Courageous Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  For the first while she sat on the bed, knees tucked to her chest, trembling uncontrollably, listening for the alarm.

  Then she paced, dagger in hand, hitching up the too-big pants with her forearms when they kept slipping over her hips. The memory of Lute’s hands on her bottom in the ditch brought a spark of light to the impending doom.

  Exasperated, she lay the dagger down and retied the sash around her waist, then crawled back onto the bed.

  She dozed, disturbed by images of Schurke’s stranglehold, Simon’s prayer beads, her mother’s tearful face at their parting, and scorpions with yellow legs. She forced her thoughts to more pleasant memories; Lute’s touch, his smile, his humor, his magnificent body, his kiss.

  She whimpered, remembering his lips on hers.

  He growled back.

  His tongue coaxed.

  “Spicy”, he whispered.

  She blinked open her eyes, surprised she hadn’t heard him enter the chamber, but elated to see him safe and whole. She cupped the side of his face with her hand and opened her mouth to his welcome invasion.

  She broke the kiss when the nightmare returned. “The insurgents,” she gasped.

  He lay down on the bed and gathered her into his arms. “Nothing happened. There was no sign of anyone in the streets or near the port all night.”

  She clung to the front of his gambeson. “What about the attack from the camp?”

  “Nothing. All quiet.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to understand. A vision of Simon’s smug face floated into her recollection. Why would he…?

  An icy hand gripped her innards. “It seemed too easy to get away because it was,” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair. “You think your cousin wanted you to escape?”

  “Yes. The reason there was only one pursuer—a servant—was to make me believe I was being chased. The horse was there for the taking, only a boy to guard it. He played his part well.”

  “But why?”

  “Simon has always been jealous of me. He seized the opportunity to discredit me in my uncle’s eyes. It wouldn’t surprise me if he left forthwith to report my defection to the king.”

  ~~~

  Lute feared for Francesca. If she was correct, it would be only moments before she realized the full consequences of her actions. She could never return to Palermo. He buried his nose in her hair and held her tightly, praying she wouldn’t regret her decision to betray her uncle.

  She began to sob against his chest, softly, quietly. “I cannot believe I fell into Simon’s trap so readily,” she murmured.

  Lute’s heart fell, but it was of some consolation that the woman he thought he’d lost was back in his arms.

  “But I would do the same thing again,” she whispered hoarsely, “though it means I am a woman without a country.”

  Lute’s destiny suddenly became clear. He eased her away and held her gaze. “I will be your country, Francesca.”

  She smiled and traced a thumb across his eyebrow. “My champion?”

  He would move mountains for her. He kissed her fingertips. “Always.”

  She grinned. “My jester?”

  He would find untold ways to keep the smile on her face. He crossed his eyes. “Lute the Laughable, that’s me.”

  She chuckled, but then narrowed her eyes seductively. “My lover?”

  He pressed his arousal to her mons and squeezed her bottom. “Only if you promise to always wear these pantaloons in bed.”

  POINT OF NO RETURN

  Francesca accepted that Lute couldn’t stay long, but she missed him keenly as soon as he left. He hadn’t slept all night and would probably spend the day keeping a close watch on Simon’s camp.

  She lay face down on the bed and closed her eyes, struggling to make sense of her situation.

  Uncertainty and danger lay ahead. She had confided to Lute her suspicions that the enemy were few in number. The imperial army would eventually leave Termoli and William didn’t have the wherewithal to hold out for long against her uncle’s mercenaries.

  Bari was the bigger prize and if Lothair had succeeded in taking the seaport she deemed it likely he would install Rainolfo of Alife as Duke of Apulia. Her uncle’s brother-by-marriage had the manpower to hold Bari. She’d always referred to Rainolfo as the serpent in the bosom of the family. It was the bitter truth that now she was the traitor.

  Her mind told her she had made a terrible choice, but her heart knew otherwise.

  Remaining in Termoli wasn’t an option, but would Lute really be willing to take her with him? To Saxony? How could she travel with an army? It was a hazardous journey across the Alps.

  Years earlier, her mother had crossed that dangerous divide, to exile in Bavaria. She might find refuge with her parents, though the prospect of seeing her sisters again did little to buoy her spirits. The twins would make much of her fall from grace.

  There was a chance the emperor might travel back to his homeland by way of the Vatican. The Pope would be obliged to grant her sanctuary if she begged, especially if he thought it would rile her uncle.

  But what did Roma have to offer? The Pope would likely consign her to some convent and she’d be buried alive. Death was preferable.

  Bavaria was the only choice.

  She resolved to abandon the impossible notion of living her life with Lute. He was courageous and fun-loving, and he had touched her soul as well as saved her life. However, he was also the son of a count, a famous hero. Family loyalty had been instilled in him, and he was so endearingly proud of it. His parents wouldn’t welcome an outsider, a Sicilian, a traitor to her own flesh and blood.

  ~~~

  Satisfied the port was secure, Lute and Brandt walked to the opposite side of the battlements to survey the rampart and the enemy camp beyond.

  His brother-by-marriage looked him in the eye. “You cannot seriously be contemplating taking Francesca with you to Saxony.”

  Lute clenched his jaw. “What if it was you in this predicament and Sophia was the woman?”

  Brandt nodded. “I deserve that. You make a good point, but this is different.”

  Lute shook his head. “The circumstances might be different, but I now understand your overwhelming need for my sister.” He elbowed his brother-by-marriage. “Thought you’d lost your wits at first, truth be told,” he quipped, disappointed when Brandt didn’t seem to appreciate the jest.

  “What is it with you Frankens? Have you no sense of humor? She’s my sister. Get it?”

  “I got it, but at the moment I am more concerned about the horseman approaching the rampart from the Sicilian camp.”

  Lute followed his gaze. A lone rider was making his way slowly towards them. “What’s he carrying?”

  “Not sure. A bundle of some sort.”

  The rider halted before reaching the ditch. Vidar rode out to meet him. They had a brief exchange. Vidar accepted the bundle and rode back towards the castle. The messenger set off back to the camp.

  Lute and Brandt descended the stairway to meet their adjutant.

  ~~~

  Francesca was sliding off the high bed when Zitella burst through the door, threw her hands in the air with a loud wail, then rushed to fall to her knees at Francesca’s feet.

  “My lady, my lady,” she sobbed into the silky pantaloons, “I feared for you.” She made the sign of her Savior several times across her body. “Deo gratias that you are safe.”

  Francesca feared the pants might slide to the floor, so she took hold of the maid’s hands and pulled her up.

  Zitella seemed to notice the unusual garb for the first time. “My lady, what are you wearing?”

  “It’s a long story, but this is all I have at the moment.”

  Zitella grimaced. “The heathens stole your clothing? Do not worry, I will find something.”

  She hurried to the door, but when she opened it, Lute stood on the threshold, hand raised to knock.

  He looked tired and troubled, and Francesca almost r
ushed into his embrace, until she saw Vidar standing behind him.

  Zitella tried to sidle past the men, but came to an abrupt halt and uttered a startled cry. “Your gowns, my lady!”

  Francesca gaped in amazement as a stern-faced Vidar strode to the bed and laid out the gowns she had left behind in her cousin’s tent. “How…?”

  “A boy brought them back,” Lute explained.

  “Was there a message?” she asked, though she already understood her cousin’s intent.

  Vidar cleared his throat, stood to attention and fixed his gaze on the wall. “He said his master was returning these frocks because Princess Francesca wouldn’t be needing them in Palermo.”

  She looked into Lute’s sympathetic eyes. “I’ll warrant he has already sent a message to my uncle informing him of my treachery.”

  She understood why he could only nod in Vidar’s presence; he was first and foremost a proud Saxon soldier. But her heart ached for his reassuring embrace. She had never felt more alone.

  KON

  A small galley was sighted offshore in the late afternoon. A sentry came to report to Lute that someone aboard was waving the imperial banner. He arrived at the port just as the craft was pulling alongside the dock, overjoyed to see Kon grinning at him from the prow.

  Swallowing the lump of relief in his throat, he hurried along the dock to embrace his brother when he jumped from the galley. “Well met, Kon!”

  When they broke apart, Kon rubbed his red eyes. “Salt,” he explained sheepishly as they started out for the castle. “We stayed offshore for a while in case Ruggero had retaken Termoli, but I see you’re still here.”

  Lute gripped his brother’s shoulder. “Ja, though the enemy is camped not far off.”

  “Ruggero?”

  Lute hesitated. It was too long a tale to tell in a few brief moments. “Nein.”

  Brandt met them as they entered the postern gate. He clasped hands with Kon and slapped him on the back. “I’m glad to see you hale, young man. What news?”

  Kon licked his lips and scowled. “First of all, I am dying of thirst and if I don't get ale soon, my throat will dry up completely and you’ll learn nothing.”

  They were unusually forthright words and Lute feared events in Bari had given his pious brother a hard edge. Brandt’s frown indicated he’d heard the belligerence in Kon’s tone.

  Lute sought to lighten the dark moment. “Then you shall have ale, but give us a hint as we walk.”

  “Very well,” Kon agreed, sounding too much like Heinrich. What was it about the duke that men felt they had to imitate? Kon of all people.

  “Bari fell after a sennight, or should I say capitulated. There wasn’t much fighting.”

  Lute felt guilty it had taken him too long to enquire about their half-brother. “And Johann is safe?”

  “Ja. He’s sick and tired of Heinrich. The man is too proud. Thinks he has to live up to his name.”

  Lute couldn’t recall Kon ever voicing criticism of another person.

  As they entered the hall, Brandt dispatched a servant to bring ale and the three sat on the wooden benches at a trestle table. Kon drummed his fingers impatiently and grabbed the tankard from the servant before the lad had a chance to put it on the table. He gulped the brew, draining the tankard which he then banged down. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Their mother would have been appalled.

  After a loud belch, he began the tale. “The emperor is ailing. The wound to his hand has been slow to heal and he wishes to return to Germany forthwith.”

  Lute’s gut tightened. Lothair wasn’t a young man. It was more than likely Heinrich would succeed him on the throne of the Holy Roman Empire, although his father had confided that many electors were opposed to such a succession. It didn’t bode well for future peace, but these were matters beyond his control. “What about Bari?”

  “Rainolfo has been installed as Duke of Apulia. Heinrich is confident his army can hold the town.”

  Brandt huffed impatiently. “So what’s the plan?”

  Kon held up his tankard.

  The ale wouldn’t sit well in Lute’s roiling belly. “Here, drink mine.”

  His brother gulped noisily, then gave a satisfied sigh. Lute looked away when he again swiped his sleeve across his mouth. “The main army has already left Bari. They should be here in about two and a half days, maybe three. The duke is pushing the troops hard. I doubt he wants his father-by-marriage to die in Italy.”

  Lute worried about the changes in his brother’s demeanor, but there were more important things to think about. He had two days to formulate a convincing argument to present to the emperor regarding Francesca. If the illness was indeed dire, he prayed Lothair might live long enough to grant permission for her to accompany the army to Saxony. He seriously doubted Heinrich would agree to such a plan.

  ~~~

  When the knock on the door came in the early evening, Francesca held her breath as Zitella opened it. She wasn’t disappointed. Lute stood on the threshold, Drogo by his side.

  The lad’s fierce blush betrayed his delight at seeing Zitella.

  Lute touched the boy’s shoulder. “Put the tray on the bed.”

  Preoccupied with the excitement coursing through her veins, Francesca hadn’t notice the valet carried food. He strode into the chamber, head held high, shoulders rigid, as if he were the steward of some great castle.

  Zitella watched him, mouth agape. It was difficult to say whose face was redder.

  Francesca pitied these two young lovers. There was no future for them any more than for her and Lute. Drogo would leave with the army.

  Lute’s amusement showed as the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Why don’t you accompany Zitella to the hall,” he said to his valet.

  Drogo bowed.

  Francesca was impressed when the wide-eyed girl looked to her for permission, which she gave readily and the two scurried off hand in hand.

  Still on the threshold, Lute stood to attention, though his grin belied his posture. “May I enter, my lady?”

  “I’ll be angry if you don’t,” she replied with a smile.

  He stepped inside, closed the door then opened his arms wide. Despite her resolve, she went to him willingly. The strength of his embrace buoyed her spirits. His heartbeat was a beacon leading her out of the dark despair into which she’d descended as the afternoon wore on.

  “Zitella told me your brother…” she began.

  He eased her away and put a finger on her lips.

  She had an urge to suck it into her mouth, to taste him, but his unexpectedly stern expression gave her pause.

  “Before we discuss that, what happened to the pantaloons?” he asked.

  ~~~

  Francesca’s laughter was music to Lute’s ears. He’d seen the despair on her face as soon as Zitella opened the door and resolved not to let his own turmoil show.

  She flounced off, twirling around. “They are too big.” She wrinkled her nose. “I will have to alter them.”

  He took up his place on the edge of the bed. “Do you not like sewing?”

  She sat too, the tray between them. “No. I am not a good seamstress.”

  He chuckled. “You and my sister will get along very well. Sophia hates needlework of any kind.”

  She averted her gaze abruptly.

  Concerned, he reached for her hand. “When Lothair arrives I intend to request permission to take you with me.”

  She got up and walked away, her fingers laced together, her back to him. “You are right that I have to leave Termoli,” she murmured.

  The hesitation in her voice worried him. He wished he could see her face. He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “So that is settled,” he whispered, nibbling on her neck as she leaned back against him.

  “I suppose I have no choice but to accept the protection of your army.”

  Perplexed by her apparent reluctance, he turned her to face him. “I hoped for more enthusiasm, Francesca
. I told you I will protect you. You are the woman I want.”

  She wriggled out of his embrace. “But I cannot go to Saxony,” she cried.

  He fisted his hands by his side. “Why not?”

  She inhaled deeply before replying. “My parents live in Bavaria. It is my duty to go to them. They will welcome me.”

  The breath whooshed from his lungs and he feared his knees might buckle. She didn’t want him. She needed his protection until they reached Bavaria, but then she would cast him off. He’d have served his purpose.

  He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Very well. I will see to it. Enjoy your meal.”

  ~~~

  Francesca had to sit before her legs gave way. She gripped the edge of the mattress, willing away the nausea rising in her throat when she caught sight of the food Lute had brought. Incredibly, he had procured another small orange.

  William’s attitude toward her had softened considerably when he learned she’d returned to warn them. He’d given leave for her to eat in the hall once more, but Lute had wanted a private tryst with the woman he loved.

  He’d come bearing not only food but his heart and soul and she’d sent him away. He was willing to risk his emperor’s anger for her sake, and she’d seen the pain on his beloved face when she’d rejected his offer.

  It echoed the agony of her own broken heart.

  PREORDAINED

  Two days later, Kon was the first to point to the dust cloud on the horizon. “Our army.”

  Lute shaded his eyes and looked out from the battlements. “They’ve made good time.”

  Kon shrugged. “Heinrich will be pleased.”

  Lute bristled again at the sarcasm in his brother’s voice, but decided against remarking on it. He hoped Kon would eventually recover his kindly disposition. Ironically, he missed the pious attitude that had sometimes irritated him.

  “The Sicilians are striking camp.”

  William’s words jolted him from his reveries of the past. He shifted his gaze. “Their outriders must have brought news of the emperor’s arrival.”

  Brandt slapped Lute on the back. “Congratulations, you and I have successfully defended this little town.”