Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1)

by Anna Markland

  CONFLICTING EMOTIONS

  When Sophia regained the vestry where the women had been allowed to dress for the ceremony she tried hard to hide her upset. “All clear,” she announced breezily.

  Her mother frowned at her, then led the way down the short flight of steps to the door into the church. Eugenia Halden followed.

  Kristina took a deep breath and smiled. “This is it,” she said.

  “My brother is a lucky man,” Sophia replied.

  “But something is bothering you,” her perceptive friend whispered, one eye on the door through which the older women had exited.

  Sophia took her hand. “It has nothing to do with you and Johann.” She ought not to say anything to mar the day, but fear for Brandt got the better of her. “It’s just…I think the Franken envoy is ill.”

  Kristina seemed not to grasp the depth of her concerns. “You care for him. I told you there’d be someone for you at the wedding.”

  Sophia was about to reply that she was worried for the man, but that nothing could ever come of a relationship between them. However, Frau Halden poked her face in the door. “Hurry, everyone is waiting.”

  Kristina linked arms with Sophia. “I will pray for both of you during the mass,” she whispered.

  The two girls joined their mothers and the four proceeded to the vestibule entryway where Johann waited with his father, brothers and the emperor and duke. Judging by the broad grin on the face of the Bishop of Naumburg, Sophia would guess this was likely the most important event he’d ever presided over.

  It was a mark of her family’s standing they’d been allowed to stand inside the doors for the exchange of vows. The remaining guests stood outside in the blazing sun.

  The passion smoldering in Johann’s gaze when he greeted his bride tugged at Sophia’s heartstrings. Would Brandt ever look at her that way?

  It was a foolish notion.

  But where was he?

  Lost in her thoughts of the dark stranger, she was only half listening to Johann and Kristina’s pledges when she became aware her father had stepped back to stand beside her. “He’s outside,” he whispered. “But I believe he has been injured.”

  “Injured?” she repeated, suddenly chilled to the bone.

  Her father clenched his jaw. “If some ill befell him on my estate…”

  She stared at him, not understanding, until the truth dawned. “You think he was attacked?”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s concentrate on Johann’s wedding then we’ll seek out your Franken.”

  Conflicting emotions swirled in Sophia’s heart. She loved Johann, loved Kristina, wanted to share every moment of their happiness with them, but somewhere outside, possibly only a few feet away, Brandt was in dire need. She’d seen it on his face, despite his efforts to hide it.

  Then her father’s words echoed in her mind. He had again sensed her attraction to Duke Conrad’s envoy, but there’d been no censure in his voice.

  Genuinely elated for her half-brother, she smiled and applauded with everyone else when the bishop pronounced Johann and Kristina man and wife. The emperor offered his congratulations, as did Duke Heinrich. Citing pressing affairs of state, the pair soon excused themselves and left.

  The bishop led the long procession into the cathedral for the nuptial mass. When everyone had traipsed in, Sophia risked a backward glance, seeking Brandt in the happy throng. But there was no sign of him. She wondered if he’d left with the dignitaries, but that didn’t make sense.

  ~~~

  Brandt leaned back against one of the pillars at the rear of the crowded Dom, welcoming the relief the cold stone brought to his fevered body.

  He narrowed his eyes to watch the tableau playing out at the front of the church. Happy bride and handsome groom…jubilant family…Sophia, a vision in red with a golden crown.

  He clenched his fists. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a wife on the rare occasions when he’d allowed himself to imagine a future that didn’t include Dorothea, her holier-than-thou parents and his stern father.

  He was glad the emperor and the duke had left after the exchange of vows. Keeping his wits about him during the audience had been a struggle, though he hadn’t been included in the conversation. It was as if they were politely ignoring him after the emperor’s initial affable greeting. Lothair reminded him of engravings he’d seen of the Magi—a benevolent king with a kindly face and a luxuriant beard.

  Duke Heinrich the Proud on the other hand was pompous and arrogant. His pronounced Cupid’s bow mouth was startlingly feminine for a man with a reputation as a fierce warrior. He looked too old to be the father of a little boy who didn’t know enough about good manners not to pick his nose in public.

  Dieter von Wolfenberg was also a surprise. Brandt had expected another arrogant Saxon, puffed up by his heroic reputation, but his host struck him as down-to-earth and intensely committed to his family. He was a peacemaker who had treated Brandt cordially, with no hint of enmity. He’d wager the count would be furious if he learned of the treachery perpetrated by Heinrich’s men.

  He envied Sophia and wondered if she knew how lucky she was to have grown up in the bosom of a loving family. She was right. Her parents were soul mates. It was evident they shared a deep passion and seemed comfortable clinging to each other as the ritual progressed. Most noblemen of Brandt’s acquaintance wouldn’t expose themselves to the ridicule such a display of affection might engender.

  Sophia knew what love was. His beleaguered body and parched throat thirsted for a taste of that love.

  His knees trembled. His head throbbed. The walls of the Dom were closing in. Not wishing to cause a scene, he staggered out of the church and into Vidar’s arms. In a moment of blinding clarity he knew that whatever ailed him was more serious than a broken rib. It was his last thought before he surrendered to the darkness.

  HE CAN'T BE DEAD

  Sophia was swept along out of the Dom with the throng of well-wishers. Kristina glowed with happiness; Johann looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Sophia was elated for them and for her parents who were obviously delighted by the marriage. Kristina would be a good gräfin. She’d lived all her life on the estate and was well known and liked by the tenant farmers and local gentry, despite her peculiar parents.

  As Sophia scoured the crowd for any sign of Brandt, the happy scene conjured apprehension about what the future held in store. If she ever did marry, it was unlikely she’d be able to remain at Wolfenberg.

  And Brandt was heir to lands far away—in enemy territory. Daydreams of a union with him would lead only to heartbreak. Defection to the Staufen cause would be a betrayal of all her family held dear, a dagger in her father’s heart.

  Alarm skittered up her spine when she espied one of Brandt’s men pushing his way through the crowd. He seemed to be heading towards her father, his face grim. Surely Brandt’s arrival hadn’t been a ruse to cover up an assassination plot. But why would the Staufens want her father dead?

  The reasons didn’t matter. Frantic for her father’s safety, she elbowed and shoved her way through the melee, garnering frowning curiosity from many, until she reached his side. But Brandt’s man was only inches away.

  “Papa,” she shrieked, though the word came out of her dry throat as a hoarse cough.

  He turned.

  “My lord graf,” Brandt’s man rasped.

  She had a momentary notion to throw herself at the attacker, but then it occurred to her that an assassin wouldn’t address his victim. She clung to her father’s sleeve, completely out of breath, and feeling foolish.

  “What is it, liebling?” her father asked. “You seem distraught.”

  She nodded towards the soldier. “He’s trying to get your attention. There must be something amiss with his master.”

  The grim-faced foreigner bowed as her father turned. “I am Vidar, Second-in-Command of the Franken contingent. Your daughter is correct, your honor.” He pointed to a small shrine at
the edge of the cathedral precinct. “My lord lies yonder, in a stupor.”

  Sophia’s heart broke. Brandt was a strong man, yet his injuries were so severe he’d been unable to remain on his feet.

  Her father didn’t hesitate. He grasped Sophia’s hand and pulled her along as he led the way through the crowd. “Is he alone?”

  “Nein, my men are with him.”

  Her heart filled with misgivings. They should be with the new bride and groom. Her mother would be worried, the Haldens annoyed. Yet Dieter von Wolfenberg was rushing to the aid of a stricken man. But why drag her along? Had he sensed her overwhelming need to help Brandt in any way she could?

  In the heat and confusion it again flitted into her mind that perhaps this was part of the plot. Isolate her father, draw him away…

  Vidar waved a passage through the ring of soldiers guarding the shrine dedicated to Saint Altfrid. Her fears for her father melted away. These men’s grim faces betrayed their concern for their master, a man they were sworn to protect.

  She and her father squeezed through the narrow arched doorway. He knelt at Brandt’s side.

  “He can’t be dead,” she murmured, hovering behind, feeling useless. “He’s sweating.”

  “He’s not dead,” her father replied.

  She swayed with dizzying relief.

  “Yet,” he added.

  Her trembling legs failed and she fell to her knees beside Brandt. She had to do something, but what?

  “What happened to him?” her father asked Vidar.

  “Beaten,” the soldier replied.

  “When?”

  “Yestereve.”

  Her father looked back at Vidar who had remained standing. “By whom?”

  There was no hesitation. “Saxons. I bound his broken ribs, but I think it’s more serious.”

  Sophia sensed her father’s anger, but he held it in check. She had to stop trembling, had to help in some way. But the sight of the dark, confident warrior lying helpless on the cold stone floor rendered her incapable of thought, her mind full of the words of the ballad.

  My love, we’re like that vine and tree;

  I’ll die without you, you without me.

  “He rode to the wedding despite his injuries,” she whispered.

  Her father came to his feet. “Courageous, if foolhardy. Determined to do his duty even if it killed him. A fever has him in its grip. I’ve seen this before on the battlefield. It’s possible a broken rib punctured a lung.”

  The fog lifted. It became clear what they must do. “We’ll take him back to Wolfenberg,” she declared. “In the carriage.”

  ~~~

  Sensing movement, Brandt peeled open one bleary eye. His long dead mother had told him tales of the spirits of his Viking ancestors being carried to Valhalla in a longboat. However, it seemed he was being delivered to his heavenly reward lying in some kind of wheeled contraption.

  He hoped it wouldn’t be a long journey. He’d always understood death eased a man’s pain, which he could now attest was definitely a misconception on the Church’s part.

  He’d a raging thirst. Perhaps one of the angels watching over him might provide comfort. “Water?” he rasped.

  A tumbler was pressed to his lips. A hand lifted his head. He gulped greedily.

  “Slowly,” a voice urged. “Take your time.”

  The angel sounded like the gräfin, which was impossible. “I don’t have much time,” he replied as blessedly cool water dribbled down his chin to his neck. He licked the moisture from his cracked lips.

  “Nonsense,” another voice insisted. “You’ll feel better once we get you to Wolfenberg.”

  He opened both eyes. The second angel dabbed his chin, then his forehead. She sat next to him, her hip pressed to his. She wore a golden crown, but her robes were red. That was confusing. Angels didn’t wear red. Devils did. “I’m not going to Wolfenberg,” he whispered. “I’m bound for heaven.”

  “Not if Sophia has anything to say about it,” the first angel said.

  Sophia!

  Longing and regret swept over him. “The honeysuckle and the vine,” he murmured.

  He thought he might have heard a sob, then the angel took his hand and started to sing.

  “My love, we’re like that vine and tree;

  I’ll die without you, you without me.”

  Feeling better, he closed his eyes, reassured that Death couldn’t be far off.

  NEVER SAY NEVER

  Her heart in her throat, Sophia clung to her mother as they watched six of Brandt’s men lift him from the carriage. Her father and Vidar kept a careful eye on the proceedings. Complaining loudly, Eugenia Halden stalked off, nose in the air. Her husband trailed behind her.

  “It’s a mystery to me how the Haldens can have a daughter as lovely as Kristina,” Blythe muttered.

  “I wanted to throttle her,” Sophia confessed, surprised to hear her mother utter criticism of anyone. “Did she expect us to leave the man to die in Naumburg? It’s not as though it’s her carriage.”

  “I suppose she had looked forward to travelling home with the bride and groom.”

  Sophia laughed, despite her anguish for Brandt. “It seemed to me Kristina was just as happy to ride with Johann.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Even in her wedding gown!”

  Sophia sighed at the amusing memory of a blushing Kristina hitching up the copious skirts and climbing into her new husband’s lap atop his horse, just as she had at the waterfall. “They’ll be very happy together,” she said, brushing away a tear that trickled down her cheek.

  Her mother embraced her as the bearers disappeared into the manor house with their precious burden. “Don’t despair. He’s a strong man and has hopefully survived the worst. We’ll nurse him back to health. I have sent for Wendelin.”

  Sophia had mixed feelings about the village healer. Some hailed her as a miracle worker while others whispered of witchcraft, but she had to remain hopeful. “When he recovers he’ll return to Franconia,” she replied. “I’ll never see him again.”

  Her mother cradled her face in both hands and pecked a kiss on her nose. “Never say never. Now let’s see to our patient. Then we’ll worry about the wedding feast.”

  Sophia watched her mother hurry away.

  Many eligible young men had visited Wolfenberg for one reason or another in recent years. She’d enjoyed their affable company and admittedly flirted with one or two, but none had sparked a fire in her heart. She acknowledged that the wanton throbbing in intimate female places was exactly what her mother had foretold of. It had taken an enemy spy to ignite her female desires.

  Hurrying into the house, she resolved to help Brandt heal, hoping that when he left she’d find someone to mend her broken heart.

  As usual, her mother had taken competent charge of matters, unruffled despite the imminent arrival of dozens of banquet guests.

  “They have taken Brandt to Kon’s chamber,” she explained. “Your brothers can share until he’s well.”

  Sophia’s spirits lifted. Kon was a devout Christian who wouldn’t object to giving up his chamber. Whether Lute would be pleased at having to share with Kon was another matter, but she couldn’t worry about that. “I’ll go there now,” she said.

  “Not a good idea,” her mother replied. “The servants are preparing him for the healer.”

  Images of Brandt being stripped of his clothing danced behind Sophia’s eyes. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest she help with the task, but her mother’s frown dissuaded her. “I need your help with the guests. You must change and be ready to greet them with the rest of the family.”

  It was an abrupt reminder that her duty was to ensure the complete success of Johann and Kristina’s wedding celebrations. She’d allowed Brandt to distract her. Resolved to put him out of her mind, she straightened her shoulders and set off for her chamber.

  ~~~

  Warmth seeped into Brandt’s ribs, but not the feverish heat he’d felt before
…

  …before what he couldn’t recall. All he remembered was that he’d died, helped on his way to heaven by an angel in red.

  He opened his eyes and scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. It didn’t look like the heavenly bower he’d expected, more like the untidy chamber his mother had gently chastised him for as a youth.

  There was laughter…and music, not far away.

  It came to him he’d somehow been transported to the Wolfenberg house and the wedding celebrations were still ongoing. Yet they’d brought home a wounded stranger.

  He thought again about the angel with the golden crown. Sophia?

  Vidar drifted into his field of vision. He had his eye on a diminutive woman standing beside his bed whose wrinkled skin and wispy grey hair convinced him she was well over a hundred years old. She was evidently responsible for the soothing heat on his chest.

  He wrinkled his nose. The place didn’t smell like heaven either. “What’s that odor?”

  “Comfrey,” Vidar replied, looking uncertain, but before he could speak again, the crone interrupted. “Knitbone, I call it,” she croaked. “Best thing for broken bones.” She took her attention off the compresses and produced a small vial from a pocket. “Open,” she commanded.

  Too confused to argue, he did as she bade, frowning when she poured a few drops of a nutty tasting liquid onto his tongue.

  “Tincture of Solomon’s Seal,” she explained. “Also good for healing bones and lung problems. Swallow!”

  He obeyed, but when she cupped his hodensack with surprising firmness, his heart did a peculiar somersault.

  “Beneficial for male parts too,” she chortled with a wink. “Or so they say.”

  It was then he realized he lay naked beneath the linen covering the lower part of his body. To his dismay, his shaft stirred of its own volition, eliciting another chuckle from the healer. “Never fails,” she teased.

  Vidar coughed, his face redder than a winter beetroot. “Show respect, woman,” he said.

  She eyed him as if he’d lost his wits. “Humor aids healing,” she cackled. “I mean no harm. He’s a mite too young for me.”