The emperor had taken to him at their first meeting, and even the duke had agreed that Zyklop had lost much in the service of his emperor and deserved the honor.
Zitella blushed as the youth helped her regain her balance. Francesca supposed being stared at by a one-eyed man was disconcerting.
Hoping the commotion hadn’t disturbed the emperor, she stiffened when he called them to join him.
“Aha,” he declared when they entered the adjoining compartment. “Welcome, fellow travelers.”
Bracing her legs against the movement of the wagon and appreciative of Zyklop’s hand at her elbow, Francesca was reminded of stepping into Simon’s luxurious tent.
Lothair reclined on a mattress thicker than any she had ever slept on, even in her uncle’s palace. It sat atop a sturdy wooden frame and sported a canopy of muslin that could be lowered to ward off biting insects at night. She hadn’t seen one of those since leaving Palermo.
“Do you approve of my palace on wheels, Lady Francesca?” he quipped with a wry smile.
She scanned the compartment, admiring the luxuries that had been fashioned especially for the cramped space—a chest, armoire, and upholstered chair, all fixed firmly to the floor of the wagon. “Fit for an emperor.”
He chuckled then waved a limp hand at the servants. “Leave us.”
It was a surprise when he patted the mattress. “Sit beside me. The terrain will get rougher. I don’t want my healer injured in a fall.”
She obeyed. “How are you feeling, Your Highness?”
He held up his bandaged hand. “Elated to be homeward bound, but wishing this wound wasn’t so bothersome.”
She reached for his hand, but he withdrew it. “Never mind that now. We have many miles to travel, and you’re an educated woman. Chatting will do me as much good as your ministrations, otherwise I shall die of boredom. Rather be on a horse, you understand.”
His words echoed her own belief that peace of mind was a strong factor in recovery, and she understood more than he knew. Riding alongside Lute was where she preferred to be.
He must have discerned the wistfulness in her eyes, “I know you’d like to be out there too, riding with a certain imperial officer, but you’re stuck with me.”
He was evidently aware of her infatuation. Time to steer the conversation away from Lute, lest she burst into tears. “There are worse fates than being travelling companion to the Holy Roman Emperor,” she replied, “though my uncle would likely have an apoplectic fit if he knew.”
Ortona
They followed the coast road north. The sun was setting when the army finally pitched camp near the village of Ortona.
Lute planned to enjoy the fare prepared by the cooks then curl up in the tent he was to share with Brandt and his brothers, but Johann informed them they were summoned to dine with the duke.
Heinrich’s sulking impatience with the slow progress of the march had been obvious all day. When they entered his pavilion he was pacing back and forth in the confined space. He waved them to the campstools, but remained standing as they sat. “At this rate, it will take a month to get back to Saxony.”
Normally, the slower moving baggage wagons would be left to trail behind the main army, protected by a brigade. Was Heinrich about to suggest they increase their pace and leave the emperor’s wagon to catch up?
Lute feared a mutiny among the rank and file might be the result, but it wasn’t his place to object.
Johann cleared his throat. “The men may get impatient with the slow progress, but they understand the reason for it. They know the emperor would prefer to be riding at the head of his troops.”
“Indeed,” Lothair declared as Zyklop helped him limp into the canvas shelter.
It was difficult to tell in the half light of the flickering torches but Lute suspected Heinrich’s face had reddened considerably. He bowed to his father-by-marriage and strode forward to help guide him to the lone comfortable chair.
Lothair’s arrival had taken Heinrich by surprise, but more unsettling for Lute was Francesca’s unexpected entry into the tent behind the emperor.
Francesca had ceded to the emperor’s insistence she dine with him and the duke. If she’d known Lute was going to be present she would have refused, yet her heart raced wildly when she saw him, rendering her dizzy. Perhaps she’d spent too long in the wagon.
Previously, when she’d tended Lothair in the castle, it had been easy to make excuses to leave, urging him to rest once she’d done all she could. In the wagon there was no escape, and she’d discovered he loved to talk. Her mind whirled with the complexity of the political plots he’d apparently been enmeshed in since becoming emperor.
She may have dozed off a few times in the stuffy, windowless contraption, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was as if he wanted to tell someone his life story. She wondered when he’d get round to sharing his opinions of her uncle.
Her arrival in the tent apparently startled the men. By the time they’d jumped to their feet to vacate a campstool, Zyklop had one in hand to offer. The youth blushed fiercely at her murmur of thanks as she sat.
Lute gritted his teeth and glared at the disabled lad. His obvious jealousy of a boy with one eye bordered on the comical, but his distress was strangely heartwarming. She couldn’t resist sending a smile his way.
He nodded in acknowledgement.
“We were discussing today’s slow progress,” the duke remarked.
Judging by the way Lute and his brothers shifted their weight atop the precarious stools, and the nervous coughing that followed, she determined they were uncomfortable with the duke’s remarks.
“My imperial carriage is the reason. Mayhap on the morrow I’ll ride.”
Outrage tightened her throat. “Nein! Your Highness is not sufficiently recovered to attempt such a thing. I forbid it.”
Heinrich bristled, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. She had overstepped, but Lute’s broad smile bolstered her courage. She was, after all, the niece of a king. “I’m sure you’ll agree, my lord duke, that the emperor must remain in the carriage.”
His mumbled reply was drowned out by a loud shout of “Servants” from the cook outside. Zyklop and Zitella hurried out and returned in short order with platters of roasted sardines. The aroma of one of her favorite dishes filled the tent.
Zyklop assisted the emperor.
“No trenchers, I’m afraid,” the duke huffed.
No one paid attention. Like her they were all apparently so hungry they helped themselves to the fish and ate with their hands.
As the men filled their bellies, muted conversation began and the tension eased. She risked a glance or two at Lute, wishing she was licking those long, elegant fingers.
A Burden Shared
They continued to hug the coastline, encountering nothing but sea and sky, not that Francesca could see anything from the unbearably hot wagon.
Even the emperor remarked that the carpenters should have provided window slits.
During the day, she applied salves and poultices to Lothair’s hand, but worried that the wound refused to heal. Indeed, she despaired that it was worsening. He seemed to be always in good spirits, however, so she hoped, and prayed for a successful outcome.
A deeply creased brow was the only indication of his pain, though he never complained of discomfort, and she was at her wits end trying to divine what was preventing the hand from healing. In Palermo she had access to the writings of al Kindi, a ninth century Islamic physician, but here she had no such resource.
It was also worrisome that he slept more and talked less. She should be grateful, but missed his tales of dukes and duchies, popes and kings. He spoke with great affection of Lute’s father and his skill as a diplomat. “You will like Dieter and his lovely wife,” he assured her with a yawn. “And they will love you.”
He dropped off to sleep before she could remind him she would never meet Count von Wolfenberg, and she was left alone to ponder her regret.
T
hey camped the second night near San Benedetto and Lothair insisted on visiting the ancient little church built by the saint, though it was already dark by the time they arrived. When he returned on Zyklop’s arm, he gave her a strange little smile and whispered, “The saint has reassured me all shall be well.”
She wished she felt as confident.
“Bring my food to the wagon,” he told his aide. “I’m too tired to go to the duke’s pavilion this evening.”
She had looked forward all day to the possibility of seeing Lute again, but it was probably for the best. “I’ll stay and keep you company.”
“Nonsense. Zyklop can do that when he returns. You must spend some time with your Lute.”
My Lute!
It was pointless to argue with a powerful man who appeared to be slowly losing his wits. An icy dread gripped her innards. Lothair, Holy Roman Emperor, might not make it home to Saxony.
Lute and the others weren’t alarmed when Zyklop appeared at the door of the duke’s tent and begged the emperor’s pardon for not dining with them. It was to be expected Lothair would be tired after his visit to the church.
His disappointment that Francesca would likely keep the emperor company turned to elation when she stepped inside the tent.
However, her pallor and furrowed brow tightened his gut. She didn’t just look tired. She was anxious.
When their gazes met, her eyes held the same look he’d seen when she knelt beside the dying youth with the putrid belly wound.
Despite his determination to remain aloof, it wasn’t right she bear the burden alone. He moved to the campstool next to hers and offered a portion of his meal. “Sardines again, I’m afraid, but at least tonight Cook succeeded in finding trenchers in the baggage.”
She fanned her face with her hand and eyed the food. “I am hungry, but it’s so hot.”
“You must eat to keep up your strength. It’s a long journey, and you are worried.”
She glanced around. “Is it so obvious?”
He took hold of her hand. “To me, yes. A burden shared is lighter.”
He had hoped touching her again wouldn’t send the aching need spiralling through him, but he was wrong. The light gown she wore was more than appropriate for the heat, but the low décolletage revealed the swell of her tempting breasts, especially when she leaned towards him. “I fear the wound has festered and is slowly poisoning him,” she whispered close to his ear. “We can only pray he survives the journey.”
A thousand emotions swirled in Lute’s heart. His esteemed emperor was at death’s door. Political upheaval would be the inevitable result, and his father would be in the thick of it.
He relived the terrifying moments on the battlements. Concerned with saving Francesca’s life, and Brandt’s, could he have done more to protect Lothair who now lay dying because of the seemingly insignificant wound he’d suffered that terrible day?
What if the emperor died en route?
Yet the dire possibilities that lay ahead faded and his spirits soared when he caught sight of his sister’s garter tucked into Francesca’s cleavage and realized she did love him.
Lean on Me
Two more endless days brought them to Rimini, a town loyal to the Pope and the emperor. From there they turned inland to follow the valley of the Padus.
The August heat, unalleviated now by sea breezes, aggravated Lothair’s illness. The putrefaction in his hand and arm erupted. It was evident to everyone, including the emperor, that his life hung in the balance. With a heavy heart she resorted to the dwale to ease his pain and as a result he slept, mercifully drugged. When awake, he rambled in a stupor.
Overwhelmed by weariness and the stench of his affliction, she left Zyklop to watch over him and climbed down from the wagon.
The fresh air and the lushness of the river’s wide valley renewed her spirits as she walked. She hadn’t gone far when Lute rode up and dismounted. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “I needed air.”
He took her hand. “May I walk with you?”
His grip gave her strength and she laced her fingers with his. “I would like that. The grass is a pleasant change.”
Mitte ambled along behind them.
“Shouldn’t you be with your men?” she asked.
“I’d rather be with you,” he replied in a husky voice that betrayed his need. “And Kon has his eye on things. I don’t expect problems in this region. Your uncle has no allies here.”
She scanned the vista. “This reminds me of some parts of Sicilia.”
“Interesting. It’s very much like where my home is in the valley of the Elbe in Saxony. Except hotter.”
She sensed he intended to push her to travel on with him, but her heart was breaking for Lothair. She had lost the will to cope with another wrenching decision. “I have failed your emperor, Lute,” she murmured.
Lute’s instinct was to gather Francesca into his embrace and hold her to his body, but he restrained himself and put an arm around her shoulder as they continued to walk. “It’s God’s will,” he assured her. “You are not to blame. You’ve done everything possible to save his life.”
She swallowed hard and he sensed she was close to tears. “Schurke wounded him. If I hadn’t…”
Now he had no choice. He put his arms around her and the sob erupted into his chest. “Schurke was intent on murder, and the irony is that Brandt was his target. None of what happened is your fault. Schurke set the chain of events in motion when he attacked Brandt in Saxony. Lothair has lived a rich and full life, but he’s an old man reconciled to his fate.”
She sobbed all the more. “Your parents will be devastated that I failed to save their emperor.”
Lute’s heart did a peculiar flip inside his chest. He wondered what his parents had to do with it, but before he had a chance to reply she carried on.
“They’ll already hold me in contempt because I am a traitor. I betrayed my flesh and blood, my country.”
The fog slowly lifted from Lute’s brain. The snake in his belly that had been poised to strike since Francesca’s rejection slithered away. He put his hands on her trembling shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You did it to protect me, and if that is what you believe then you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said about my parents.”
He’d meant to lighten her darkness with his flippant comment, but her quivering chin and tear-streaked face indicated she was at her wit’s end. He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t the time or place to try to convince her, but he had to be sure of one thing. “Tell me now, to my face, that you don’t love me, Francesca.”
His hopes plummeted when she shook her head, but rose again when she admitted, “I cannot.”
Ever the optimist, he took her declaration to mean she did love him. He remounted Mitte and held out his hand. “Ride with me.”
Francesca barely had the strength to mount in front of Lute, but her need for him outweighed her lethargy. She nestled onto his lap, relishing the cocoon of his protective embrace.
He nuzzled her ear. “Lean back against me.”
She obeyed, but warned him she might fall asleep.
He chuckled. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to hold you while you sleep.”
She thought fleetingly that probably wasn’t true, but was too tired to tease him.
Lute realized he would still have to convince Francesca, but at least he now knew wherein lay the problem. She feared his parents would reject her. He’d have to tell her about how his father and mother met! That story would quickly dispel any notions she had of their not understanding the power of love.
His troubled heart calmed. He’d never considered before how lucky he was that he’d been blessed with parents whose main concern for their children was that they marry a loving partner.
Sophia had found love with Brandt Rödermark, Johann with Kristina Halden. Lute was determined he wasn’t going to be denied a future with Francesca.
The Pale Mountains
>
Three weary days later, Duke Heinrich the Proud led the army out of Verona to begin the long climb up and over the Pale Mountains. After a few miles it was clear the wagon hadn’t been suitably constructed for mountain travel.
Zyklop saved the emperor from twice being thrown from his bed. Francesca bumped against the sides so often, she feared her hips and elbows must be black and blue.
It took a monumental effort on the part of ten soldiers to keep the contraption going uphill, and they were only in the foothills.
The carthorse wouldn’t last long under such conditions.
It was a relief when Heinrich called a halt.
Lute rode up a few moments later. “There’s to be a council. The duke has requested you and Zyklop attend,” he informed her gruffly before riding off. His manner was disturbing. Matters must look dire indeed for Lute not to greet her with a smile.
Leaving Zitella to watch over the emperor she and the young soldier walked a short distance to where Heinrich paced amid several of his officers. She realized he was already speaking.
“Unlike the smaller baggage carts that can be hauled by men if needs be, the imperial carriage is obviously too big for the tortuous mountain trails ahead.”
He folded his arms and looked around expectantly as if waiting for a solution to be offered.
“I will ride.”
All heads swiveled to Lothair who had by some miracle climbed out of the wagon and now leaned heavily on Zitella. The girl looked ready to collapse under the weight.
“You will not,” Francesca shouted as Zyklop hurried to assist him. She turned to Heinrich. “Surely you can see he is in no condition to ride.”
“I will not stay here,” Lothair retorted, hobbling towards them on Zyklop’s arm. “I want to die in Saxony.”
Francesca’s heart broke for the dignified, gentle giant she had come to consider a friend.
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