her into the circle of his warmth.
She stiffened. So did he. He had not meant to do it. He had not thought. He held his breath, but did not release her. Under the circumstances, putting a comforting arm around her would be natural. Snatching it away would be far more telling.
When he made no other movement, she softened her posture. Her body slumped against his as though she would have held herself apart but could not discipline her exhaustion enough to sit upright. The silk of her sun-kissed skin and the smell of the morning in her hair crowded in on him. Though he had no right to enjoy it, no right to entertain thoughts disloyal to Martin, the press of her body against his brought a warmth to his frozen spirit he could not deny.
He felt something inside him crack, like fine shards along an icy lake, and he struggled to contain the flood. Slowly, he gained the upper hand. He removed his arm and Alonsa inched away.
Her dark eyes filled with intensity. “He will awake. He will.”
He heard the litany of desperation in her voice.
“And if he doesn’t?”
Her jaw firmed in anger. “How can you say such a thing?”
He frowned at her. “You must prepare yourself for the worst, Señora.”
“I will do no such thing. I will fight for him, even if you will not.” She stood and turned, her sweeping skirts brushing his knee.
“Señora.”
She stopped at his implicit command, her hands still gripping her skirts, her dark braid trailing down her back, only her profile visible as though she refused to look him in the face again.
