Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The duke slapped his thigh. “Now I recall her father. He serves the Count of Andechs.”

  This was news to Lute, but he kept silent, irritated by the hint of a smirk on the duke’s face. He unclenched his jaw when Heinrich mumbled, “Two days leave granted.”

  Grünwald

  “I am not certain of our reception,” Francesca confided to Lute. “It’s the first time I’ve visited and I don’t know the exact location of the house or even if my parents still live here.”

  Unusually quiet since they’d left the main column an hour before, he shrugged away her concerns. “We’ll find it. Is this the river Isar? Reminds me of Wolfenberg, except of course that house in on the Elbe.”

  She had the distinct feeling from his disinterested tone that something had changed between them. Perhaps he’d realized she wasn’t the right woman for him and was distancing himself. The prospect left her empty. “Yes, the Isar.”

  Zitella, mounted on a borrowed mule, pouted and sobbed alternately, distraught at leaving Drogo.

  When the watch tower of Grünwald Castle came into view atop a hillock, Lute halted Mitte and spoke to the contingent that had escorted them. “I’d rather we go on alone. You can rejoin the march.”

  They saluted and rode away.

  “No use alarming the sentries,” he explained with a weak smile.

  They were about to resume their slow progress towards the castle when a burly, grey-haired man appeared at the gate, arm raised. “Halt. Identify yourselves,” he shouted.

  Lute cupped his hands to his mouth. “I am Luther von Wolfenberg, escort for Lady Francesca di Cammarata. Her parents—”

  “Francesca?” the guard yelled, striding towards them.

  Her heart careened around in her chest when she recognised her father. “Papa,” she exclaimed, sliding from the horse.

  Stiff from riding in a state of nervous apprehension, she ran on unsteady legs into his outstretched arms.

  “My little girl, meine Tochter,” he sobbed, hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe. “Look how you’ve grown, daughter.”

  She was drowning in the memory of the last time he’d held her. Driven out of Palermo by her uncle, he’d been forced to leave her behind. She’d cried at the loss of her parents and siblings—well truth be told, she was glad to see the back of her sisters—but the prospect of living in her uncle’s opulent palace had appealed more than an uncertain future in Bavaria. Even then she’d thought only of herself.

  Her family was torn apart because her uncle believed she’d been touched by the hand of God and endowed with a miraculous ability to heal. Much good her ministrations had done Lothair, and there was no chance now Ruggero would ever benefit from her skills.

  Her father put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “What are you doing here, child, and who is this fine knight?”

  Sniffling back tears, she turned to Lute. He was stroking Mitte’s nose, looking uncharacteristically nervous and uncertain, but then he smiled and strode forward to offer his hand. “Luther von Wolfenberg, commander in the imperial army.”

  Her father shook his hand though he kept an arm around her shoulder. “Son of Count Dieter von Wolfenberg of Saxony?”

  Lute nodded. “Middle son.”

  Francesca was irritated that he’d felt it necessary to point out his standing in the family. Evidently he wanted to make it clear he wouldn’t inherit the title.

  Her father raised an eyebrow. “There is obviously much to the tale of what has happened. Imperial army, you say. Has the emperor returned from Italy?”

  The smile left Lute’s face. “The campaign is over and the army has returned, but I regret to tell you that Emperor Lothair succumbed to an injury on the way home.”

  Her father shuddered as he made the sign of his Savior across his body.

  “They are carrying his bones back to Königslutter for burial,” she explained, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. Now he would pose the question she dreaded.

  “His bones?”

  She looked to Lute for support.

  He came to her rescue. “His flesh was putrid.”

  Thankfully, her father nodded in understanding. “I will inform Count Andechs of these developments forthwith. He’s not a supporter of Heinrich the Proud, but he will wish to meet you. He’s an admirer of your father. Come, fetch your horses. We must find your mother. She has always believed you would return to us one day.”

  Bile rose in Lute’s throat. Like Francesca, he didn’t want to speak of preparing Lothair’s bones for travel. The gruesome task had to be done, given that the body would have putrified entirely before they reached Königslutter, but that didn’t make the memory any less abhorrent.

  Her father chatted with Francesca as they entered the gate and passed an impressive deep fountain in the courtyard, eventually arriving at a stone dwelling that reminded him of their steward’s home at Wolfenberg.

  He was glad that her father was obviously elated to see her, but she held her shoulders stiffly and kept glancing at him. Perhaps she feared a colder reception from her mother—

  “Figlia mia,” a woman shrieked as she flew out of the cottage and launched herself at Francesca. A stream of some incomprehensible language followed as Francesca’s tearful mother kissed and hugged her daughter. It was hard to fathom that this excited person chattering away like a peasant was the sister of a great king. Most nobles of Lute’s acquaintance never allowed their emotions to show.

  Her father beamed as he watched his wife and daughter. He winked at Lute. “Haven’t heard so much Sicilian since I left Palermo. Thought she’d forgotten how to speak it.”

  Lute had to laugh. Francesca’s parents were not what he’d expected. He wondered if she was equally surprised. After all, she hadn’t seen them for more than a decade. Even Zitella’s pout softened a little.

  Her father gave him a slap on the back that might have knocked a smaller man off his feet. “Franz,” he declared, “and my wife’s name is Nicolina.”

  Francesca had been named for this good-natured man. “Everyone calls me Lute,” he replied with a grin.

  Pigs in Muck

  It seemed mere days since Francesca had inhaled her mother’s familiar scent. Childhood memories flooded back and she sobbed into the comforting warmth of an embrace that swept away the regret and the eternity spent apart.

  Her mother cupped her face in her hands. “You are more beautiful than I imagined, my child.”

  Francesca peered into tear-filled eyes as brown as her own. The dark hair was streaked with grey, but Nicolina Kresge was still a beauty. From deep within came a cry she had stifled for years. “Mama!”

  They clung together for long minutes, until her Papa’s throat clearing coaxed them apart. “Nicolina, you haven’t greeted Francesca’s young man. He’s an imperial officer and the son of a count. The middle son.”

  Her father had already sensed something between them and hadn’t missed Lute’s hint.

  Her mother clasped both hands to her bosom and dropped into a deep curtsey. “A thousand pardons, my lord. Welcome to Grünwald. Thank you for bringing my precious child home.”

  Lute’s smiling face reddened as he took her mother’s hand. “Please rise, Frau Nicolina, you are the sister of a king.”

  She accepted his offer of help. “Not any more. My brother saw to that.” She gestured to the cottage. “No fine palace for me, just this little abode. Come, honor us by sharing a meal before you return to the army.”

  A dawning realization struck Francesca like a blow to the belly. All these years she’d believed her uncle’s dire pronouncements that her parents were unhappy living in poverty. It was plain they were as happy as pigs in muck.

  Franz Kresge put a firm hand on Lute’s shoulder. “While the women supervise the preparations for our meal, I must introduce you to the count.”

  Lute might have only a few hours remaining to spend with Francesca, but it would be considered an
affront if he didn’t meet Graf Andechs. He nodded his assent and avoided her gaze as Franz led the way into the castle.

  “A well-maintained edifice,” he remarked as they walked the clean and tastefully tapestried hallways.

  Franz puffed out his chest. “Thank you.”

  Lute wondered what exactly the man’s position was at Grünwald. His curiosity was partially satisfied when they came across the count in his solar. Though Franz bowed politely, his demeanor wasn’t subservient, and the elderly count smiled when they entered, even embracing Lute when he was introduced as the son of Dieter von Wolfenberg.

  “Great man, your father,” Andechs enthused, waving them to the upholstered chairs near the cold hearth. “His diplomatic efforts have kept the duchies from each other’s throats. Tell me what brings you here.”

  Franz beamed. “He has delivered our little girl back to us.”

  The count’s eyes widened. “Francesca?”

  Lute had the distinct impression as Andechs expressed his happiness at the turn of events that he was part of a conversation between friends, not master and servant. “We met in Termoli and I arranged for her to accompany the imperial army when she expressed a desire to come to her parents in Bavaria.”

  He suspected he’d failed to keep the emotion out of his voice when the count’s eyes widened further. “Indeed. You must tell the whole tale.”

  He obliged with a detailed account of the Italian campaign; the journey south, the siege of Termoli, Francesca’s escape from Simon’s camp, the gruelling trek north, and Lothair’s death. He left out nothing, except that his life would be empty without her.

  The count made no effort to hide his sorrow upon hearing of the emperor’s death, but gritted his teeth when Lute made mention of Duke Heinrich. “I suppose it’s treasonous to say, since he is my duke, but he’ll never be elected emperor. He’s made too many enemies.”

  Franz nodded, but seemed more interested in Francesca’s defection. “I never thought she would turn her back on Ruggero. What was it that convinced her?”

  He inhaled deeply as both men studied him intently. What to say? Because she loves me and thought she was saving my life? Certain of his own feelings, he was no longer confident she would leave with him after being welcomed so warmly.

  Her parents wouldn’t take kindly to again losing their daughter.

  He chose his words carefully. “Lady Francesca is a complicated woman. Who can read her heart?”

  Wonderful

  Mouth watering, Francesca gaped at the feast laid out on the table in the small dining room. She ran her hand over the high back of the ornate chair on which she was to sit. Her parents lived modestly, but certainly not in poverty.

  Lute returned from his interview with the count and his eyes boggled when he saw the poultry and vegetables heaped on platters. “This is more food than I’ve seen since leaving Germany months ago,” he exclaimed.

  “And no fish,” Francesca quipped gleefully.

  He smiled at her jest, rubbing his hands together. “This is too much, Frau Kresge.”

  She pointed to a chair. “Nonsense. A big man like you needs sustenance. My kitchen is small, but I’m a good cook.”

  Francesca was delighted to see Lute tuck into the food with great relish, smiling at her from across the table, though it was a sharp reminder that she didn’t know how to cook.

  Her uncle had an army of kitchen menials. A servant had done the cooking, aided by the sullen Zitella, but Nicolina had kept a close eye on the proceedings. If Francesca agreed to marry Lute he would quickly discover her lack of culinary skills.

  As the meal progressed it was evident her parents had taken a liking to him, and he to them. The men took turns telling amusing anecdotes. The wine flowed freely. There was laughter and shared camaraderie, a closeness she’d never felt at her uncle’s table. She closed her eyes and imagined what life might hold in store if this was her home; she was safe with her mother and father, and Lute—a happy family.

  She blinked open her eyes. Lute couldn’t stay and when he left her heart would go with him. He stared at her intently, his gaze betraying his sorrow that soon they would part—forever.

  Lute overindulged and reluctantly agreed to Franz’s suggestion they take a walk in the fresh air while the women supervised the clearing away of the remnants of the meal.

  They walked out into the courtyard and stood near the elaborate fountain. “Quite a spectacle,” he remarked, enjoying the coolness of the refreshing mist from the spray.

  Franz puffed out his chest. “Designed it myself.”

  There was clearly more to Francesca’s father than he knew. “The count must be very proud of it.”

  “We would be honored if you stayed the night in the castle.”

  The unexpected offer was tempting, but…

  “Unfortunately, the duke granted me only one day’s leave,” he lied. “I must return to the main column shortly.”

  “Alone?”

  He glanced up sharply, recognizing from the glint in Franz’s eye that it would be useless to deny his feelings. “Probably.”

  Kresge folded his arms and braced his legs. “It’s obvious you and my daughter love each other, but I suspect her head is filled with all kinds of confusing notions planted there by my benighted brother-by-marriage.”

  “I don’t blame her. She has endured much over the past few months.”

  “Is it your lack of a title that is causing her to hesitate?”

  Lute didn’t want to admit to this blunt-spoken man that might be the case, but he kept Lothair’s bequest to himself. “Possibly, but if she doesn’t love me enough to share her life with a middle son, then…”

  He swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “She also has the mistaken notion my parents will reject her because she betrayed her uncle.”

  Franz looked to the heavens. “I would love to spend more time with my daughter, but I don’t want her to live a life of regret. You must convince her.”

  Francesca’s mother shooed the servants into the kitchen. “Now we have a few moments to talk, sit and tell me about Lute.”

  She obeyed, but didn’t know if she had the will to speak of the man who was about to walk out of her life forever. “He’s a wonderful person,” she replied lamely, “with a wonderful sense of humor. It was wonderful how he kept morale up…”

  “Yes, yes,” her mother interrupted. “If he’s so wonderful, why are you not leaving with him?”

  Francesca clenched her fists. “It’s complicated.”

  “You love him and he loves you, what could be simpler?”

  “His parents won’t accept that I betrayed my uncle.”

  Her mother grimaced. “If Lute feared such might be the case, would he have asked you to marry him?”

  She squirmed in her seat. “Well, he hasn’t actually asked…”

  I will be your country, your champion…

  “…although I know he wants us to wed.”

  Her mother eyed her sternly. “You are just making excuses, child. I think your hesitation has more to do with me and your father.”

  For a brief moment Francesca saw her uncle’s steely resolve on her mother’s face. She averted her gaze. “You gave up so much for love.”

  “And I would do it again without hesitation. My only regret is that I had to leave you behind, but you must realize Ruggero would have taken you from us in any event. We weren’t good enough for you.”

  It was true her uncle was obsessed with what he called her divine gift. She smiled weakly. “I suppose I am lucky he didn’t consign me to a nunnery.”

  Her mother harrumphed, reaching across the table to clasp Francesca’s hands. “He likely would have if we had refused to leave.”

  Tears welled. “You sound just like your brother when you make that noise.”

  Her remark elicited a chuckle. “A person cannot change certain things that are in the blood and you will always carry the traits of loyalty and courage you inherited from
our line. However, there sometimes comes a time in a woman’s life when she must change loyalties, and that takes courage. You are part German, liebling. Mayhap you were always destined to wed a German—like I did!”

  “I don’t know if I am brave enough,” she whimpered, “and we’ve only just reunited.”

  “What is it you’re afraid of? You love each other. Seize your happiness. Your future lies with Lute von Wolfenberg, not here with us.”

  It was as if her mother had waved a magic wand and dispelled the fog clouding her thoughts. She came to her feet. “I must go to him.”

  Lute strode back into the stone house, determined to make it clear to Francesca that he loved her and had no intention of leaving without her. The fear that her parents might object to losing her so soon after finding her again had been swept away.

  If it became necessary to reveal the secret of his new title in order to convince her, then so be it.

  Preoccupied with rehearsing what he planned to say, he came close to bumping into her as she was leaving the dining room.

  She blushed fiercely.

  Distracted by wondering if the blush spread to her breasts, he fixed his gaze on her full lips and took a breath to calm his raging heart.

  Next thing he knew she had her arms around his neck, her breasts molded to his chest, her tongue in his mouth.

  His body responded predictably. He cupped her bottom and lifted her to his arousal, tasting sweet wine, inhaling the familiar exotic perfume.

  “I will wed you, Lute,” she growled when the need for breath broke them apart.

  Dizzy with happiness and relief, he couldn’t seem to subdue the devilish sprite within him and arched a brow in response.

  She eased away, tears welling in her eyes. “That is if you still want me.”