by TJ Bennett
He chose his words carefully. “I did fight for him, as he fought for me. But what will be, will be.” He hesitated, pressed on. “This is the life we lead. Prepare yourself.”
She remained where she stood, stiff, trembling, her fingers clenching and unclenching in the dark gray fabric of her skirts. She lifted her gaze, finally, and their eyes met; he saw hope flash like a dying ember amidst the cooling ashes of despair. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered her head.
“Even so, I can pray.” Her voice sounded muffled.
Günter nodded. “You can always pray.”
She turned and walked away without another word. Günter stared after her.
“Just don’t fear the answer,” he whispered, when he knew she could not hear, “if it is nay.”
“Günter.”
The soft voice whispered to him from within a dream. Its lyric invaded the deepest corners of his heart, the melody entwining itself with his unspoken desires. Roses scented the air. He breathed deep of their perfume. He felt himself floating toward that scent, like a leaf bobbing on the currents of a stream. The exhaustion of battle and worry fell away and Günter allowed himself, for just a moment, to let the renewal of sleep claim him completely. As he fell deeper into the dream, he saw her. Clothed in nothing but roses and light, she turned and faced him.
He had met Alonsa here before. What a man denied himself while awake could not be defended against while asleep. He approached her. She smiled at him. An ache passed through him at that smile, a longing deep and sharp that wouldn’t be denied.
He reached out. His hand touched hers. It was cool, and small, and perfect. He raised her fingers to his lips, kissed them softly while she gazed at him. A deep light shone from those sad eyes, and her mouth moved again.
“Günter,” she said once more, this time the word more urgent. His hand clutched hers when she tried to withdraw it. She shook her head.
“Please,” he sighed, “let me.” He reached to embrace her.
She looked alarmed.
“Günter!” Someone shook his shoulder. “He awakes.”
Günter fell abruptly out of his dream.
“What?” The unexpected shift befuddled him. He lay on the ground, Alonsa gazing down at him, her expression uneasy. She spread her hands flat against his shoulders, as though to prevent an embrace.
“Martin awakes,” she said again, sounding harassed.
Günter snatched his hands from their dangerous ascent up her arms. She leaned back, sat on her heels, and warily stared him down.
He looked around with a bleary eye. The afternoon sun glimmered through the flaps of the tent they had lowered to protect Martin from the elements. Günter realized he must have fallen asleep while he waited for his friend to revive. He glanced at Alonsa and tried to sound careless.
“Sorry. I dreamt of a woman.” He shrugged as if to imply it was anyone but her.
Her brows drew together.
“Who?” she asked sharply, and then flushed. She looked away, avoiding his gaze. “It matters not. Martin is awake. He asks for you.”
Günter rose stiffly. Years of soldiering had honed his body to perfection, but years of punishment on the battlefield made for a slow start on cold days. His bones grumbled in protest, but they obeyed him nonetheless.
“My mother,” he said, his voice low as he stood and stretched.
“What?”
“I was dreaming of my mother,” he lied, and he did not know why. Still, when he saw the tightness around her mouth ease, he realized it had mattered to her after all, and he was glad he had done it.
“Is he aware?” He gestured toward Martin.
“Yes, but he is in and out. It is best to speak to him at once.”
Günter nodded. Alonsa rose and left the tent, drawing the flap down behind her to allow them some privacy. Günter moved to Martin’s side.
Martin stared up at the tent roof, his dark brown eyes calm and full of peace. He must have become aware of Günter’s presence, for he turned his head toward him. Günter knelt over him and took his callused hand in a firm grip.
“My friend,” he said. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“You came back for me,” Martin murmured. “You risked your life to bring me from the battlefield.”
“How could I not? You would have done no less,” Günter replied.
Martin coughed, the air drawn in at the end as though it came through a tight tube.
“Easy, my friend,” Günter cautioned him, alarmed at the rattle in his breath.
Martin nodded, and after a few moments, recovered his voice. He shook his head. “You should not have risked yourself. But it gives me the chance to settle things now. To say goodbye.”
“Nay, this isn’t the time for goodbyes—” Günter began, but Martin stopped him with a look.
Günter knew the truth of what Martin said and did not argue with him any further. He had seen death too many times in his seven years as a soldier. Often, the dying man would seem to rally, even to the very last moment, but then would fade away. Martin knew it, too.
Günter stared at the square face and kind eyes of his boon companion of three years, and understood that it might be the last time they spoke.
“I must beg a favor of you, my friend,” Martin said now.
“Anything,” Günter murmured.
Martin managed a smile. “You don’t even know what it is.”
Günter lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.” His vision blurred, and he blinked. “If not for me, you wouldn’t have been injured. You should have held your position, but you came to me instead. You saved my life, not for the first time, only now you have given your own in the bargain.”
Martin nodded. “That is true.” He took a deep breath, his voice a spidery whisper. “Because of it, I’ll ask you to care for my most precious possession. It’s something that means more to me than anything. I want to give it to you.”
Günter shook his head. “Surely you’ll want me to take it back to your family.”
“No. This is too important. It belongs to you anyway, I think.”
Günter frowned. “What do you mean? What is it?”
Martin smiled sadly. “Alonsa’s heart.”
Günter stared at him in shock. “What?”
His friend speared Günter with a sharp and steady gaze. “You love her.”
“Nay—”
“Don’t deny it. God revealed it to me as I lay here making friends with Captain Death. It suits my desires.” A racking cough possessed him. He drew in another deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Why? Why are you saying this?” Günter had to know.
Martin opened his eyes. “Because you’ll love her in a way that I could not. I see it now. The woman who stood with me in these dark hours, who fought for my life with her own two hands … she isn’t weak, as I thought, but strong. A warrior’s bride.” He coughed once more.
Günter touched his shoulder. “Calm yourself, my friend.”
Martin touched a finger to his breast. “Inside her is a wound. Only love can heal it. At last I know my love for her,” Martin murmured, “but it’s too late.”
He turned haunted eyes to Günter. His strength seemed nearly at an end. “Only you can save her now.”
“Martin, I am no knight errant. Saving people is your talent, not mine.” Günter hesitated, then shook his head. “You know my tale. Love is not for me.”
Martin smiled. “That’s what you wish others to think. I know differently. You must open your heart again. Return to the world. Fall in love.”
Günter snorted. “I would rather face the Black Band without a sword than risk the prospect of love again. I’m not suited for it.”
Martin’s eyes glinted, and his voice grew stern.
“What you say to me now will go to God’s ears within the hour,” he charged. “Speak well and truly, my friend.”
Günter could not bear the omnipotent peril of Martin’s gaze. He turned his eye
s away. “If, as you say, I feel things for her … and I didn’t say that it is true, only if it were … what would you have me do?”
“Speak the vows in my stead and know that you bring me peace, knowing she is loved by you. Heal her wound. Promise me.”
Günter stared at him. “You wish for me to marry Alonsa?”
His friend nodded.
Günter raised his eyebrows. “You ask much.”
“Not so much … she’s not such a hardship, eh?” Martin asked with a glimmer of his old self.
Günter looked away. Even as his friend lay dying, a flicker of anticipation flared in Günter’s breast. He would not, could not love her, but to possess her, rightfully …
At what cost? Would Günter march behind Martin’s cold body to his grave one day, and then take his woman to wed the next? What kind of man was he? Did he want her that much?
It shamed him to think it might be so.
Guilt that somehow his actions or words had given him away overwhelmed him. Now Martin seemed aware of Günter’s betrayal, if only in thought and not in deed. He looked at his friend, who had waited, patient, during Günter’s silent musings.
“Forgive me. I never meant—”
“You have always been my friend,” Martin interrupted with quiet assurance. “I would have trusted her with you before any man, even if I had known this then. You would never have betrayed me.”
Günter gazed at him in despair. Finally, he spoke. “Nay. I would have died before I allowed that to happen.” Just then, a notion stopped Günter cold. Alonsa gave every indication of disliking him. “She might not have me,” he murmured, ashamed at even voicing the thought aloud.
“She will have you,” Martin said with a slight smile. “But she will not be had without difficulty. Still, promise me that you’ll do as I ask, and I know that it will be done. You don’t promise easily, my friend, but I know the promises you make, you’ll keep.”
Günter sighed and rolled shoulders stiff with tension. “I need time to think—”
Martin gripped Günter’s hand again, his skin as cold as alabaster. His eyes burned with purpose. “There is no time left. It must be now. Promise me.”
Günter stared into his dying friend’s eyes, the bonds of loyalty and obligation drawing even tighter.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I … promise.”
Martin nodded. His grip on Günter’s hand went slack. He turned his eyes upwards and coughed again, only this time the cough did not stop—it grew worse, the rattle louder.
“Alonsa!” Günter called out, dread clawing at his chest.
He heard her running footsteps outside, and then Alonsa flung open the tent flap behind him and flew past. She grabbed a bowl of steaming herbs from beside Martin’s bedroll, dropped on her knees next to him, and set it near his head. She gripped his face in her hands.
“Martin. Respire!” she commanded him, ordering him to inhale the steam while Günter willed for him to breathe, but it was all for naught. With one last look at his betrothed, Martin drew his final breath and was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
THEY BURIED MARTIN JUST BEFORE DAWN, IN the rain.
Secrecy was a necessity. In enemy territory, one never buried the bodies of comrades where irate villagers might find and desecrate them after the army had moved on. Hence, members of the Fähnlein carried the shrouded bodies of Martin and several others upon a bier of crossed pikes and shields deep into the hills.
Mostly followers of Martin Luther, the religious reformer, the company employed no priest. Instead, at the head of a procession of several dozen people, a chaplain quietly intoned the burial rites as the mourners tried to prevent the sucking mud from claiming their shoes.
Women and children of the dead wept quietly, trained by frequent loss to school their tears. Alonsa plodded behind Martin’s body in the wife’s place of honor, though she was not. She had rent the sleeve of her dress, a sign of grief for all to see.
Günter glanced at her from time to time, concerned. She had not spoken for hours, and she shivered from the cold. He silently cursed the endless rain, the damned mud, the swollen clouds that wouldn’t cease. Death needed drama, he supposed, and Nature had chosen this display for Martin’s final act.
Beside him, Alonsa stumbled, her feet sliding in the ooze. Günter caught her elbow to prevent her from falling. He tried not to be unnerved by the feel of her fragile bones in his hand. Though she righted herself immediately, he did not release her. For her good, he told himself, but he could not deny the part of him that needed the comfort of her presence.
They walked together arm in arm to the gravesite, where the soldiers lowered Martin and the others into the pit. The chaplain completed the simple rites. Silence reigned for several moments while, weeping, Alonsa crossed herself and clutched worn wooden rosary beads to her breast.
The men gazed expectantly at Günter, who stepped forward and drew an eight-stringed cittern from its sling across his back. It held, temporarily, the place of honor where his Zweihänder great sword should be.
Günter plucked the courses to find the key, then started strumming a slow, melancholy rhythm. He pitched his voice above the patter of the rain. The men knew the song—usually a merry one—well. It had been Martin’s favorite tavern tune, and they’d sung it many times together in happier days.
Günter’s throat closed up and he faltered, no longer able to hold back the tide of emotions bombarding him. Several voices, most of them rough and unexceptional, picked up the tune. Finally, his own voice rose above the rest as they sang the chorus:
“Today we drink the last wine
And throw the dice for the last time …”
The final note held long and sweet. Günter closed his eyes for a moment. Etched against his lids he saw Martin as he used to be, as he always would be … a beer mug in his hand, a broad smile on his lips.
The mourners filed away, one by one. Only Alonsa and Günter remained. They stood for some time in the light sprinkle that continued, but spoke no words. Günter wouldn’t leave her, though he doubted she even knew he waited nearby.
The rain seeped into his cloak and doublet, and misted the plumed cap on his head. She gazed at the grave, the black lace shawl around her head growing damper by the moment. Even in the gray darkness, Günter could see the tears mixing with the rain on Alonsa’s face. He knew he would have to convince her to leave the graveside soon or she would catch her death of cold. Still, he understood her reluctance to go.
“Señora, you must come away,” he said at last as the dawn began to lighten the sky.
She did not respond.
“Alonsa.” He spoke her name firmly, and she turned, blinking as though she saw him for the first time.
“Come,” he said again. “I will ask Inés to make you something hot.”
He took her cool hand; she flinched, but he did not let go. She allowed him to lead her back to the camp.
The rain drifted away as they walked.
Inés had preceded them. Though the rain made the wood too wet to start a campfire, she had managed to get a small blaze started under a cook stove. Günter gently pushed Alonsa toward her tent, his concern for her growing. Inés handed her a wooden bowl filled with hot, thin soup, a worried frown creasing her forehead. Alonsa looked dully at the bowl.
Günter took her other hand, placed it on the warm bowl, and led her inside the tent. The thick canvas walls blocked the worst of the cold, its sides billowing in the wind. He sat Alonsa down, helped her to remove her shawl, blotted her tear-stained face, then lifted the bowl to her lips.
“Drink,” he murmured.
She obeyed him, but he suspected she did not even taste the soup. She swallowed, looking up at him with dark eyes filled with pain.
“I cannot believe he is gone,” she said, and burst into tears.
Her racking sobs tore at him until he could bear no more. He set the bowl down and held out his arms to her. To his surprise, she came into them, holding
on to him tightly. He soothed her, comforted her as best he could, and tried to subdue the aching emptiness he felt in his own heart at the loss of his dearest friend.
“It is all my fault,” she whispered. “He is dead because of me.”
“Nonsense,” he murmured. “Martin was a soldier. He understood the risks he took for his pay.” He looked down at her. “We all do.”
She shook her head, and damp strands of hair fell across her face. She gripped them in a motion of despair.
“But you do not understand,” she said, her dark eyes unnaturally bright. “Perhaps, if he had not met me, all would have been well. He might have lived! He might have been safe,” she moaned.
Günter understood that she would grieve Martin, but there was something … strange about the intensity of her manner.
“No soldier is safe, Alonsa.” He put his hand to her forehead. He wore the half-fingered gloves of his profession, the better to grip his sword with, but he could feel the coolness of her skin with his fingertips. No fever. He gently released her grip on her hair before she pulled the strands out by the roots.
“You had no control over whether Martin lived or died. Only God decides those things.”
“Not I,” she said, her voice hushed, “but the curse.”
“The curse?” he repeated slowly. A cold wind feathered across the nape of his neck, making the fine hairs stand on end.
“It killed him. He should have been safe. He should have lived!” she insisted. She stared intently past him, as though she searched for the answer to a riddle in the air itself.
Günter feared to look over his shoulder, afraid of what he might find.
Afraid? Him? Enough of this. He shook her. “Speak clearly. You make no sense.”
She looked at him again. “You think me mad.”
It had crossed his mind, but he denied it now. “Nay, just crazed with grief. You loved him. It’s to be expect—”
She jumped up, trembling with rage. “No! Never accuse me of that accursed emotion again!”
Günter sat stunned. Mayhap insanity had touched her. “But he was your betrothed … You bathed his wounds, cried at his death, dressed his body for burial. Even now you’re filled with grief at his passing.”
