Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She kissed Zitella’s cheek. “I will miss you terribly, but of course you must stay. I would never stand in the way of true love!”

  As the girl poured out her effusive thanks, she marvelled at how gratifying it was to bring happiness to others. Francesca of Palermo would have denied such a request without thinking twice, but now she knew what love was.

  Her father linked his arm in hers. “It’s time. I had almost given up hope of ever seeing my daughter again, never mind escorting her to the church to be wed. Happiest day of my life.”

  “Mine too,” she echoed.

  Fiddling nervously with the ends of his sleeves, Lute looked up to the heavens, hoping the dark cloud would pass quickly. He didn’t mind getting wet during the exchange of vows outside the church. A rain-shower was considered good luck, but he fretted they’d made no provision to protect his mother from the elements.

  He wasn’t apprehensive about marrying. Francesca was his soul mate, of that he was certain. However, his craving for their physical union had soared beyond the constant longing he’d borne before. Thanks to Brandt’s tutelage, he was a man possessed.

  When his winking brother-by-marriage poked an elbow in his ribs and declared, “Here she comes,” his already stirring rute turned to granite.

  She was a vision of beauty in a red gown that somehow looked familiar, her golden hair shining through the modesty veil. He hadn’t understood his father’s insistence he wear a long tunic, but thank goodness he’d followed the advice.

  One afternoon as he sat with his mother, she’d reminisced about her own wedding. “I used to call your father my Schwarze Ritter because he always wore black. However, he surprised me. Over his black woollen tunic he wore a long white cloak, an off-the-shoulder affair that fell to his feet. Very handsome. A white ribbon adorned the hilt of his sword.”

  Her wistful smile turned to a grin when he suggested he wear the same combination. “But we married in winter,” she protested half-heartedly.

  He kissed her forehead. “Nevertheless, I shall be Francesca’s Black Knight.”

  His bride licked her lips as she came to stand by his side. She evidently approved of his attire if the need smoldering in her eyes was any indication.

  “You wore red the first time I saw you,” he whispered, taking hold of her warm hand as they stood before the local priest.

  She twirled her thumb in his palm.

  The promises they made to each other as they looked into each other’s eyes and repeated their vows filled him with a sense of optimism for the future. However, when he looked back on this memorable occasion it would be the touch of her thumb he would cherish as the most intimate moment.

  The Bells are Ringing

  Sophia organised a small celebratory banquet in the dining room. Everyone understood that an elaborate festivity in the hall wasn’t appropriate, and Lute was content to share his happiness with the people he loved most in the world. It was comforting to watch his sister slip naturally into the role their mother had always played.

  Though clearly exhausted after the journey to the church, his mother stayed for a while. When she requested to be excused, Lute carried her back to bed.

  “You should be carrying your bride,” she complained while he plumped up the pillows.

  He wiggled his brows and grinned. “I intend to. Later.”

  “Don’t wait too long. Seems to me Francesca is anxious.”

  He frowned. “You think she is nervous?”

  She smiled. “Nein. I think she can’t wait to get you into bed.”

  He laughed. “The feeling is mutual.”

  She patted his hand. “Papa has prepared you, I trust?”

  He perched on the edge of the bed and put his hand over hers. “Ja, and Brandt.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I never thought to discuss such matters with my mother, but yes, I am nervous. It’s my first time,” he admitted.

  “I know, and your father and I are proud of you. Francesca will love you all the more for it.”

  He kissed her on each cheek. “You are wise. Now sleep. Papa has insisted there be none of the usual wedding night pranks, so you won’t be disturbed.”

  She lay her head back on the pillow and chuckled. “You think Brandt and Sophia have forgotten you loosed rabbits into their bridal chamber?”

  Lute seemed nervous when he returned to the dining room.

  “Does she need me?” Francesca asked.

  He shook his head. “She’s fine. It’s Brandt I’m worried about. I don’t trust him.”

  Understanding slowly dawned. “But your father has asked there be no pranks.”

  He kissed her on the lips. “You taste of my uncle Aidan’s Northumbrian mead,” he whispered. “I don’t think I thanked Sophia for having the presence of mind to bring a cask from Wolfenberg.”

  His smile fanned the flames of her desire. He trailed his fingertips down her neck. “Let’s leave now while they are preoccupied with Axel.”

  “We should announce that we are leaving.”

  He shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. Taking her by the hand, he led her out of the dining room.

  Sophia had instructed the servants to prepare his chamber for the occasion. He thrust open the door, scooped her up and carried her inside. She put her arms around his neck, elated that the long-awaited moment had finally arrived. They were already soul mates. Soon they would join their bodies.

  He set her down on her feet. “I’m going to bar the door. That was Brandt’s mistake. Can’t take any chances.”

  She giggled, surprised when a hint of nervousness crept into her belly as she watched him secure the small chamber.

  “Alone at last,” he exclaimed, toeing off his boots after pushing the bar into the stanchions.

  Emboldened by Sophia’s advice, she took his hands and drew him away from the door. She kissed his knuckles then set about unfastening the ties of his tunic. “Black becomes you,” she whispered, “but I want to see your body.”

  He grinned. “Again?”

  It was a cheeky reminder of her wantonness when she’d watched him on the beach. The grin left his face and he inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on her face as she peeled the garment off his broad shoulders and down his arms. When it fell to the floor she sifted her fingers through the light dusting of hair on his chiseled chest. “You’re still bronzed from the Italian sun,” she whispered. “My golden god.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “And you are my goddess.”

  Her eyes wandered to the bulge in his leggings.

  Touch him before he asks.

  She wanted to explore his maleness, but was she brave enough?

  He twirled his tongue in her ear and lifted the hem of her gown. A feigned pout resulted. “You see how much I want you, but I’d hoped you were wearing the harem pants under your frock.”

  His teasing gave her courage as desire spiralled up her thighs and into her womb. Breasts swelled, nipples ached. Her heart guided her hands to the laces of his leggings. She quickly untied them and eased the garment over his hips, remembering her first glimpse of his endearing white bottom on the beach.

  But somehow she couldn’t get the leggings over…

  Afraid she might hurt him, she risked a glance up at his face, surprised to see an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though the cords in his neck betrayed his need.

  “Lift me out,” he rasped, delving his hands down the front of her gown to cup her breasts.

  A thumb brushed across each needy nipple overcame her hesitation. She reached in and eased his surprisingly warm male member out of its confinement.

  Compliment his size.

  In this regard, she didn’t need Sophia’s prompting. “You’re big,” she gasped. “When I saw you on the beach…”

  His hungry kiss silenced her. She wasn’t sure how he managed it but in the long minutes of exhilarating tongue mating, moaning, growling and breath mingli
ng he dispensed with his leggings and her gown and chemise.

  He broke them apart and took her hands to help her step out of the gown pooled around her ankles, then let go and stared.

  Let him look at you.

  She resisted the urge to cover her breasts as he raked his gaze over her body, naked except for…

  He laughed. “My sister’s garter!”

  Nostrils flaring, she studied his magnificent form, filled with an urge to put her mouth on every part of him. But a tiny doubt about Sophia’s explanations crept into her thoughts. Surely the thick length she’d held in her hands was too big to fit inside her?

  Lute’s immediate driving need was to join his body to Francesca’s. He craved instant gratification, yet wanted the experience to last. He cupped her breasts once more, relishing their weight and the way they filled his hands. “Hold me again.”

  Her gentle touch stoked the fire burning within, but he slowed his breathing in an effort to control the urge to fall on his wife like a wild beast. “You need to be assured, beloved bride, that you are the first woman I have joined with.”

  She nodded, her eyes glistening with love.

  “We will learn to please each other, but I want this night to be memorable, for us both. Will you trust me?”

  “I will.”

  Elated, he scooped her up and lay her gently on the bed so her legs dangled off the edge.

  She reached for the garter. “It was too hot for hose. I wore this because it was special to you. Shall I take it off?”

  He put a pillow on the planked floor and dropped to his knees. “Nein,” he growled, “keep it on.”

  His first plan had been to taste her, something he’d thirsted for like a man crossing a barren desert since Brandt had put the idea into his head. However, he became fascinated with the golden curls, then raked his gaze along her flat belly to the glorious swell of her breasts topped with pouting pink nipples. He decided to begin his ministrations there.

  He rolled both nipples between thumb and forefinger, thrilled when they hardened in response to his touch. His reward was a mewling groan of delight that sounded like his name and an urgent message from his rute that he’d better get on with it.

  He rose up, pressed his fists into the mattress and hovered over her, suckling first one breast then the other, drinking in the perfume that always intoxicated him. She entwined her legs around his, raking her fingers through his hair. She might have growled his name again, but his heart throbbed in his ears and he had much to accomplish.

  He swiped his tongue down her belly and twirled it in her navel. Back on his knees, he lifted her hips, clamped his arms around her thighs and finally put his mouth on the diamond of her desire. She cried out, but not in protest and he got the feeling her scream was one of expectation fulfilled.

  Mayhap Sophia…

  The thought left his head as his bride’s warm juices filled his senses. She tasted of honey, of freshly baked bread, of the sky and the sea, of life. As he feasted, she writhed, babbling in Sicilian, gripping the coverlet.

  Soon she arched her back as her release took hold. He flicked his tongue on the swollen nub, watching her face as she fell into ecstasy. A thousand emotions swirled through him—pride, joy, gratitude, love. It was humbling, but more urgently, she was ready for him.

  He got to his feet, braced his knees on the side of the bed, rubbed the end of his rampant rute in the wet heat at her opening and thrust.

  When he felt her maidenhead tear, he tried to soothe the not unexpected cry of discomfort with an ardent kiss.

  He’d imagined what entering a female would feel like but the welcoming warmth pulsing on him was more erotic than he expected.

  What he didn’t expect as he plunged harder and deeper was the discordant clanging of cow bells.

  Francesca floated on an orange cloud of bliss. She wrapped her arms around her beloved husband and urged him deeper, faster. Lute’s most masculine part was inside her body. She’d been invaded but had never felt so whole and willingly surrendered to her conqueror.

  Make me a woman, again, again.

  Lute was panting, sweating.

  The bed creaked.

  She heard bells.

  Bells?

  For a brief second, she wondered how a herd of cows had got into the chamber, but riding a whirlwind of sensation with Lute quickly dispatched the lunatic notion. She screamed her ecstasy into his mouth at the very moment he growled his fulfillment and bells clanked without surcease.

  He collapsed on top of her. The ringing stopped. She traced her fingertips in the sheen on his back and drifted, relishing his weight.

  Too soon he raised up on his forearms. His hair was dishevelled, his face flushed, but the love and contentment in his blue eyes filled her heart with peaceful joy.

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

  Few noblewomen had a say in whom they married and most of her acquaintance in Palermo were not even friends with their husbands. She thanked God and all his angels and saints for the privilege of basking in Lute’s adoring gaze.

  “Did I hear bells? she murmured, smoothing hair off his brow.

  The bemused smile left his face. He withdrew and came to his feet, his glistening maleness still proudly erect. She licked her lips, hoping he’d soon return to her arms.

  Then he hunkered down and peered under the bed. “Just as I suspected. Cowbells tied to the slats. I am going to kill Brandt.”

  Epilogue

  Wolfenberg, One month later

  Lute gritted his teeth and took up the strain when Johann gave the signal for their mother’s coffin to be lowered into the grave.

  Father Gebbert wiped away a tear, looked up the heavens and prepared to intone the Latin prayer for the dead as Countess Blythe Lacey FitzRam von Wolfenberg’s remains were laid to rest.

  The soft thud as the wooden coffin touched bottom echoed in Lute’s broken heart. He, Johann, Kon and Zyklop carefully rolled up the ropes and placed them in the grave.

  Requiem aeternam…

  Lute repeated the prayer, confident his mother would be granted eternal rest.

  Requiescat in pace…

  It was disconcerting that Kon seemed to be the only person not repeating the exhortation that their mother rest in peace. Jaw clenched, his younger brother stared into the hole. It was an undeniable truth that the Italian campaign, compounded by the rockfall, had changed Kon in ways Lute didn’t understand. Even their grieving father had been unable to resurrect his son’s pious and respectful youthfulness. As far as Lute knew, Kon hadn’t shed a tear over his mother’s demise.

  Dieter von Wolfenberg had changed too, but no one was surprised he’d taken his beloved wife’s death hard. Lute had feared his visibly aging father might succumb during the sad journey from Rödermark. He seemed to have lost interest in life and Lute sensed the countess and her Black Knight would soon be reunited.

  Johann had already taken over the efficient running of the estate.

  Francesca and Kristina clung together, weeping. He was glad they’d become friends in the short time they’d known each other. His new lands were a scant hundred miles from Wolfenberg and he hoped the two new countesses would build a strong alliance. He marvelled for the thousandth time at the jewel he’d found in his wife.

  After his mother’s death in Rödermark, Francesca had been determined the body not be subjected to the same treatment as Lothair’s corpse. She and Sophia had scrounged all the wax they could lay their hands on—bayberry, beeswax, even sheep fat—and lovingly wrapped his mother tightly in strips of impregnated linen. The cerecloths preserved the remains for the journey back to Wolfenberg.

  Lux perpetua luceat ei…

  Lute raised his face to the weak autumn sun. The searing heat of Italy seemed long ago and far away, yet whenever he looked at his wife he bathed in perpetual light.

  Despite the present sadness pervading their lives, the love he and Francesca shared had helped them survive the inferno of Termoli and
the tortuous trek back to Saxony.

  One day in the future he might stand at his wife’s graveside and weep over her loss, but he determined to follow his father’s advice and relish every day of their lives together.

  He’d once jested to his siblings that in the unlikely event he ever became a count, he’d be known as Luther the Laughable. He was grateful that despite experiencing the horrors of war, he’d kept his sense of humor, unlike Kon. He could even laugh now at Brandt’s prank with the bells, though at the time…

  He’d learned a lot from hours of discussions with Sophia’s capable husband regarding the governance of a large grafschaft, and Johann wouldn’t be far away. His strongest resource was the example set by his father. He was confident that with Francesca by his side, he would make a good count.

  The priest came to the end of the prayer with a long A-a-a-amen.

  Amen indeed. Lute made the sign of his Savior across his body, bid his mother farewell, took his wife’s hand and led her into the future.

  The End

  Footnotes

  HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR LOTHAIR (1075-1137)

  It’s a documented fact that Emperor Lothair died in the village of Breitenwang (now in Austria) and that his body was boiled for six hours in order to prevent putrefaction on the journey to Königslutter, where he was entombed. I hinted at the gruesome procedure in the story but preferred not to actually describe it. Courageous Heart is a romance after all! I couldn’t even fathom where they might find a pot big enough!

  There is no factual basis for the emperor suffering a minor wound at Termoli. I made that up!

  Lothair actually died in December, but I wanted to keep the setting to hot weather.

  He had no male offspring, one of the reasons his powerful son-in-law expected to succeed him as Emperor. On his deathbed, Lothair did pass on the imperial regalia to Henry the Proud.

  ROGER (RUGGERO) OF SICILY (1095-1154)

  By the time of his death, almost 20 years after Lothair’s invasion, Roger had succeeded in uniting all the Norman conquests in Italy into one kingdom with a strong centralized government. The kingdom of Sicily included most of southern Italy, not just the island itself.