Now the bowl and tankard stood empty…waiting, and Francesca paced the confines of the narrow chamber in her chemise, willing Zitella to appear.
On the verge of screaming, she breathed again when the girl entered the chamber, arms laden with linens.
“What took you so long?” she snapped, instantly regretting her harsh words to the one person allowed to visit.
Zitella bobbed a curtsey. “Forgive me, my lady, I was collecting things…that is I thought mayhap…to pass the time…mending.”
Indignation seethed in Francesca’s belly. The notion that the niece of King Ruggero…
She struggled to stifle her resentment. The alternative was endless hours of boredom and yearning to again taste Lute Wolfenberg. At least the maid had understood her torment. “It was thoughtful of you, Zitella,” she managed. “Put them down on the bed and let’s see what you’ve brought.”
The relief on the servant’s round face touched her heart, but she approached the mound the girl dumped on the bed with trepidation. She’d always loathed sewing.
“There are sheets that need fixing where they’ve frayed,” Zitella explained, poking through the pile. “And some hemming.”
Francesca noted that at least the personal items were her own. She prayed the girl planned to stay and share the work.
“I have to leave you to it, my lady. Drogo asked for my help. They’re setting up games on the beach.”
“Games?”
“A German game called kegels, or something like that. Captain Wolfenberg says it’s supposed to occupy the children, but I expect there’ll be others taking part.”
Her heart careened around her ribcage. Embroiled in preparing the town for a siege, Lute had thought of the children, of keeping them amused and allaying their fears.
She stared wistfully at the door after Zitella left, wishing she was on the beach, running, splashing, and playing games with the handsome Saxon who’d stolen her wits.
~~~
“Using feathers was a brilliant idea, Drogo,” Lute said as they watched children and grown men and women toss fistfuls of sand at the makeshift ninepins.
The lad’s face reddened. “I cannot lie, my lord. It was Zitella’s idea. Better than driftwood. They stick firmly in the sand.”
“A bright girl. Which one is she?”
Drogo pointed. “In the red. Dark hair.”
Being informed of the girl’s coloring didn’t help but Lute followed the youth’s adoring gaze.
Zitella was showing smaller children how to play the game. It brought back a memory of explaining to his little sister how to throw the ball accurately at the kegel pins set up in the meadow near the Elbe. He prayed he might return home safely to pass the skill on to Axel and Kristoff.
The seagull feathers had indeed turned out to be a wonderful idea. They sometimes remained stubbornly upright, if bedraggled. It only added to the enjoyment of the game by the participants.
He sauntered over to the little group surrounding Zitella and scooped up a fistful of sand. “Time for an expert to play,” he boasted with a grin.
The girl frowned and the other children backed away, but Drogo hurried over and explained.
The glint of a challenge in Zitella’s eyes amused him. Their squire would have his hands full if he pursued the relationship.
But such thoughts reminded him of another beauty with a fiery gaze. A woman, not a girl. Unattainable.
Cheers broke out when Zitella’s throw bowled over half the feathers. Jolted from his reverie, he waited until an urchin had righted the pins, took aim and tossed.
His prowess in demolishing all nine feathers earned him the screeching adoration of several children who rushed to cling to his legs. He hoisted one little lad onto his shoulders and puffed out his chest, the hero of the day.
He decided to take advantage of his sudden popularity. “Ask her how the lady Francesca fares, Drogo.”
The smile faded from the maid’s face at mention of her mistress’s name. “She is bored and unhappy.”
Lute lifted the boy from his shoulders and shaded his eyes against the sun. Dismayed as he was at being obliged to remain in Termoli, at least he was out in the fresh air, enjoying the sea breeze and the laughter of children.
A woman like Francesca shouldn’t be confined indoors.
REVELATIONS
Dizzy with relief when a sunburned Zitella appeared with the evening meal, Francesca was tempted to embrace the girl. But she was too tired. She thrust aside the gown with the torn hem she would likely never wear again, stretched her arms above her head and yawned. “What have you brought?” she asked, feeling stiff and sore as she pushed herself up from the chair in which she’d sat mending all afternoon.
Zitella balanced the tray on the bed, since the chamber lacked a table. “Sardine al forno. E gabbiano.”
Francesca loved roasted sardines, but the idea of eating seagull didn’t appeal, and she missed the plentiful vegetables harvested from the extensive kitchen gardens in Palermo.
She eyed the copious servings of food on the trencher—and two tankards of ale? “I am hungry, but there’s enough here for more than one,” she exclaimed. “I understood rationing was already in place.”
Zitella’s face reddened. “Il comandante,” she muttered as she fled the chamber.
Francesca’s puzzled frown turned to an open mouthed gape when Lute Wolfenberg stepped through the open door.
~~~
Lute convinced himself it was his duty as Brandt’s second in command to check on their prisoner.
When he saw Francesca was clad only a chemise he knew he shouldn’t have come. She stood transfixed, staring at him, her chin quivering. He’d embarrassed her.
He tore his gaze away from the flimsy garment that clung to every curve and studied his feet. “Forgive the intrusion,” he rasped. “I will leave you to your meal.”
“Nein! Don’t go.”
He glanced up at her sharply, surprised yet buoyed by the silent plea in her eyes. “I came to see if you are being taken care of in a manner that befits a woman of your rank.”
It sounded too much like the pompous Heinrich for his liking.
She gestured to the food, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Even a woman of my rank cannot each so much seagull.”
His impulse was to take her into his embrace and press her tempting body to the arousal that had stirred the moment he set eyes on her. But he hesitated. “We have matters to discuss, Lady Francesca. I reasoned if we shared a meal there might be less likelihood of an argument.”
She eyed him curiously and he cursed himself for his cowardice. Why not simply admit he craved her company?
She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not dressed for receiving visitors.”
He felt his face redden. Her teasing tone indicated she was aware of the effect her deshabille was having on him. He swayed, his boots seemingly nailed to the floor.
She came to his rescue. “I cannot even offer you a chair.”
He scanned the sparse chamber, dismayed by the lack of amenities. It would appear churlish to drag over the heavy upholstered chair and sit in it while she perched on the bed. He sat on the mattress, keeping the tray between them.
She offered a tankard, a teasing glint in her eye. “Shall we drink a toast?”
As he accepted the ale a thousand thoughts flew through his brain. He wanted to drink to life, love, happiness, mayhap to a future with an intriguing and beautiful woman he was falling in love with. But too many obstacles stood in the way. He looked into her eyes. “To your husband, perhaps.”
She smiled wistfully. “You know I am not married to William or you wouldn’t be here.”
He knew the answer to his next question, but hoped she would reveal the truth. “Why the deception?”
She shrugged.
Disappointed, he raised his tankard again. “To your uncle, then.”
She averted her gaze, but said nothing.
He ought to
berate her for lying, for the scorpion, for her lineage, but there were things he needed to be sure of. “I have a better idea. Let’s drink to honesty.”
He took comfort in recognising his father’s influence in his words.
She sipped the ale. “I cannot change who I am, Lute, any more than you can change who you are.”
Again, Lute fell back on his father’s reassurances. People could and did change. “But who are you?”
She raised her chin. “I am Francesca di Cammarata, niece of King Ruggero of Sicilia. My mother is Ruggero’s sister, my father a Bavarian knight.”
His spirits rose. “So German blood flows in your veins?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not as hotly as the Sicilian blood.”
He had no choice but to force her hand. “You’re determined to fight me then. Is that it?”
She stood abruptly and faced him, fists clenched, anger blazing in her eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to come to Termoli,” she cried. “A comedy of errors led me here. How was I to know I’d meet a man I cannot stop thinking about, a man who ignites feelings in my heart and my body, a man who is my uncle’s enemy? You have cast a spell on me.”
Lute clamped his hands on his trembling knees, determined not to jump up and embrace her. She was vulnerable and had clearly revealed more than she’d meant to. He suspected she’d be mortified if she glanced down at her enticingly pebbled nipples. “Is that why you freed Schurke?”
She hung her head. “I thought to free him,” she murmured, “but his friends had already murdered the guard and set him free. It was stupid.”
Her confession amounted to treason, but he would never deliver her into Heinrich’s hands. “You almost paid with your life.”
She turned wistful brown eyes on him. “But you saved me.”
Despite his need, he had to be sure he could trust her. When the thudding in his ears abated, he came to his feet and took hold of her warm hands. “Francesca, my parents have often boasted they fell in love at first sight, but I never appreciated what that meant until I met you.”
Tears welled in her lovely eyes as she swayed towards him and whispered, “Lute.”
He squeezed her hands. “I will do everything in my power to protect you. But you must renounce your uncle and swear your loyalty to me.”
~~~
A chill seized Francesca. Renounce her flesh and blood and run off with a German knight? Just like her mother who now lived a meagre existence in a pitiful house in Bavaria, disowned by her brother?
She let go of Lute’s hands and turned away, lest he see her turmoil. “I cannot betray my uncle. His army is mighty and he will retake Termoli and the other towns Lothair has captured. You will either flee or die.”
“I do not intend to flee.”
She turned back, grasped his hands and fell to her knees at his feet. “Renounce the emperor,” she begged. “Pledge yourself to my uncle. He will look favorably on you and we can live a carefree life together in Palermo. You will love Palermo, it…”
He pulled her up from the floor, anger blazing in his blue eyes. “Is that the kind of man you want? A traitor?”
Suddenly his mouth was on hers, his kiss harsh and demanding, his groan of desperation heart-wrenching.
Then he was gone.
She sank to the floor and wept.
ARMY IN RETREAT
When the door to Francesca’s chamber was thrust open shortly after dawn, she sat bolt upright, ready to leap from the bed, rush into Lute’s arms and beg his forgiveness.
She’d rehearsed over and over in her head how to tell him he was right. A future based on treachery would soon founder.
But it was William who strode into the chamber. She gathered the linens to her chin, the scowl on his fat face sending a shiver of fear down her spine.
He didn’t advance into the chamber, for which she was glad.
He gritted his teeth. “It has been suggested to me that I permit you to take a daily walk on the battlements.”
Her spirits rose with the certainty it was Lute who had brought about this boon. Despite his anger he still cared about her welfare.
“The guard at your door will accompany you twice daily, after you break your fast, and again after the midday meal.”
She was grateful, and sympathised with his untenable position, but he had to be reminded his treatment of her was unacceptable. “It will be a welcome respite from this stifling hole.”
His scowl deepened. “You will be allowed a quarter hour, and you’re to speak to no one.”
She breathed again when he turned on his heel and left.
Her mind whirled with the possibilities this opportunity presented. It would be difficult to revisit the place where her life had almost ended. However, it was where Lute had first kissed her and laid claim to her heart.
More importantly, she reasoned, dragging her errant thoughts from the poignant memory, the battlements provided a view of the busy port. She reasoned her uncle might send spies to infiltrate Termoli by means of the boats and galleys that still came and went. The docks teemed with fishermen, Venetian traders, slavers. The imperialists couldn’t possibly control them all.
She might also catch a glimpse of Lute.
~~~
For a sennight Lute avoided the battlements when Francesca was taking her walks. He wondered if she had guessed the reprieve from the cramped chamber was his doing. An occasional glimpse of her brought a small degree of satisfaction, but he worried she was perhaps hoping for some sign of her uncle’s army as she looked south.
On the eighth day, he made his usual rounds, checking on the stores of food and water, exchanging greetings with locals, touring the docks. He met with Brandt, Vidar and Count William to discuss the progress being made on the construction of defences against threats from both land and sea.
He was aware Francesca was still on the battlements when a hue and cry went up from the look-outs. “Dust cloud. To the south west.”
“See who it is,” Brandt ordered. “I’ll redouble the guard on the docks and send out a beach patrol.”
Left with no choice as his brother-by-marriage strode away, Lute ran for the stairway, took the steps two at a time and quickly found himself close to Francesca on the parapet. He inhaled the exotic perfume that always clung to her as he scanned the horizon. It reminded him of the scorpion incident yet filled his senses with erotic thoughts.
“Imperial troops, I think,” she said hoarsely.
Lute shaded his eyes. There wasn’t enough dust for a large force, and whoever they were, they weren’t moving fast. His gut clenched. It was an army in retreat.
Francesca voiced his fear. “My uncle has retaken Salerno.”
His thoughts went to the soldiers left to garrison the strategic port on the Etruscan coast. The remnants now making their way to Termoli would need sustenance and probably care for their wounded after a trek of nigh on a hundred miles. More mouths to feed, but reinforcements too.
He felt the need to say something optimistic. “Lothair’s intention was never to occupy the Italian duchies permanently. Only to hamper Ruggero’s march to the Papal States. At least there are survivors.”
Her scornful laugh drew his attention despite his resolve not to look at her. “My uncle has only let them live so they can tell you of the siege of Salerno. Their account will instil fear in the locals and take away any hope you may have of holding out against him.”
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.”
Courageous Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 2) Page 6
