Courageous Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  Lute shook his hand and accepted Kon’s praise too, filled with relief and pride. They’d come through alive and protected untold lives. “Let’s hope the emperor and the duke will be impressed with our achievement.”

  Brandt grinned. “Best we not reveal that Francesca’s wily cousin didn’t really pose much of a threat.”

  William shook his head. “He might have were it not for the rampart.”

  It was rare praise from the portly count. Brandt puffed out his chest, and Lute didn’t blame him. The earthwork was his idea. “All those hours of backbreaking digging in the hot sun paid off,” he said.

  Brandt nodded. “Indeed. We must contrive some reward for the men.”

  William hurried to the stairway. “I will announce our great victory.”

  Kon rolled his eyes. “Now it’s his victory?”

  Lute supposed he was getting used to this new, sarcastic side of his brother, but his thoughts went to the boon he wanted from the emperor. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Francesca since leaving her chamber. Despite his pain over her rejection, he missed her keenly. She was in his blood.

  It was as if Brandt divined what was in his heart. “Do you still intend to approach the emperor with your request? I sense something has gone awry.”

  Lute snorted. “Awry is a good way of putting it. I suppose it shows.”

  “You have been moody of late.”

  Kon poked him in the chest. “Moody! Unbearable, more like it. What has happened to the carefree brother I know and love?”

  Lute poked back, hard. “I might ask you the same question.”

  Brandt intervened. “This is no time for squabbling. Assuming the emperor allows us to leave with him, many arduous miles lie between here and home.”

  With a heavy heart, Lute looked out again at the activity in the enemy camp, unable to erase the memory of the terror that had gripped him when he thought Francesca might die in the ditch before he could save her. “She wishes to travel with us only as far as Bavaria.”

  “Why?”

  Lute could barely give voice to his reply. “I assume wedding a Saxon doesn’t appeal.”

  Wrinkling his nose, Kon thrust out his chin. “You’ve proposed marriage? I must have missed something here.”

  Lute fisted his hands, filled with an unreasonable urge to punch his baby brother’s twitching nose, but Brandt intervened.

  “He loves her.”

  Kon snorted and walked away towards the stairway.

  Lute closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. By rights he should be elated. They’d withstood the siege and might soon be on their way home. Yet his heart was empty. The woman he loved had turned her back on him, and now he and his beloved brother were at odds.

  Brandt put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “He’ll sing a different tune when he is smitten.”

  Lute opened his eyes. “He plans to enter the priesthood, so that’s not likely to happen.”

  Brandt shrugged. “A man never knows when love might punch him in the gut. I didn’t imagine when I journeyed to Wolfenberg that I would find Sophia, and who could have predicted you and Francesca?”

  “The only difference is she doesn’t love me in return.”

  Brandt arched his brows. “Only time will tell, but here comes Johann.”

  Lute’s dark mood lifted as he and Brandt hurried down the stairway to embrace his half-brother.

  ~~~

  Standing beside William atop the steps of the keep, Francesca thought back to the last time she had stood in the very same place to greet the emperor.

  She was no longer the selfish, arrogant woman who’d schemed to defeat her uncle’s enemies. Meeting Lute had changed her understanding of love and loyalty—and of herself.

  The haggard man who walked with the aid of a stout staff and leaned heavily on Brandt’s arm as they ascended the steps was a far cry from the Lothair who’d hastened to meet her just a few sennights ago.

  He nodded at William who had bent the knee, but didn’t offer his heavily bandaged hand. The count seemed confused when there was no ring to kiss.

  She curtseyed when Lothair squinted at her as if he didn’t know who she was. “Lady Francesca di Cammarata,” she reminded him.

  The faint smile was plainly an effort. “Ja. William of Loritello’s wife.”

  She glanced at Brandt, not sure what to say.

  He came to her rescue. “Your Highness, Lady Francesca is in reality the niece of King Ruggero, but she risked her life to help us defend Termoli.”

  Lothair swayed and stared at her. She expected his censure for her kinship, but he only nodded. “Very good. Forgive me, Lady…er, I must seek my bed. Long journey.”

  She looked into his eyes and clutched her throat. Death lingered there. She was about to offer her skills, but Brandt shook his head and escorted the emperor into the keep.

  Heinrich bounded up the steps, Johann von Wolfenberg not far behind.

  She curtseyed again, her belly in knots.

  The duke’s bushy eyebrows formed one white ridge across his forehead when he scowled. “What’s this? The Sicilian is your uncle? Now I recall. Your father was indeed a Bavarian knight who married Ruggero’s sister.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, to explain, but no sound would emerge. This pompous man intimidated her and she hated him all the more for it.

  She almost swooned with relief when Lute appeared and took her elbow.

  “Lady Francesca was understandably afraid when we arrived,” he explained in a matter-of-fact voice. “Hence she pretended to be William’s wife.”

  The count’s face reddened further when Heinrich growled at him.

  Seemingly undeterred, Lute pressed on. “She has proven her loyalty to his Imperial Highness.”

  Heinrich closed one eye and stared at him. “How so?”

  “She used her healing skills to save many of our Salerno wounded from certain death.”

  The duke gasped. “Salerno has fallen?”

  “Indeed. Lady Francesca also risked her life to warn us of an impending attack.”

  Heinrich waved him off like an irritating gnat. “You can tell me of this later. I must inform His Highness about Salerno.”

  Lute insisted. “Forgive my boldness, Your Grace, but it is evident the emperor is ill. Francesca has the skills to heal him, and wishes to reunite with her parents in Bavaria.”

  Heinrich eyed her up and down. “Is this true?”

  Francesca had never imagined she would be called upon to nurse Lothair, the Holy Roman Emperor. The consequences of failure didn’t bear thinking about, but she nodded.

  “Then she must accompany us on the march home.”

  She watched him stride off into the keep, intensely aware of the pressure of Lute’s fingers on her arm, the warmth of his palm on her elbow.

  Their eyes met. She missed him, loved him, couldn’t contemplate life without him. The blue depths that gazed back held the same regret, the same longing.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her heart broke anew when he bowed courteously, but didn’t smile. “Brandt and I perceived Lothair’s need of your skills. It seemed preordained, and we believed Heinrich would see it that way.”

  PREPARATIONS

  An eerie feeling of impending doom settled over Termoli as the departure of the imperial troops loomed, despite the reopening of the port and an easing of rationing.

  Rumor buzzed that the emperor was dying, yet Francesca insisted to anyone who asked that he was mending. She spent all her days tending him. Lute chastised himself for drooling like a starving dog on the rare occasions when he caught sight of her.

  William, Brandt and Lute spent hours training the count’s meagre army to take over, but the opinion of local folk was that they stood no chance if Ruggero attacked.

  Heinrich refused William’s constant entreaties for imperial soldiers to be garrisoned in Termoli. Lute didn’t want to remain in Italy, but he wondered if capturing the town had been
worth the effort. According to the duke, Ruggero’s march to the Papal States had been dealt a serious blow, and he was satisfied the Italian campaign had achieved its goal.

  Lute feared for the locals left behind. He’d become fond of many of the children, and worried about the common folk who still greeted him, but now their faces betrayed anxiety for the future.

  It was clear Lothair would not be able to manage a horse and a special wagon was constructed to convey him home. It was an elaborate affair, as befitted an emperor. Carpenters scoured the surrounding countryside for beech trees, deemed to be the most suitable wood for the sturdy wheels, hubs, and axles. Smiths forged long, heavy bolts and rivets. The Alps presented a formidable obstacle for a wagon and proposals abounded for the best way to fashion it. The sides and the bottom were formed from nine boards mortised into the front and rear panels and riveted together. Local womenfolk sewed a canopy of tanned hides and laborers sealed the seams with pitch.

  Lothair claimed Francesca’s ministrations were helping him heal. He endorsed the duke’s decision that she accompany the army to Germany, insisting the interior of the wagon be partitioned to provide sleeping accommodation for her.

  The arrangements eased Lute’s fears for her safety and comfort on the journey. If she was closeted with the emperor for most of the time there’d be scant opportunity for their paths to cross.

  He reasoned that was a good thing, but his heart seemed determined to be unreasonable.

  ~~~

  Brandt had forewarned Francesca that there would be little room for baggage in the “imperial carriage” as everyone had taken to calling it.

  The spoiled girl who’d left Palermo with innumerable trunks full of clothing, shoes and all kinds of useless folderol wasn’t the same woman about to undertake a perilous journey. She was content to have Zitella pack a few gowns and chemises, her vial of jasmine oil, a comb and a single pair of shoes into one small iron chest.

  A larger trunk held herbs, salves, tisanes, linens for bandages and the cook’s last bottle of dwale. She hoped the latter wouldn’t be needed, but the emperor faced a daunting journey of more than a thousand miles.

  Pouting, the maid held up the Arabic pants in which Francesca had made her escape. “I suppose you don’t want this peculiar garment either?”

  She would never wear the pants again. It was silly, but she couldn’t bear to leave them behind. “Actually, I do.”

  Zitella’s sulk deepened as she shoved the pants into the trunk and slammed the lid.

  Francesca had an inkling of what ailed the girl, but she asked anyway. “What’s wrong? You seem out of sorts.”

  She didn’t expect tears, but her question apparently breached a flood dam.

  Zitella fell to her knees, sobbing and wailing, her forehead on Francesca’s feet. “Please take me with you, pleeeaaase.”

  “But your family is here. I am bound for Bavaria and you don’t even speak the language.”

  Zitella looked up, her eyes pleading. “Drogo will teach me. Please, I love him.”

  It was a measure of the changes her love for Lute had wrought in Francesca’s heart that she took pity on the girl. In the past she had avoided forming attachments to servants, but now knew only too well the agony of losing a great love. “I will speak to the emperor, but I can make no promises. The wagon will be cramped, and…”

  She startled when Zitella scrambled up from her knees and kissed her hands. “Grazie, my lady, a thousand thanks. May I tell Drogo?”

  The young German was probably pacing the bailey in worried anticipation. “Go, but he’s to tell no one until the emperor approves.”

  As the girl scurried off, she considered how to phrase her request to the emperor. After all, it was only reasonable and appropriate she be allowed to travel with a lady’s maid.

  THE LONG MARCH HOME

  As the first pink streaks of dawn lit the sky on the day of departure, a resounding cheer rose from the ranks of hundreds of imperial soldiers formed up outside the town wall, ready and anxious to begin the long march home.

  Mounted atop Mitte, Lute cheered as loudly as any when his richly garbed emperor emerged through the gate, walking with only the aid of his stout wooden staff.

  Francesca walked beside him. It seemed she had wrought a miracle and the troops clearly took it as a good omen.

  Lute clenched his jaw, irritated that the sight of her still robbed him of breath.

  Duke Heinrich appeared and strode quickly to the top of the same mound from where he and the emperor had addressed the army scant sennights before.

  This time there was no elaborate chair, rendering it doubtful Lothair intended to climb the pile of yellow earth. Indeed, he swayed where he stood, but a young soldier hurried forward to support his arm.

  Lute chuckled, aware Francesca had persuaded the duke to appoint a lowly soldier as the imperial aide in order to free an officer from that responsibility on the journey. Her thoughtfulness had likely given the one-eyed survivor of Salerno a reason to live.

  Zitella’s presence on the journey was further proof of Francesca’s influence with both the duke and the emperor, but then she’d easily convinced him of her love.

  The duke held up his hand and a hush fell quickly. “Today, comrades, we begin the long march home.”

  More deafening cheers greeted the declaration, and fists were thrust into the air. All noise ceased when he raised his hand again.

  Mounted beside Lute, Kon leaned over. “Lothair isn’t yet dead, and the duke is behaving as if he’s emperor already,” he murmured too loudly for Lute’s liking.

  As Heinrich carried on with his speech, he looked up to the battlements from where William of Loritello watched the proceedings, his face stern. He seemed to be staring at something, or someone. Following the man’s gaze, he clenched his jaw. “Might have known. She bewitched you too, I see.”

  It was a mistake to look at Francesca. Standing on tiptoe, one hand on Zitella’s shoulder, she also searched the crowd. It was foolish to hope it was him she sought.

  An expectant murmur rolled through the troops. Lute dragged his eyes away from Francesca. Heinrich had evidently finished speaking. The soldier was helping the emperor board the imperial carriage. Lothair’s wave before he disappeared into the wagon prompted another resounding cheer.

  Everyone’s attention then turned to Duke Heinrich who mounted and rode to the head of the assembled host. Only Lute watched the one-eyed youth assist Francesca to climb aboard the wagon.

  It was of some comfort that she wasn’t being left behind in Termoli, but he feared her presence in the convoy would be a distraction.

  Heinrich signaled his standard bearer to move forward. A thunderous roar filled the air when a thousand men voiced their joy that the long march home had begun.

  ~~~

  Zitella tumbled into the back of the wagon as it lurched forward. Zyklop reached out and saved her from a nasty bump on the head.

  Francesca didn’t know the youth’s real name. The mythical nickname conferred on him by fellow soldiers had stuck, but she was gratified that being appointed Lothair’s aide, at her suggestion, had lit a spark of enthusiastic pride. The youth was grateful and swore to lay down his life for her if the need arose. She fervently hoped it never would.

  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.