Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  But there was no scorn in her eyes, only sorrow and longing—and fear. “Are you afraid, Francesca?” he breathed close to her ear.

  She tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes as tears welled. “I am terrified.”

  The Will to Live

  After Lute’s departure from the battlements, Francesca watched his men carry grievously wounded soldiers through the gates. They might be her enemies, their wounds inflicted by the Sicilian army, but she had the skills to help them. In Palermo she was known as the Miracle Worker for her ability to heal hopeless cases. Her devout uncle believed she’d been touched by the hand of God and given a divine gift of healing. It was the reason he’d taken her under his protective wing.

  To the consternation of her guard, she bolted for the stairway, mindful what she was about to do would incur William’s wrath. With the guard in pursuit, she rushed into the hall where the wounded had been taken and fell to her knees at the count’s feet. “I offer my help as a healer,” she blurted out before he had a chance to order her return to the hateful chamber. “I can save some of these men.”

  She looked up at him when he scoffed. “Why would you want to aid your uncle’s enemies?”

  “Because she is a compassionate woman.”

  Her hopes lifted at the sound of Lute’s deep voice.

  “Do you have so many healers to take care of them that you would refuse her offer of help?”

  William’s gaze roved over the piteous sight of a dozen wounded men, lying on the cold stone of the hall, and countless others who were clearly exhausted. “Very well. But do not trust her.”

  She turned to Lute as William stalked off. “I speak the truth. I can heal them.”

  He smiled, offering his hand. “I never doubted it for a moment.”

  As she accepted his help to rise, the touch of skin on skin bolstered her courage. She gripped his hand. “I won’t let you down.”

  Their gazes locked. She sensed there was more he wanted to say, but he bowed politely and announced for all to hear, “Command whatever you need to be brought.”

  She watched him leave, filled with regret that she had ever thought such a courageous and compassionate man would betray his emperor. She cursed the fate that had made them enemies.

  But cursing wouldn’t help those she’d volunteered to nurse. Espying Zitella helping a soldier drink from a water-skin, she beckoned the maid. “Get the servants to bring hot water and linens for bandages. Find the cook and ask how much dwale she has on hand. If necessary she must make more.”

  The girl gaped, evidently perplexed by the suffering around her, but a young man took her arm. “I will help you, Zitella. Come, do as your mistress bids.”

  His manner of speech indicated the lad was German, but she didn’t have time to question him. She quickly went from one wounded man to the next, grimly assessing who had a chance and who didn’t.

  Lute returned to the hall several hours later, weary to the bone, but satisfied the men who had carried the wounded from Salerno had been fed, and housed. Given the lack of adequate facilities, he’d been obliged to order they bathe in the sea. Some had balked, not surprising given they were mostly Germans from landlocked territories. He’d smiled at the sight of battle hardened soldiers dipping toes in the waves as if a monster might emerge and swallow them up. However, eventually the salt water seemed to revive their spirits as well as their bodies.

  He paused in the entryway, taken aback by the sight of Francesca kneeling beside one of the wounded. Light from a newly-lit torch flickered on their joined hands. Her soft words of comfort caused his throat to constrict.

  He didn’t understand why or how it had happened, but he knew for certain he had fallen in love with this complicated woman. How to reconcile the scorpion in his bed and the lunacy of her scheme to free Schurke with the angel of mercy who had evidently spent hours tending stricken enemy soldiers?

  He hunkered down beside her, his belly churning when he smelled putrefaction emanating from the young soldier, whose eyes fluttered closed.

  She glanced up at him. “Sleep has come at last,” she whispered.

  The compassion in her weary eyes moved him. “Will he awaken?”

  She lifted the edge of the blanket to reveal a ghastly belly wound. “It’s the sleep of the dead. I marvel he made it this far.”

  “The will to live,” he replied.

  She smoothed damp hair off the dying youth’s forehead. “It’s a powerful force.”

  He fixed his gaze on her hand, wishing it was his brow she soothed. “You must be exhausted. Have you eaten?”

  She frowned as if trying to recall, then, “Nein.”

  He took her arm and helped her rise, steadying her when she faltered.

  “Forgive me,” she breathed. “My legs…”

  He scooped her into his arms. “You’ve been too long on our knees.”

  She snaked her arms around his neck and sighed. “But it has been worth it. We’ve saved many who might have died. Zitella and her young man spared no effort.”

  He inhaled the scent of hours of hard work that mingled with the exotic perfume that still clung to her. “So German and Italian can cooperate.”

  She yawned, laying her head on his shoulder. “It would appear so, but I am Sicilian.”

  Island of Hope

  Relishing his burden, Lute carried Francesca to the kitchens and set her on unsteady feet. He kept his arm around her waist when she clung to him. Her warmth and her need of him soothed his soul. There might be no future for them, but for this moment she was his.

  The scullery lads gaped, but he was confident the increasingly complicated games of kegels and other pastimes he’d invented had gained their trust. “Food for our weary healer,” he said softly, relieved the perpetually bad-tempered cook wasn’t about.

  They sprang into action without hesitation and returned in short order with black bread, cheese, cold fish and a large, unpeeled orange which one lad held up in the air with a proud flourish.

  Francesca reached for the costly fruit. “An orange,” she exclaimed hoarsely. “Last time I ate…”

  She stopped short, apparently reluctant to continue.

  Lute piled the other foodstuffs onto a trencher. “I’ve never eaten one. You carry your precious burden and I’ll tote the rest to your chamber. Can you manage that?”

  She blushed beautifully at his teasing, but made no reply. He assumed from the broad grins on the faces of the boys that they hadn’t understood the impropriety of his suggestion.

  He wanted to express his gratitude as they made their way side by side along the dim hallway to her chamber. “Thank you for taking care of our wounded.”

  She shrugged, putting her hip to the reluctant door. “My healing skills are the reason my uncle took me away from my parents. I’ve enjoyed a comfortable life as a result. It would be wrong not to put my abilities to work.”

  He put the trencher on the bed and sat on the edge. “Eat,” he told her, offering a chunk of bread, “and tell me about your uncle.”

  She took up her place on the bed and accepted the food. “Good,” she murmured between bites. “I was hungry.”

  He suspected she was avoiding his question, so he tried again. “Ruggero took you away from your parents?”

  She broke off a chunk of bread and offered it to him. “You are hungry too. No?”

  He leaned forward to take the bread between his teeth, inhaling the aroma of some unknown salve lingering on her fingers. “I hunger, Francesca, but not for food.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes and held up the orange. “For this perhaps,” she teased.

  For as long as he could recall, Lute had been celebrated for his good humor. It elated him that for all her sharp edges, Francesca liked to tease. He caught hold of her wrist, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the fruit. “You tempt me,” he rasped.

  She gently pulled her hand away and held the orange to her nose. “Not fresh, but probably still good.”

&nb
sp; She dug a fingernail into the dimpled rind and tore off a piece. The fruit made a barely perceptible hissing sound, as if in protest at the invasion.

  A sweet aroma drifted to his nostrils. “There must be oils distilled from oranges in the perfume you wear.”

  Her eyes widened as she smiled enigmatically. “Among other things. You know my scent?”

  He hesitated, unsure whether to tell her or not. “It’s what gave you away with the scorpion.”

  Lute was visibly relieved when she laughed. “I wondered how you knew. Have you forgiven me?” she asked, smugly confident he had.

  He lay back, fingers laced behind his head, long legs dangling over the edge. “Yes, but it’s not the kind of thing a man wants to find in his bed.”

  He was teasing her, she knew, but after a gruelling day tending wounded men, his easy manner was a welcome relief. The sight of his well-muscled frame in repose was food for the soul.

  She’d never paid attention to the way men were formed, but something about Lute drew her. The broad chest, the strong, yet delicate hands, the firm thighs. She thirsted to know him better. A wanton notion to lay her hand on his maleness flitted into her brain.

  She marshaled her thoughts back to the orange. It had been in storage for a while, but that didn’t concern her. Once the rind was peeled off, it was still juicy. She licked her lips in anticipation. “I can’t wait to taste this,” she confessed, splitting apart the sections.

  Lute leaned up on one elbow, grinning broadly, his gaze lustful. “I know the feeling.”

  Desire spiralled up her thighs and into her womb. She had an urge to thrust out her breasts and flutter her eyelashes at him. The always hot chamber had become an inferno. In a trance she popped a piece of orange into her mouth.

  Suddenly the trencher clattered to the floor as Lute sprang to his feet. His mouth claimed hers, kissing, biting the orange. He gathered her into his arms. Tongues mated, breaths mingled. She arched her back and molded her breasts to his chest, relishing his solid strength, clinging to his broad shoulders.

  He turned and lifted her and they fell together onto the mattress, their lips still joined. She swallowed what remained of the orange, intoxicated with the notion she was consuming part of him. They lay side by side, belly to belly, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, his hard male part pressed to her mons. She groaned at the memory of his nakedness on the beach, longing to see him naked again.

  When the need to breathe broke them apart, he tucked her head against his shoulder and stroked her hair.

  “May God have mercy on me, but I want you, Francesca,” he rasped. “You fire my blood like no woman ever has.”

  She nestled into him, afraid to admit the same need consumed her.

  He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Don’t worry. We have only these stolen moments, so let’s enjoy being together. Not a Saxon and a Sicilian. Simply a man and woman who want and need each other.”

  He was right. There was nowhere else she’d rather be than safe in his strong arms.

  “You know,” he said after long minutes of silence, “now I think of it, my paternal great grandfather was a Norman.”

  She lay back to look at his beloved face. “A Norman?”

  He chuckled. “Ram de Montbryce was a hero of the battle of Hastings, a confidant of the Conqueror.”

  She smiled, touching a hand to his cheek. “And of course you’re aware I’m a descendant of Robert Guiscard who conquered Italia, also a Norman from Hauteville. It was from him that the Conqueror learned how to transport hundreds of soldiers in relatively fewer ships.”

  He kissed the end of her nose, his naughty eyes twinkling in the gathering gloom. “And, my little Sicilian, the Montbryce and Guiscard families were all originally Vikings.”

  She pecked a kiss on his lips, tasting again the zest of the orange. “So what are you saying? We might be related?”

  His hearty laugh as he tightened his embrace was an island of hope in a sea of despair.

  Double Edged Sword

  By the end of the following afternoon, Francesca was a physical wreck—aching back, raw knees, chapped hands. The jasmine oil dabbed behind her knees and on her wrists had long since lost its effectiveness. She hadn’t eaten since dawn.

  Yet elation pumped through her veins. Most of her charges were recovering well from their wounds.

  She had never fully understood the healing power she seemed to possess. Even when she was a child, folk rallied from dire sicknesses when she accompanied any healer. She became a sought-after talisman, a layer-on of hands. Some whispered of witchcraft, but her uncle quickly silenced such rumors. He firmly believed she’d been touched by the hand of God and that belief prompted him to insist she live in Sicilia, not with her parents in Bavaria.

  Her own feeling was that an insistence on cleanliness and an optimistic attitude helped the sick heal. If a patient trusted a healer’s assurances he would get well, he often did, though she didn’t discount the power of the petitions she sent heavenward.

  However, her uncle’s protection and patronage meant living in safety in palatial surroundings with plentiful food, fine clothing and as many servants as she requested.

  All those luxuries seemed far away as she struggled to her feet, yet she didn’t feel bereft. Not one casualty had died since yesterday. The worst was over. Even William had been friendlier than usual during his visits to the hall.

  A firm hand grasped her forearm. She’d looked forward all day to Lute’s arrival, hoping against hope he would come so they could again share food and spend a few stolen hours in each other’s embrace.

  She frowned at the lines of worry creasing his brow. “How were things for you this day?”

  He brushed an errant curl off her forehead. “As well as can be expected. I am concerned about you and the time you’re spending on your knees.”

  She shrugged. “I probably look terrible, but I am happy with their progress.”

  He scanned the hall. “Drogo has kept me apprised of the miracles you’ve wrought, and you are always beautiful in my eyes. Come, I’ve had food sent to your chamber.”

  She feigned outrage. “No clandestine appointment this evening with the scullery lads?”

  He beamed the broad grin she’d hoped to elicit. “Nein. Cook is on a tirade. Something to do with having to make more dwale.”

  Now was her turn to laugh.

  “Besides, I can’t wait to get you into bed again,” he whispered.

  She glanced around furtively, aware of the flush reddening her face.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “There is no one to hear, but I love it when you blush.”

  Lute’s day had been filled with frustrations. A very high tide forced many who normally enjoyed the pastimes on the beach to cram into the narrow streets, where a game of calcio resulted in arguments and injuries—to valuable livestock as well as children.

  “Hardly surprising,” Brandt quipped sardonically, “when you have more than two score players chasing one already bedraggled ball with improvised sticks.”

  Rats were discovered in the grain stores, despite the presence of two dozen cats. Vermin was something Lute couldn’t abide.

  A surprise visit to the docks turned up soldiers basking in the sun instead of inspecting every boat and galley that came in and out of the port. He came close to gagging on the stench of fish guts as he disciplined the sullen bunch in the blazing sun.

  Through it all, he clung to the thought that come the evening he would lie once more with Francesca in his arms.

  It was folly, something Brandt had reminded him of sternly on his return to their chamber in the middle of the previous night. “I know you’re in love with her, Lute,” he’d said sympathetically. “And believe me, I remember how difficult it is to be with a woman you want but can’t have.”

  He’d only half listened, tempted to retort that Brandt had in the end married the woman he loved, but to let his thoughts wander in that hopeless direction might lead to madness.


  Lying abed with Francesca was a double edged sword. As they walked arm in arm to her chamber he prayed he’d have the fortitude to control his need. But he couldn’t seek relief at his own hand in a dark corner of the battlements every night.

  Francesca had dined with princes, counts and all manner of dignitaries at her regal uncle’s table. Yet none of those momentous occasions compared to sharing a trencher of oily fish with Lute as they reclined like Antony and Cleopatra on the narrow bed in her hot chamber.

  The woman clad in only a chemise who laughed at Lute’s jests and feasted on the sight of his very tempting body felt more alive than the spoiled, lavishly dressed Sicilian girl who’d fawned on her uncle’s toadying guests.

  In a simple linen shirt and leggings he was the most magnificent man she’d ever set eyes on.

  The grin unexpectedly left his face, prompting her to worry she’d stared too long.

  “You blush when I tease you.”

  She put her palms to her cheeks. “I can feel it,” she admitted, averting her eyes from his, suspecting what he was about to say would echo the longing in her own heart.

  She was certain only enormous willpower on his part had forestalled any intimate contact the previous evening. She’d have surrendered to him had he touched her in the private places that ached for him.

  But how many nights could they lay together without sharing such intimacies? They didn’t have the luxury of time.

  “Does the blush spread to your breasts?” he whispered, reaching for her hand.

  She kissed his knuckles, sat up, eased the chemise off her shoulders and exposed her breasts. It felt natural. Lute was meant to be the first to see her naked. Yet it was daunting to sit still, listening to the chirping of crickets, feeling the heat of the insistent, hungry gaze of a man who could likely have any woman of his choosing. Was she too small, too big, too…