Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She’d have stayed abed had Duke Heinrich not insisted she and William and the local gentry be present to witness the punishment of the imperial soldier who’d been imprisoned in the castle’s dungeon.

  The glare of disgust Lute and his brother-by-marriage sent her way across the bailey told her they were aware of her involvement with the scorpions.

  Her heart lurched. How had they known?

  She realized it didn’t matter, and deeply regretted the prank. It had been childish to think having two officers bitten by a scorpion would convince the imperialists to leave Termoli. If Lute had been stung she would have succeeded only in inflicting pain on a man she was attracted to. For there was no denying he drew her like a lodestone.

  Stripped to the waist, manacled, barefoot and in leg shackles, the sweating prisoner was prodded into the bailey by imperial soldiers. He glowered at the assembled crowd. His punishment was to be ten lashes for a crime Heinrich was explaining in great detail, his narrowed eyes almost completely concealed by bushy white eyebrows.

  Though the incident had apparently happened months ago in Germany, the duke wished to impress upon the Termolians that no one was above the law. He hinted that others were involved who were still unpunished and no matter how long it took to track down criminals…

  Her belly lurched and for once she was grateful for William’s strong hand at her elbow, though she doubted he knew the reason for her fear.

  Puzzled faces indicated that few understood a word of the tirade, but the hush in the normally bustling courtyard indicated they knew what was coming.

  Rödermark was by all accounts the victim of the crime, but his look of scorn seemed to be directed more at her than at the miscreant.

  Jaw clenched, Lute gave the order for the man to be tied to the whipping post. Her knees trembled with relief and the buzzing in her ears ceased when another soldier stepped up to carry out the sentence.

  She’d seen men whipped before. It was one of her uncle’s favored methods of punishment, and he rarely stopped at ten lashes. But as each stroke of the whip cut into the man’s beefy flesh, she flinched under the insistent angry gaze of Lute Wolfenberg.

  After stripping off his uniform, aided only by the flickering light of the lone candle in the chamber, Lute fished about in his satchel for the precious keepsake he’d carried all the way from Wolfenberg. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, it had preoccupied him all day, ever since the whipping.

  Brandt checked the bedding, though Lute doubted Francesca would try the same trick again. Was it deep regret, a silent plea for forgiveness he’d seen on her strained face across the crowded courtyard?

  It had taken all his resolve to resist the urge to rush to her side and demand an explanation. Furious as he was, he didn’t want Heinrich’s wrath to fall on her.

  “All clear,” Brandt declared, flopping down on the mattress. “What are you searching for with such diligence?”

  “You’ll see,” Lute replied, finally brandishing the flimsy bit of lace and ribbon. “Aha!”

  Brandt sat up, peering into the gloom. “My wife’s garter!”

  Lute sought his bed, fingering the knick-knack he’d filched from his unsuspecting sister on her wedding night. “It’s my good luck talisman.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t wring your neck for that prank, bruder, and don’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten about the rabbits.”

  “You already got your revenge for that at the waterfall. You have to admit letting rabbits loose in the bridal chamber was funny.”

  Brandt frowned. “I failed to see the humor at the time. In any case, that old wives’ tale has to do with a bride’s garter bringing a man good fortune in the search for his bride. Where are you likely to find a wife in this godforsaken place?”

  Lute’s feelings must have been written on his face because Brandt scowled as he settled down to sleep. “Forget the Italian woman. She is nothing but trouble, and in any case she is married.”

  Lute blew out the lone candle and drew the linen over his nakedness. It was a curious fact that despite the stifling heat, a man woke up chilled if he slept uncovered.

  He rubbed the garter between his fingers and thumb. A faint trace of his sister’s familiar honeysuckle scent still clung to it, but Francesca’s perfume lingered in the air, heavier, more exotic than Sophia’s.

  Brandt was right. There was no future with Francesca, though he suspected she was drawn to him.

  He revisited the morning’s events. The grim punishment in the courtyard; Schurke’s sullen refusal to name the other men involved in the crime, though Lute had strong suspicions as to who they were; the fear and revulsion on the faces of the Termolians; the relentless heat; the choking dust; the stink of fish; Francesca’s gaze.

  Was she thinking of him as she lay abed with her husband?

  Appalled by the sinfulness of the notion, he gritted his teeth and clenched the garter in his fist, clinging to the memory of happier days in his homeland.

  Francesca lay in bed listening to William’s heavy snoring. Despite her disdain for him it was obvious the upholstered chair wasn’t designed for a man his size to sleep in. Contrary to her expectations, he’d ceded the comfortable bed to her and been a gentleman about the entire unfortunate situation.

  By all accounts he’d loved and respected his recently departed father and must be worried that the lands and titles he’d inherited would be in serious jeopardy if her uncle again became overlord of Termoli.

  She turned over and pounded the bolster, exasperated that she was beginning to feel pity for the corpulent count.

  Indeed her emotions had been all at sea since she set eyes on the Saxon, her mind filled with fanciful visions of rushing into his arms and avowing her love.

  Love?

  For an enemy?

  What had become of her Sicilian backbone? Her loyalty to King Ruggero? She snorted. This was the same uncle who’d betrothed her to Count Ugo of Moline, apparently unaware Ugo was twelve years old and already betrothed to someone else. He must not have discussed her betrothal with his bastard son, Simon of Moline, who would no doubt have set matters straight, although she had never trusted her feckless cousin.

  Her arrival in Moline had caused an uproar and she’d been lucky to escape with a handful of her uncle’s soldiers to Termoli, soldiers who were now somewhere between here and Palermo.

  The pitiful seaport had turned out to be the wrong choice, but if she’d fled elsewhere she wouldn’t have met Lute.

  She pounded the bolster again. His name played on her mind like the musical instrument his nickname evoked.

  What did the Saxon have to offer anyway? He wasn’t heir to his father’s title.

  She turned onto her back and gazed up into the dark rafters. It was too hot to sleep. She might as well resign herself to another restless night dreaming of things that could never be with a man who would never be hers.

  She sat bolt upright, startled by the unwelcome memory of something her mother had once confessed.

  You will know in your heart when you meet your soul mate.

  She’d scoffed then, unsure what a soul mate was.

  But now she had an inkling.

  However, her uncle had reminded her a thousand times that her father was a man of little wealth and standing. She’d grown to resent the German blood that flowed in her veins. She had to be true to her nobler Sicilian bloodline. To her uncle.

  But she needed an ally, someone strong who hated the imperialists as much as she did. William was weak, and she suspected his true sympathies lay with the emperor.

  She suddenly recalled the distorted, sweating face of the prisoner. He might be Saxon, but he clearly hated Duke Heinrich and would likely be more than willing to help her do away with him. The emperor made no secret of his plans to march further south. The loss of their brilliant military commander would seriously hamper the advance.

  The wretch languished somewhere below. Freeing him should be a relatively simple matter,
if she could find her way to the cells.

  Nightmare

  William’s soft voice dragged Francesca from her nightmare. “Wake up. The imperial army is on the move.”

  She rubbed her eyes, confused to find herself in bed and not the cells where she’d prowled in her dreams, trying to find Schurke, who’d turned out to be a scaly, horned creature with red eyes and blood spewing from his ugly mouth. “Lute can’t leave,” she wailed.

  “This is no time to be thinking of music. Lothair has announced their departure this afternoon. They march south-east to Bari.”

  She struggled to sit up, pulling the damp linens to her chin to thwart William’s greedy gaze. “They will leave Termoli in peace?”

  He chuckled, though there was no humor in his reply. “Troops will garrison the town. Your two favorite officers are to be left in charge.”

  Lute was staying. Her heart lifted, but her joy was short-lived. Heinrich would soon be gone. She’d teetered back and forth all night considering the merits and drawbacks of her plan to convince Schurke to kill the duke. Bari was the most important town in Apulia. If it fell to imperial forces…

  Her uncle would be proud if she brought about the death of his most hated enemy and hindered the advance. It would give him time to bring his army from Sicilia. She had to act now.

  She waved a limp hand. “Leave me. Send in my maidservant. I will join you shortly in the hall.”

  She hoped the girl who arrived a few minutes later couldn’t hear the loud thudding of her heart. She dared not utter a word in reply to the maid who chattered on about this and that as she helped her dress. A wretched squeak of fear might emerge from her constricted throat if she opened her mouth.

  Alone once more, she smoothed the skirts of her silk gown, inhaled deeply and stepped out into the narrow corridor. To the left lay the hall. It was unusually quiet in that direction. There were no sounds of men sharing conversation as they broke their fast, only the faint gossip of servants. Mayhap it boded well. The imperialists were already out and about preparing for the departure.

  Fists clenched, she turned right, intent on finding the stairway that she was almost certain led down to the cells.

  In the dim light she almost missed the narrow opening. Serious misgivings assailed her as she peered down into the darkness. She had no clear idea how she would bring about Schurke’s release even if she managed to make it all the way to the cells. Her only weapon was her eating dagger. Perhaps…

  Corragio, Francesca!

  Her uncle’s voice urged her to be courageous.

  Heart beating too fast, she pressed her hands to the rough stone on either side, stiffened her spine and began the descent, one slow step at a time.

  After only half a dozen steps she’d already entered another world. The cold damp penetrated her velvet slippers. The narrowing walls were slick with moisture. The stench of human and rodent waste was overwhelming. With no way of knowing how many steps remained, she nigh on fainted with relief when her exploring toe finally landed on what seemed to be a flat stone floor. It felt like ice on her wet feet.

  She paused, peering into the black, sweating despite the chill. If she breathed she might gag on the fetid air.

  When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she espied the door to the cell.

  A chill raced up her spine.

  The grating lay open, a body slumped against it.

  Limbs trembling, she took a step forward, struck dumb by terror when she realized the peculiar dark collar around the neck of the jailer was a gaping wound that had nearly taken off his head.

  Belly heaving, she turned to flee, but bounced off a solid wall of clammy flesh. A sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

  “What have we here?”

  She’d never heard Schurke speak, but had no doubt it was he who held her in his manic grasp. Her knees buckled and she swooned back into the nightmare.

  Lute was apprehensive as he and Johann surveyed the two hundred or so disgruntled troops crammed into the bailey. “They’d rather be on the march than stuck here.” He kept his voice low; Heinrich was holding forth nearby to William, reassuring the count the soldiers he was leaving to garrison the town would be sufficient to defend it.

  “Not if Ruggero attacks in full force,” Johann observed sadly. “You don’t stand much of a chance.”

  Lute’s gaze wandered to the other side of the battlements facing the Adriatic. Brandt stood with the emperor watching the dismantling of the camps below. “They know that. Heinrich needs all the men he can get if he wants to take Bari. We’re to remain here as sacrificial lambs.”

  Johann nodded. “I wish I was staying with you.”

  Lute clamped a hand on his half-brother’s shoulder and swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know.”

  Johann gestured to the count. “William realizes Termoli’s not as important as Bari. Look at the despair on his face. He expects Ruggero to…”

  Lute sensed something untoward had stunned his brother to silence, but was completely unprepared for the sight of Schurke emerging from the stairwell. The sweating bully was filthy, his jaw clenched, his face a mask of determined desperation.

  But it was the dagger held to Francesca’s throat that sent the breath whooshing from his lungs. She clung to the beefy arm roped around her neck. Terror haunted her eyes.

  Johann drew his sword and moved to protect the duke. William unsheathed his dagger.

  Schurke’s eyes darted here and there until they settled on Brandt. He and the emperor still had their backs to the castle, unaware of what was happening.

  Lute recognised instantly who the maniac’s target was, but the wretch who’d caused the fear in Francesca’s eyes would be dead long before he reached Brandt. He prayed the blood wasn’t hers.

  “Your Highness,” he shouted, drawing his sword. “Behind you.”

  Either there was too much hubbub from the sands below, or the roar of the surf had drowned out his warning.

  “Shout again and I’ll slice open her throat,” Schurke threatened, dragging his prisoner towards the unsuspecting prey.

  Lute moved steadily towards the madman, hoping Francesca took heart from his resolve. “Then you would have no shield, my friend,” he replied in as calm a voice as he could muster. “A man without a shield is a dead man.”

  Schurke seemed to ponder the notion, then grinned, brandishing the dagger. “Still got this.”

  He obviously had no intention of freeing Francesca. The blood was proof he’d killed already.

  “There is no escape,” Lute insisted, still keeping pace with the soldier as he moved closer to the wall. “If you kill the emperor, what then?”

  Francesca cried out when the bully tightened his grip and spat. “I have no quarrel with the emperor and I don’t care about escape. Better to be dead than left to rot in this hell-hole. I’ve lost any hope of regaining my place in Heinrich’s guard when the war is over, all thanks to you and the cursed Franken over there. Should have finished him in Wolfenberg.”

  Lute offered a silent prayer of thanks that Brandt had been out of the man’s reach when he’d emerged from the stairwell. He willed the emperor to turn, certain that if Brandt fell, Schurke would throw Francesca over the wall—dead or alive.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He took a chance and shouted out his warning again, this time to Brandt.

  Ave Maria rattled around Francesca’s frantic brain. She had chanted the prayer over and over as Schurke dragged her up the slimy steps. Desperation clogged her throat every time she came to now and at the hour of our death.

  She didn’t want to die, but perhaps she deserved to be punished for her folly. What lunacy had made her think she could control the madman who held her in his manic grip? His hatred was for Rödermark, not Duke Heinrich.

  He’d scoffed at her hoarse insistence her uncle was Ruggero of Sicilia who would grant him the reward of his choosing if he released her.

  She was still able to move her legs and feet, so he
r back wasn’t yet broken though agony arrowed up her spine with every step.

  She had no illusions. It was clear the Saxon intended to kill her. He would either slit her throat or toss her over the wall, or both.

  It was ironic Lute was the one trying to save her. She longed to tell him she was bereft about the scorpion, regretted she’d tried to deny her feelings, grieved that the attraction between them could never blossom.

  But she had no words left in her parched throat and had to hope he understood what she tried to impart with her eyes.

  When he called out to Brandt a second time, she resigned herself to her fate. They must be nearing the wall.

  …the hour of our death, Holy Mary…

  Schurke half-turned and thrust the dagger at someone behind her. The vise on her neck tightened and she was lifted, the sky tilting precariously as she teetered atop the wall, legs flailing.

  She dug her fingernails into her captor’s flesh, but his arm was like an iron bar. Grunts and shouts of the struggle going on between the men assailed her ears. Had Schurke stabbed Brandt? He seemed to have acquired the strength of Hercules and evidently intended to take them all to their deaths.

  Not that it mattered. She was slipping into oblivion and would likely be dead before her body broke on the rocky shore below.

  As Lute struggled to wrest the dagger from Schurke’s meaty fist, he marveled that the weapon had missed Brandt. He was more than thankful his brother-by-marriage had turned at his warning shout and avoided injury. He’d rather walk on hot coals than bring word to Sophia her beloved husband had died before meeting his firstborn son.

  Brandt was tending to the emperor who sat slumped against the wall, his bloodied hand held to his chest, an unfortunate casualty of Schurke’s blind fury.

  Lute feared Francesca had surrendered to oblivion, but if he didn’t secure the blade, the Saxon would surely turn it on her or anyone else who came within reach. Rage seemed to have endowed him with the strength of ten men.