The Promise

by TJ Bennett

  He awoke—hard, aching, and groaning her name. He threw off the blanket and lay sweating and naked on his bedroll, battling fiercely to control his desire. As he struggled to bring himself under control, he thanked God he shared his tent with no other soldiers this night.

  Though he wouldn’t be the first to have such a dream, and to be good-naturedly teased by the other men who occupied the tent, he could not bear to have Alonsa be the subject of such lewd jesting—or for himself to be thought of as pathetic by any man. For pathetic it was. If he reacted this way to a dream, how long would he last when he finally got her into bed?

  He would get her there, he vowed. It was not a question of if, only when. Alonsa would become his wife. Yes, he had promised Martin, but it meant more to him now than just that. Somehow, once he wed her, once he stopped her “no’s” with kisses, he would manage a scrap of self-restraint with her in his bed. Long enough to make her dissolve into heated moans like the ones she had given him this morning.

  He felt the fire building in him at the memory, and he shook his head in frustration.

  He rose and lifted the pitcher of water, now ice-cold, he kept beside the bedroll for washing—and up-ended it over his head with a yelp. Both desire and the need for further sleep quickly fled.

  He disliked sleep, though he acknowledged its necessity. It made him too vulnerable. Shivering from the cold, Günter wondered if he had ever spoken Alonsa’s name aloud in his sleep. It might explain Martin’s certainty about Günter’s feelings for his intended.

  Nay, he decided, drying himself off quickly. Likely not. Surely, Günter would have awoken with a blade at his throat if that had been the case, friendship or no.

  Günter donned his clothes. It grew late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again tonight. He left his tent, and after waving to Rutger as he patrolled on sentry duty, Günter padded quietly over to the side of the camp where Alonsa slept. He stayed in the shadows, watching her tent, imagining what she must look like in her bed as she slumbered.

  Did she sleep naked? With her hair unbound? Would all her rich, dark-brown hair flow like silk over his body while he loved her?

  She would have to be on top for him to find out, of course. The second time. Her head thrown back as she rode him, the tips of her hair teasing his thighs. He would slide the strands forward with his fingers, cover, and then reveal her breasts with it. Or mayhap he could convince her to put her mouth upon him. Then her heavy curtain of hair would drape over him of its own accord, spreading like Saracen chocolate over his body as she slid her way down.

  He held his breath at the image and then let it out with a shaky laugh.

  Pathetic.

  Someone approached in the dark, and Günter had his Katzbalger out and at the man’s throat before he recognized him. Blue eyes stared back at him, but this time they were not afraid—only surprised.

  “Günter?”

  Fritz. Dammit, he had let Fritz creep up on him while he fantasized about Alonsa. What kind of mercenary was he? If he kept this up, he would soon be a dead one.

  “What is it?” Günter snapped, angrier with himself than with the young man. He thrust his blade back into its scabbard and tried again. “Report.”

  Fritz cleared his throat and ran a hand through his floppy hair before he came to attention.

  “As you instructed, I have watched the tent for the past few hours. The Señora retired at nightfall, and there has been no unusual activity since then.”

  Günter glared at him. “You have not fallen asleep at your post?”

  Fritz’s cheeks flushed, but he shook his head.

  “Nay, I have paced continuously, as you showed me, to stay awake. And drunk plenty of cider, though I care little for it, and pissed it all behind that tree.” His eyes flickered to a giant cypress nearby. “I think it will be withered by morn.”

  Günter tried desperately to keep his lips from quivering.

  “Good soldiers make sacrifices,” he finally managed. “She has not left her tent since nightfall? Nor packed up any of her belongings?”

  “Nay,” Fritz confirmed.

  “So, it will not be today, then,” Günter murmured, grateful for that at least. “Well done, young Fritz. I’ll relieve you now.”

  Fritz looked taken aback.

  “But … I still have several hours left. Have I done something wrong?”

  Günter looked at the young man, so eager to serve, so anxious to do well. He might make a fine soldier after all. Pity he had no noble blood, or funds with which to buy weapons or horse.

  “You’ve done well today, son. But I find I cannot sleep, and without employment I am restless. I’ll take over here for tonight. Come back at dawn, after a good night’s sleep.”

  Fritz looked as though he might protest, but Günter held up a hand to silence him.

  “First rule of soldiering … sleep when you can. You never know what the morrow may bring.”

  Fritz nodded his head, absorbing this tidbit of knowledge with a serious expression. Günter half expected him to reach into the willow pack around his waist for something on which to scribble it down.

  “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Nay. Except—” he hesitated for a moment, for effect.

  “Yes?” Fritz asked, eyes bright.

  “Do not call me ‘sir,’“ Günter said, very slowly.

  Fritz hung his head, and his shoulders slumped.

  “I will never remember. My father taught me to respect my elders and those I admire. It is a hard thing to forget.”

  Günter rested a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Forget it you must. If we wound up in the wrong hands someday, it could mark me for torture as one of the company’s high-ranking officers. As a mere sergeant, I would resent that.”

  Fritz blanched. “I will not forget again.”

  Günter patted him gently on the shoulder.

  “I know, son. Take your rest and start again at dawn.”

  Fritz nodded, did a sharp about-face, and trotted away. Günter shook his head with a smile as he watched Fritz go.

  Was I ever that young?

  Nay, he decided. He turned back to Alonsa’s tent, took up his stance, and tried to keep from dreaming of more fantasies while he kept watch outside her tent.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “RANKS! PUT DOWN AND FILL!”

  Günter repeated the sergeant major’s barked command as several contingents ran through their training drills side by side.

  The faces of his men glistened in the sharp morning sun. Hot breath steamed from their mouths into the cool air as the harquebusiers placed powder into the muzzle end of their handgonnes, the small arms artillery requiring much less training than archery or blade fighting. They lifted the long, heavy weapons to the ready and went through the motions without firing in order to conserve the powder.

  Günter looked the ragtag group of soldiers over. Most of the men wore garments ranging from gaudy to gaudier. Amber and green doublets competed with the deep indigo and sunshine yellow of slashed stockings and multicolored trunk hose; decorated codpieces of near-frightening proportions pointed to the clouds above, their impressive size and direction supported not by nature, but by fabric batting. The double-pay soldiers sported war-battered helmets and breastplates, while the lower paid schmutz wore plumed hats and worn doublets scavenged post-battle from their less fortunate opponents.

  Günter preferred a slightly more modest style of dress (he tended to stay with only two or three colors, and the proportions of his codpiece were entirely his own). However, most of the men took full advantage of the suspension of sumptuary laws by the previous Emperor Maximillian I—laws which prevented those not of noble birth from dressing extravagantly. As a result, they stood out like a riotous field of improbable flowers, and since they could expect life spans of about the same length, they took advantage of every opportunity to enjoy life to the fullest. They trained hard, fought harder, played hardest; they copulate
d freely, gambled and drank when not in battle, and died young almost without exception.

  Given that, the Landsknechts agreed the Holy Roman Empire should at least let them dress as they willed.

  The sergeant major pointed to one recruit slow in righting his weapon after ramming the ball and patch down into the barrel of the muzzle.

  “You there! Make right!” Günter commanded, and the man immediately lifted his muzzle, fitting the stock to his shoulder.

  The sergeant major nodded his approval and strode down the ranks, examining each weapon in turn. Imminent battle made it imperative the guns as well as the powder were kept dry, difficult to do with the mist and rain plaguing them the past few days. The sergeant major had therefore taken the opportunity of a dry morning to begin the drills for just such a reason.

  Günter couldn’t complain; it kept him occupied while he waited for Alonsa to make a move out of camp. He had been waiting for three days now. She was an intelligent woman; he wagered she would try to leave during the siege lull they currently endured. To do so while the campaign raged would make the journey far too dangerous.

  As Günter looked up from examining a harquebus whose barrel showed the beginnings of rust, he noted Fritz hovering nearby with an excited expression on his face. The moment the sergeant major halted the drill, Günter turned to his men.

  “Fall out! To beer!” he called, and the soldiers scattered like chaffs on the wind.

  Günter motioned to Fritz with a jerk of his head to accompany him as he walked. He lifted his cloak from the barrel of the culverin he had draped it on and swung it around his shoulders.

  “What news of our bird?” he murmured when they had walked several paces. He fastened the heavy cloak around his neck.

  Fritz’s clear blue eyes were alight with mischief. “She makes ready for flight. They have been taking down the tent all morning.”

  Günter looked askance at him. “All morning?”

  Fritz nodded. “Yes. The dismantling has gone unusually slow,” he said with a slight grin.

  Günter raised one brow. “You have found some means to delay her?”

  “Nay. I have not had to. Inés has been more of a hindrance than a help, I fear. I suspect Inés delays her departure for her own purpose, though I know not why.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting.” Günter stroked a finger across his closely cropped beard. “Mayhap we have an ally inside the enemy’s walls. One who might just open the gates for us.”

  Fritz looked startled. “Enemy?”

  Günter glanced at him. “A figure of speech. Continue.”

  “I have done as you said, and come to fetch you when the Señora’s desertion seemed most imminent.”

  “Good. I’ll see to this desertion … personally.”

  Günter turned back to Fritz and handed him the missive he had already penned to his commander. “Give this to von Frundsberg. He will know of its contents.”

  Fritz eyed it, his brow furrowing. “You are not resigning, are you?” He shifted his feet. “That is, I had hoped you might be my sergeant when I muster in.”

  Günter spared him a smile. “Do not fear, son. I’ll return when the time is ripe. The letter only confirms my promise to do so.” In exchange for keeping his pay for the month, Günter had sworn to return before the commencing of the mission to free Pavia from the French siege. His long service to the company had persuaded the commander to agree to such an unusual arrangement.

  Günter shook his head. “For a man who has managed not to make any promises to anyone, I now find myself making them with alarming frequency. Besides, I signed a contract, like every mercenary here.”

  “But everyone knows such contracts are only good for as long as the gold lasts … or until the company’s owner dies,” Fritz pointed out.

  “And even a mercenary is only as good as his word,” Günter retorted. He pinned Fritz with his gaze. “Mark me, son, never give your word if you can help it. But if you give it, keep it unto death.” He clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Others may think of us as drinking, whoring, sons-of-the-damned—and they would be right—but a mercenary’s word to a comrade is better than the best blade money can buy.”

  Fritz nodded slowly and slipped the letter inside the willow pack he always wore around his waist. “What if the pay runs out before the siege breaks, and the men leave?” His keen interest showed in his eyes.

  Günter shrugged. “Then the captain will need me to muster in new recruits to replace the deserters.” He grinned. “You may get your chance yet, if you can secure some of their weapons.”

  “But what if coin does not come and the commander promises them papal gold?” Fritz’s eager expression changed to one of unease.

  Günter clenched his jaw and looked away for a moment.

  “Then he will need me to maintain order and discipline,” he said.

  Fritz’s grim expression communicated his understanding. Günter knew Fritz had followed the Fähnlein long enough to see what soldiers, aroused with bloodlust and greed, could do to innocent townspeople after a battle.

  Everyone expected the looting and pillaging. However, an unrestrained mercenary army often added rape, burning, and full-scale destruction to its deeds, particularly when papal properties were involved, as they were here. The officers, hailing mostly from the gentry and minor nobility, had little command over the foot soldiers in such situations. Captains depended upon their sergeants to maintain control. Sometimes with the edge of a blade.

  “Mayhap,” Fritz offered, “I could accompany you today.”

  “There is no need.”

  “But—”

  “Off with you,” Günter said gently. “Get my gear and meet me at the Señora’s tent.”

  Fritz hesitated, then nodded. He hastened off in the direction of von Frundsberg’s tent.

  Günter strode off in the opposite direction, trying hard not to rub his hands together in gleeful anticipation of the upcoming skirmish with his future bride.

  Alonsa gave one final tug on the ropes that held the various bundles inside her wide merchant’s cart. Absently patting the sturdy gray body of her burro, she gazed up at the morning sun climbing higher in the sky than she would have liked. The animal snuffled, and she patted it once more.

  She had sold her dray horse. The burro was much less costly, and with the profits, she would be able to afford the passage to Spain without having to spend coin from the sales of her father’s blades. She had sewn some of the money inside her skirts and placed the rest in an iron box hidden at the base of the cart. She would sell the burro when she reached Genoa.

  Cursed luck, bad weather, and Inés’ incessant complaints had thus far prevented her from leaving for the port city. Still, she intended to depart today, no matter how delayed the journey might be.

  She had dressed in traveling clothes: her thick woolen mantle draped her shoulders, while a white linen snood covered her head. Her front-lacing bodice would permit her to quickly dress and undress at night without aid. She still wore gray for mourning, but she’d girded her skirts to allow ease of movement in and out of the cart. She felt comfortable and prepared for her journey.

  She checked the stores of food and wine for the last time.

  Alonsa, absorbed in her activities, gradually became aware of a prickling sensation along the back of her neck. She moved her hand to the Toledo blade lying on top of the bundles. Designed especially for her by her late husband, it bore a shorter hilt and lighter weight. As the feeling of being watched became stronger, she yanked the blade from its sheath, dropped her mantle, and swung around to confront whatever danger approached. Her blade whistled in its downward arc—and came to a clanging halt as a great sword checked its descent.

  Without thinking, Alonsa flanked left with the blade and spun to renew her attack, her heavy skirts swinging out around her—and mid-arc saw Günter raise his blade once more.

  He countered before she could check her own attack. With a flick of his wris
t, he flipped the blade out of her hand. It landed beyond her reach, point down and vibrating in the muddy ground.

  She turned to face him, incensed.

  “What do you mean by this … this assault?” With a huff, she retrieved her mantle from where she had dropped it on the ground.

  Her question brought his dark brows up in mocking inquiry as he lowered his sword. “What do I mean by it? I believe you assaulted me. I came only for a visit. Nice swordplay, by the by. Did your father teach you that?”

  Alonsa sniffed with as much dignity as she could muster, considering she had been roundly defeated. She twitched the mantle over her shoulders. “My late husband.”

  “Ah.” Günter nodded.

  Alonsa had no idea what that noncommittal word might mean.

  His falcon’s eyes flicked over the cart. “Going somewhere?”

  “I am leaving for Genoa, as I believe you know already,” she answered stiffly. “Your young spy has been hovering about my tent for the past three days.” She moved toward her sword, but Günter blocked her path. “If you will permit me to retrieve my blade, I may have use for it on my journey.”

  “Genoa, is it? I had heard you were leaving, but I was not aware of the destination.” After sticking his own sword into the ground, he retrieved her finely honed blade. He examined the workmanship and wiped the mud off, handed it to her across his forearm, hilt first. His searing gaze lifted from the mirrored steel and met hers across its length.

  The move displayed his trust—or perhaps assumption—that she would not attempt to use the blade on him again. Although she had no wish to harm him, her fingers tightened on the hilt. He raised an inquiring brow as she took the blade from him; he followed it with a smile that played strange rhythms on her heart.

  “Do you intend to cut your way through me?” he asked. “Because I warn you, that is what it will take for me to leave your side.”

  Apprehension lanced through her. Did he know of the curse, or did he prophesy inadvertently? She stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine which it might be. His gaze touched her face, lingering on her mouth, and she knew he remembered their kiss.