The Promise

by TJ Bennett

  He prayed to God it wouldn’t be necessary and Alonsa’s supposed curse would not once again have the chance to fulfill itself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GüNTER LISTENED TO THE URGENT MALE WHISPERS and the rustling in the undergrowth.

  “What is it?” A harsh voice barked out the question.

  “I heard something. Over there!” came the murmured reply.

  He groaned inwardly. French. Mayhap gendarmes from King Francis’ troops? They did appear to be French, but he thought he heard an Italian tongue among them. He had no idea why they’d be so far afield of the main company. It could be a simple reconnoiter, in which case they would be low-level infantrymen, or they could be soldiers who had deserted from their posts and taken to banditry. It was common enough in these times.

  The second would be better news. King Francis and his captains would never lose sleep over a few deserters who later turned up dead. However, if Günter killed a gendarme—which he fully intended to do if they came anywhere near Alonsa—he might have the entire French contingent after them before the night was through.

  He heard more crashing about, twigs snapping and branches being bent back.

  “Merde!” One of them barked, and his comrade shushed him.

  “Do you want to warn it?” another man asked angrily.

  Günter understood enough of their slurred speech to realize two things: one, they were drunk; and two, they thought the sound they had heard was an animal in the underbrush. They probably hunted their evening meal and mistook Alonsa and Günter for the main course. He saw several shadowy figures heading toward them, too many to safely fight with Alonsa nearby. If he were alone, it would be different, but…

  Günter made his decision quickly. He pointed the tip of his sword up and moved to Alonsa’s side behind the tree just before several of the men passed by, gesturing and smacking the undergrowth with their blades. Günter counted six men in all. Each was dressed in dark cloaks, and one or two sported battered helmets or breastplates. One man carried a bow and quiver, but he was so inebriated he was likely enough to injure his companions as he was a hare.

  Alonsa huddled behind the tree. She looked up at him in surprise when he settled in next to her and held his finger over his mouth. She turned and pressed into him, and though she remained staunch, he could feel her fear transmitting itself in little shivers throughout her body. He balanced his sword in one hand and wrapped his free arm around her waist, holding her close. Her delicate musk scent drifted up to him.

  She felt like a little bird in his arms. He sometimes feared he might unwittingly injure her with his big hands, and yet he thought she must be very strong to have come through so much.

  If they were lucky, the men would never be the wiser about their presence. Unless, of course, they made for the water’s edge where Fritz and Inés waited; in that case, Günter would have to follow to make sure their traveling companions remained safe.

  When two of the men separated from the group and stumbled closer, Günter felt a tug at his waist and looked down. Alonsa had slipped her hand over the dagger tucked between their bodies, and she slowly pulled it out of its sheath. He squeezed to get her attention, and she looked up. He shook his head no.

  She glanced toward the half dozen men and back at him again. Her dark eyes communicated a silent message, one he understood. If he must fight, he couldn’t possibly kill them all before one got to her. She intended to defend herself, even if he couldn’t. Still, she did not pull the weapon completely free, as if she awaited his permission.

  He hesitated only a moment, evaluating his chances of success. He knew if one drop of blood remained in his body, no one would get past him to her. Still, there was always a chance something might go wrong.

  He nodded, and Alonsa withdrew the blade. He held her so close he could feel the quickened rhythm of her heart against his chest. He pressed a brief kiss to her temple in reassurance. They waited, together.

  Several of the men headed in the opposite direction, but one stumbled closer, tripping over the wood Alonsa and Günter had gathered. The man fell hard upon his knees. Cursing viciously, he kicked the wood out of his way. He belched and lay on the ground for a moment, not moving, then rolled his bulky frame over. He sat up, stared at the wood for a long moment with a bemused expression on his face, and then sniffed the air with curiosity.

  The gray hood he wore identified him as a bandit. The patched and worn cloak hanging haphazardly over his shoulders, and the mismatched hose drooping at his knees, testified to his low birth. However, Günter noted, the wicked blade in his hand appeared serviceable enough. The man scratched himself and peered about him with an expression of befuddled intensity.

  Behind him, Günter, still hidden in shadow, lowered his sword to within an arm’s reach of the man’s neck.

  “Jean-Claude, you pig!” Out of sight before, a short, wiry man with a big nose came around the trunk of a tree.

  Günter pulled his blade back.

  “What?” the man on the ground answered insolently, his expression sour.

  Swaying ever so slightly, Big Nose gestured with his sword. The lanky hair beneath his hood hung down to his shoulders, and even from a distance, Günter could smell the piss and sweat on him. However, he wore a doublet-and-hose in black and red—expensive colors—and a bejeweled ring glowed on one of the fingers gripping his sword. These indicated he might be nobility of some sort, so Günter stayed his hand. Big Nose may have stolen what he wore, but Günter would rather not take chances on killing a noble without cause. Someone invariably became upset when that happened, and came looking for the killer.

  “Get off your ass and help us hunt,” the man snarled at the one on the ground called Jean-Claude. “You’ll not fill your belly sitting on your balls.”

  Jean-Claude glared back mulishly. “Not anything out here. Not anymore. You shits made enough noise to wake the dead, anyhow.”

  “Get up, I said, or I’ll know the reason why.” Big Nose must have thought himself in charge of the motley group now crashing its way toward the waterline. He weaved over to Jean-Claude and lowered the blade to his throat.

  “Better yet, maybe I’ll just finish you off myself. I’m tired of all your whining. My brother says you’ve not pulled your weight since you joined this band. I’ve robbed twice as many men as you, and I only started last month.”

  Jean-Claude said nothing, merely staring up at him with cunning speculation, a look belying the impression of stupidity on a face marred by a heavy brow. Big Nose stared back at him with barely disguised repugnance, too drunk to notice Jean-Claude had his blade pointed directly at his crotch.

  Günter hoped they would kill each other and leave him out of it. In any event, he edged Alonsa away from his sword so he would have plenty of room to maneuver. As she stepped back, her foot snapped a twig; the sound carried clearly to the other men. Alonsa immediately stilled, but it was too late.

  “What was that?” Big Nose lifted his head and stared hard at the tree. Jean-Claude looked in their direction as well.

  Günter held his breath and watched the men, as well as the retreating figures at the edge of the forest. One more moment, and they would be out of earshot. One more moment, and then …

  Alonsa stepped from behind the tree.

  “It is only me,” she said in broken French, her voice timid and breathless.

  A surge of panic so sharp Günter thought he would vomit leapt through him. He raised his sword to attack. But as she stepped away, Alonsa indicated with a sharp motion of her hand behind her to stay where he was, and she let the branches fall closed. She moved toward the Frenchmen, never glancing back.

  Günter, uncertain of her intent, stayed his hand, peering at the trio from behind the camouflage.

  “Well, what have we here?” Big Nose stared at Alonsa, his eyes filled with lascivious intent while she walked toward him.

  Günter, full of impotent fury, decided that one would be the first to die, noble or no
t.

  “No, Henri, she is mine,” Jean-Claude whined, and Günter considered whether he could kill them both with one stroke.

  Alonsa fluttered one hand over her breast and circled away from where Günter still hid.

  “Oh, messieurs, I am so grateful to meet someone in this dark place.” She stood before them now, so petite and fragile Günter’s heart ached.

  Alonsa looked up at Henri, and Günter pictured her as a helpless gold and brown exotic flower quivering before a base brute.

  Still speaking in French, she said, “I have become separated from my traveling companions, and need much help to find my way back. Could you assist me in this?”

  She tilted her head coquettishly, and hid the hilt of the dagger in the folds of her skirt. “You would be handsomely rewarded by my husband. I am certain he searches for me most—how do you say—frantic.”

  Henri looked her up and down, and then adjusted the sash at his waist with a smirk.

  “Your husband? Now why would any man let a woman like you,” his beady eyes traveled over her gently curving figure, “out of his sight long enough to get lost?” He licked his lips. “Maybe you have no husband. Maybe you are out here all by yourself.”

  Jean-Claude stood and faced her, regarding her with a drunken leer.

  “I think you are right, Henri. I think she’s fair game to whatever man finds her.”

  Both men had their attention fully focused on Alonsa, and Günter stepped toward them unseen.

  Henri glared at Jean-Claude.

  “I found her first,” he slurred, belligerence in every word.

  Jean-Claude glared back, defiant.

  “Did not. Knew she was out here before you came. Smelled her. You can have her when I’m done.”

  With his greater height and stockier build, Jean-Claude looked like he could easily back up his claim. He took a step toward Alonsa, loosening the flap of his codpiece as he did.

  Henri stopped him with the flat of his blade. “Me first, you stupid pig—”

  Alonsa interrupted with a simper.

  “Oh, but certainly I have a husband.” Her gaze shifted behind them. “Why, there he is now.”

  Alarmed, both men turned toward Günter, but neither had a chance to raise their swords or cry out. After a flash of steel and the sickening sounds of metal crunching through bone, both men lay dead on the ground. Günter stood over them, jaw clenched, the black stones on the hilt of his blade glittering in the moonlight, his steel dripping with their blood. He hoped one of them would move so he could kill him again.

  Alonsa stared down at them and swallowed hard. One eyebrow arched as she gazed at the looks of surprise forever frozen on the bandits’ faces. “It appears my husband is a jealous man.”

  “Very.” Günter lowered his Zweihänder and took her arm. “And if you ever frighten me like that again, I’ll tan your lovely hide over my knees, understand?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “What else could I have done? They knew someone was here. If I had waited, they would have discovered us both, and there was no room to fight where we hid. I thought only to distract them long enough for you to—to do what you must.”

  She shuddered only once. She had certainly seen dead men before in her time with the company, so her stoic reaction did not surprise Günter. Though they had not touched her, he ran a hand over her to assure himself she was well.

  “Clever. But next time, let me do the thinking. It will do less damage to my heart.”

  She looked as though she might protest, but when he bent down and hastily patted the bodies for valuables, she grimaced.

  “Must you?”

  Günter shrugged. “It is the way, Alonsa. You know it by now. If I don’t do it, whoever comes upon them next will.” He glanced up at her. “They were bandits and would have gladly harmed you. It is no less than they deserve.”

  In his quick search, Günter found little of worth: a small purse on the man called Henri, an even smaller one on the other. He pulled the jeweled ring off Henri’s finger and examined it closely. The red stones glowed dully in the moonlight.

  “It is a crest. Two crossed swords on a field of carbuncles.” He glanced down at the dead man. “It is very likely he stole it off the hand of the man who once wore those clothes.”

  He pocketed the ring and the coins.

  “If the man still lives, mayhap I can return it to him. If not, it will come in handy for barter or trade, should we need it.” He rolled both bodies into the undergrowth, so they wouldn’t be discovered too soon.

  Taking Alonsa’s arm, he hastened her away from the grisly scene. “Come. We must make certain the others have not discovered our companions.”

  She nodded her head and picked up her pace.

  Inés cried out. One of the four men who had thrown her to the ground, the black-haired one, struck her again when she struggled to get away. Stars exploded in her head when it bounced against the ground, and she whimpered in pain. The man glanced up at one of the other two who held her arms and legs.

  He swore at him in livid French. “I said hold her still!”

  The chastised man wiped his florid, runny nose on his sleeve and gripped her arm tighter. His ruddy face turned even redder.

  “Sorry.” His French was tinged with an Italian slur. “Hurry it up. She’s stronger than she looks.”

  A thin man with a bow and quiver over his shoulder came into view behind him and stared avidly down at her even as he spooned the soup she had made for her companions into his mouth.

  “Don’t kill her,” he said, waving the spoon about so drops of the broth inadvertently fell on his comrade’s sleeve. The black-haired man glared at him, but the archer was too drunk to take heed.

  “Soup’s good. After we are done with her, we can take her with us.” The archer looked at the florid-faced man. “That Sicilian dung you cook is not worth spit.”

  Panic speared through Inés at the thought of being their permanent captive.

  “No,” she pleaded.

  The black-haired man rose over her again as she wept, forcing his face into hers. The pockmarks across his cheeks and his bulbous nose spoke of too many years of whoring and drinking.

  “Quiet!” he snarled. He grasped a handful of her skirt and pulled, rending the fabric from her bodice.

  She sobbed in fear. Where was Günter? Where was Fritz? Were they already dead? Would no one come to her aid?

  The large man stared down at her exposed lower half and then ran a hairy-knuckled hand over her. She nearly retched in revulsion.

  “Not bad.” He leered, and his teeth gleamed yellow by the light of the campfire. “But I like a different view myself.”

  He glanced up at the two men. “Turn her over.”

  She screamed and struggled even more. He raised his fist and slammed it into her stomach. A pain worse than any she had ever felt bloomed across it, and for a moment she could not breathe. The men rolled her over easily, and she felt the one behind her clutch at her buttocks. Someone put his foot over her neck, forcing one side of her face into the damp earth. She tried to spit out the clods of wet dirt shifting into her mouth.

  The black-haired man fondled her and breathed heavily.

  “Yes … that’s what I want.” He straddled her, leaned over, and licked her face.

  The sour fumes of ale washed over her, making her gag. She cried out as he pressed his hard length against her buttocks with a scornful laugh.

  “I like a tight sheath for my blade,” he whispered into her ear.

  More dirt slipped into her mouth. She did not spit it out this time. Perhaps it would suffocate her before he invaded her body. She closed her eyes and prayed for a quick death.

  “Nay!” Fritz’s voice rang out, fury reverberating in that single word.

  Her eyes sprang open as he raced to them. He threw down the load of firewood in his arms and reached for the blade in his scabbard.

  The black-haired man jerked his head up in surprise. />
  “What the—”

  Hope sprang up in her heart, followed immediately by despair. Fritz would never be able to defeat them alone. He would die, too.

  “No, Fritz! Run … run! Find Günter!”

  He did not heed her warning. “Release her!” he shouted. He held his sword up, rushing at them. From nowhere, an arrow winged lopsided through the air and struck him in the shoulder. Fritz screamed and the blade dropped from his hand. He tripped over the wood and fell to the ground, his head striking a large stone. He groaned once and lay still.

  The black-haired man laughed and looked up at his friends in amusement. They all chortled. He looked back at Inés.

  “Is that the best you can do? Good thing I found you. You’re going to enjoy this, I warrant. Time you found out what a grown man feels like, not some boy.” He prodded her with his staff.

  Inés could not prevent the wail of desolation that escaped her.

  The archer stumbled toward them.

  “Wait. Who is this ‘Günter’ she shouted for?” A moment of silence reigned as the men tried to reason with their drunken wits.

  Inés’ eyes watered when the black-haired man suddenly pulled at her hair, forcing her head back.

  “Is there someone else here?”

  She did not reply.

  He yanked harder. “Answer me!”

  She heard a dagger slide from its sheath and felt the point between her shoulder blades.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “And he is a Landsknecht. He will kill you all if you do not go now!”

  The black-haired man swore. He glared up at the florid-faced man who still had his foot pressed against her neck and gestured with his dagger toward the woods.

  “You. Go take Loys and see.”

  “Why me?” the man whined, wiping his nose on his sleeve once more.

  “Because,” the black-haired man said, the threat in his voice palpable, “I am busy.”

  “Yes, yes, we will go.” The florid-faced man shrugged, released her, and motioned to the archer. “Come on.”