The Princess Spy

by Melanie Dickerson

  Lord Claybrook’s gaze lingered on her before he bowed and strode away.

  Her father smiled at her, looking pleased. Valten just scowled.

  “How is my beautiful daughter this morning?”

  “Very well, Father.” Margaretha went forward and embraced him. If only she could find someone as perfect as her father. He made every other man she’d ever met seem unworthy.

  Perhaps this was the reason she’d never found a suitor very appealing; she always compared him to her father.

  She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. He would never force her to marry, but she also felt he had been a little disappointed that she had rejected the Duke of Beimerberg last fall, and the Earl of Rimmel last summer, both within the first week of meeting them.

  Some others hadn’t even lasted that long. Would he ask her how things were progressing with Lord Claybrook?

  When she pulled away, he looked into her eyes. His knuckles grazed her chin and jawline, and he winked. Then he and Valten left.

  Margaretha wandered through the castle, trying to imagine herself married with two children, like her brother Gabe’s wife, Sophie. Or pregnant with her first child, like Valten’s wife, Gisela. Her sisters-in-law both seemed content. Gabe and Sophie were perfect for each other, and Valten and Gisela were also well-matched and in love. But Margaretha didn’t think she would be pleased with a man like either of her brothers. She wanted someone extraordinary, a man who was bold, fearless, and impulsive, yet humble, kind, and gentle. He should be intelligent and confident in his ability to love her and make her happy. He had to be passionate about right and wrong, and passionately in love with her, not her father’s title and wealth.

  All Lord Claybrook seemed passionate about was hunting . . . and hats.

  But after all, she barely knew him. Did she want him to behave unseemly, attacking her in his ardor?

  She didn’t know what she wanted.

  She wandered through the outside door and into the courtyard, which was surrounded on three sides by the castle walls. To her right was the blacksmith’s stall, which was always busy with people bringing work or retrieving mended tools and horseshoes. Straight ahead, three maids stood at the well, talking as they waited their turn to draw water.

  To her left was the open door to the healer’s chambers. Frau Lena left the door open in good weather to let out the bad humors. Margaretha could hear her singing, her clear voice carrying into the courtyard.

  The early spring sun was more than halfway up the sky, but it was pleasantly cool, as the weather had turned mild. Only a few white clouds dotted the blue sky, but three vultures, circling lazily overhead, marred the perfection of her view. What were they doing here? Vultures only came around when something was dead — or dying.

  A cart, pulled by a gray mule, rolled through the castle gate from the Marktplatz and headed toward Frau Lena’s tower chambers. A long bundle lay on the otherwise empty cart. She stared absentmindedly at it, until she began to notice the angles and bulges of the cloth. Then, as it drew near the healer’s open door, Margaretha realized — those were feet dangling off the end of the cart.

  The motionless heap was a person.

  Chapter

  2

  Margaretha crept closer to the cart, trying to look inconspicuous. At any moment Frau Lena might notice her and warn her away.

  The boy who had been leading the mule and potter’s cart must be the potter’s apprentice. He peeked into the open doorway of the healer’s chambers in the southwest tower, then called, “Frau Lena? Are you here?”

  Margaretha peered over the side at the unconscious body.

  A young man, perhaps a little older than her own age of eighteen, lay motionless, his eyes closed. His black hair was plastered to his head above his right eye with what looked like dried blood, and dead leaves were tangled up in his thick, wavy locks. He had been beaten, as there were bruises over his face and on his collarbone, which she could see because his shirt was ripped and lay open, exposing his chest. In spite of the smudges of dust and grime on his face, his bleeding, swollen lips, and the dark circles under his eyes, he had noble features and might be considered handsome if he were cleaned up. His fine linen clothes were dirty and torn, his feet bare. Although he was thin, his chest and shoulders were broad. He must be cold, lying there with nothing warm to cover him.

  She stared, trying to tell if he was breathing. Was he dead? Her heart squeezed painfully, as if trying to beat for him.

  Frau Lena came out of the tower door and walked to the other side of the cart. She bent her face close to the unconscious man’s.

  “My master and I found him on the south road to Hagenheim.” The lad who had brought him followed Frau Lena and stood beside her, staring down at the dark-haired man.

  Frau Lena pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. She glanced up and her eyes locked on Margaretha, then widened, as though she was startled to see her.

  “Is he alive?”

  Frau Lena nodded. “He is breathing. I’ll need help carrying him inside.”

  Margaretha turned and hailed one of her father’s knights, who was strolling through the courtyard. “Sir Bezilo! Kommen Sie hier, bitte! Over here, please.”

  Sir Bezilo strode forward and slipped his massive arms underneath the body and picked him up.

  The unconscious man opened his eyes — they were a stunning dark blue — and began trying to speak, but his voice was so hoarse and cracked that he sounded more as if he was croaking than speaking words. But even in his weak state, he struggled against the larger knight.

  “Sei still,” Sir Bezilo told him. “You are safe now.”

  But the poor man continued to struggle and try to speak as the knight carried him inside.

  She asked the boy who had brought the stranger, “Did he tell you anything?”

  “He never awakened until now. Did you understand what he was saying?”

  “No. But now that I think about it, perhaps he was speaking another language.”

  The boy raised his brows. “No one around here knows how to speak other languages, only a few words of Latin or French. No one except some of the duke’s family.” His eyes fixed on her for the first time and his mouth fell open. “Oh. Begging your pardon, Lady Margaretha.” He bowed to her, his ears turning bright red.

  “Nothing to pardon,” Margaretha said gently. “And thank you for being so kind as to bring the poor man to our healer. You saved his life, I am sure. Please inform the potter of my family’s gratitude.”

  “Of course, my lady.” He bowed again, then took his mule and led him away, the cart wheels rattling over the cobblestones.

  Margaretha turned back to the open doorway. Frau Lena was rummaging through a basket by the sick bed, while her patient lay motionless and quiet once again, his eyes closed.

  Margaretha stepped inside, not sure what she intended to do. She’d never entered the healer’s chambers before, as Frau Lena always came to Margaretha’s own chamber when she was ill. She was certain her mother and father wouldn’t like her being here — she might see things a duke’s daughter ought not to see. But curiosity compelled her.

  Frau Lena pulled a cloth from the basket and glanced up. “Lady Margaretha.” She seemed about to say something, then turned and dipped some water from the kettle over the fire in the fireplace into a bowl.

  Margaretha took a deep breath, then said, “Please, Frau Lena, may I stay, only until I can see if the young man will recover?”

  “Yes, you may stay and help me, if you wish. My apprentice has gone to the market and may not be back for a while.”

  Margaretha stepped closer. “Oh, thank you, Frau Lena. I would like to help. The poor man looks as if he was beset by robbers and left for dead. What should I do? Do you think he will live?”

  She was asking questions faster than Frau Lena could answer them. She literally bit her tongue to stop herself.

  “I think he will live.” Frau Lena smiled as she handed Margaretha a wet
cloth and the bowl of warm water. “Bathe his face with this while I make him a special herbal drink.”

  Margaretha sat on a stool by the narrow bed and began gently washing his face, which was so dirty she had to continually rinse out her cloth. “What do you think is wrong with him?” she whispered.

  “He has gone too long without water and food. He also has had a nasty blow to the head, which is probably affecting his mind.”

  Frau Lena went inside the storage room and came back out with some flasks of herbs. She placed some of the dried leaves in a small, porous piece of cloth, brought the corners up and twisted it closed, tying it with thread. She then dropped the herb ball into a cup and poured hot water over it. Frau Lena had often made tea for Margaretha’s sicknesses and minor ailments in the same way.

  The longer Margaretha leaned over the young man, cleaning the blood and dirt from his face, the more she noticed his features, his long, sooty-black eyelashes, and his thick black brows. She cleaned his square chin and stubbly jaw. His cheeks were hollow, but he had strong cheekbones.

  After cleaning most of the dust and dirt from his face, she found the dried blood that was matted in his hair a bit harder to remove. She dabbed at it over and over with the wet cloth, but gently, trying not to cause him pain or wake him.

  When Frau Lena turned away and went back into the storage room, Margaretha worked up enough courage to wipe the dust from the man’s poor, cracked lips.

  She dipped the cloth into the pan of water and went back to work on his bloody hair. Slowly, the blood disappeared and she could see the deep gash extending from his hairline to about three inches into his hair.

  He moaned and turned his head slightly, as if trying to get away from her ministrations. Margaretha drew back and looked to Frau Lena, who had reentered the room.

  “Let me see if I can get him to drink a bit.”

  Margaretha stood, and Frau Lena took her place on the stool at the young man’s shoulder. Frau Lena leaned over him and spoke gently. “Can you hear me?”

  He didn’t move or speak, his eyes still closed.

  Frau Lena slipped a hand under his head and lifted him while putting the cup to his lips.

  Margaretha watched the steam rising from the cup. She hoped Frau Lena’s drink would rouse him. She was curious to know where he came from and who he was.

  As Frau Lena let a bit of the drink dribble out onto his lips, his eyes flew open and he began to speak. At least, it seemed as though he was speaking, but his voice was hoarse and the sounds he was emitting seemed fragmented, as his voice was cracking. His eyes were wide and wild as he seemed to rant at Frau Lena. His manner matched the intensity in his bright blue eyes.

  “Do you think he’s lost his mind because of his injuries?” Margaretha whispered, keeping out of the young man’s line of vision.

  “It seems likely,” Frau Lena whispered back.

  Margaretha glanced toward the open door. If she needed to, she could run fetch help and be back within a few moments. She didn’t want the young madman hurting Frau Lena.

  Colin felt something hot burning the cracked places on his lips, and opened his eyes, ready to fight. But it was only a woman before him, holding a cup.

  “What is this place? Where am I?” He stopped speaking, realizing from the look on the woman’s face that she didn’t mean him any harm — and that she didn’t understand a word he was saying.

  His head throbbed and his thoughts were hazy, like clouds he couldn’t grab hold of. His face felt hot . . . so hot . . . but his feet were cold. The pain in his head made him want to go back to sleep. He heard himself moan.

  The red-haired woman turned and began whispering to someone behind her. By the voice that whispered back, it became evident there was another woman in the room.

  The redhead turned back to him and held the cup of hot liquid to his lips again. Her words were foreign. He concentrated, trying to make them out.

  “Trink.”

  He hoped she wasn’t trying to scald him. She looked kind, so he let her pour a bit of the hot liquid into his mouth. It burned not only his lips, but his parched throat as well, yet he drank another gulp, then another. Suddenly, the liquid seemed to go down the wrong way and he started coughing, which made his head throb even more.

  He finally stopped coughing and sank back onto the bed.

  The red-haired woman spoke again. The first word sounded like “Trink,” but the rest was gibberish to him. She held the cup to his lips and he drank some more. The liquid — whatever it was — was starting to feel good going down his throat. He reached up and took the cup in his own hand.

  “Trink langsamer,” she said, wrinkling her freckled forehead, concern in her voice.

  Colin drank the rest of what was in the cup in two big swallows. He handed the cup back to the woman. He didn’t understand a word she was saying, but if she didn’t just poison him, she probably saved his life.

  He lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes. The woman began to whisper again to her friend.

  God, why didn’t I listen to my mother and learn to speak German? He hoped someone here spoke English, the only language he was fluent in. He knew a bit of Latin, but not enough to communicate what he needed to say.

  He opened his eyes again. The redhead who had given him the drink was staring at him. At her left shoulder stood a beautiful young lady dressed in a gown of purple silk. Her eyes were also fastened on him.

  The beautiful girl moved toward him. “Do you speak English?”

  Praise God! “Yes! Do you?”

  “Where do you come from? Are you from England?” she asked in English. Her brown eyes sparked with intelligence, and her full, perfect lips turned up at the corners. She spoke with a heavy accent, but she enunciated clearly. As she moved in front of the window, the light streaming in created a warm glow around her fair face, setting the rich brown of her hair on fire.

  “Thank God.” Truly, God was watching out for him after all.

  Chapter

  3

  Margaretha concentrated on bringing forth the correct words. “What is your name and how came you here?” It had been several months since she’d practiced her English, as that was when her tutor had left.

  The stranger’s face was pale and he seemed barely able to focus his eyes — those dark blue eyes with their wild intensity.

  “I do not believe I should tell you.” His voice was still weak and hoarse. “I do not want to endanger you, and my name must remain a secret until . . . but I must not reveal that either.”

  His head lolled to one side and his eyes fell closed, as if he’d lost consciousness again. He seemed almost to be talking to himself as he ended his mumbled speech. She still feared his mind was seriously addled.

  “What does he say, my lady?” Frau Lena asked.

  “He says he doesn’t want to tell me his name, that he is in danger, and I believe he said that I would be too if he told me.” Margaretha shook her head and frowned. “He was mumbling a lot, almost as if he was not conscious of what he was saying.”

  “He is certainly agitated. Ask him to tell us where his injuries are. And if he’s able to talk, ask him who beat him.”

  Margaretha touched his shoulder and he opened his eyes again. She wasn’t sure of the English word for injury, so she asked, “Where do you hurt?”

  He turned his head slightly and winced. “I am not seriously hurt. I need only justice . . .” His voice trailed off, but then he finished by saying, “And I shall be perfectly well.”

  Margaretha translated for Frau Lena, who frowned. “What he needs is food and rest. I shall get him something to eat. Ask him about his head.”

  “Your head,” Margaretha began, pointing to her own head. “How did you hurt it?”

  “I did not hurt my head,” he grumbled irritably. “Someone hit me. He did it!” He gestured with his hand. “His men tried to kill me. They killed John . . . they killed him . . . then beat me and left me for dead.”

 
“Who?”

  “I mustn’t tell you.”

  “Very well. But you must not become so . . .” Again, Margaretha couldn’t remember the correct English word. “You are too excited, and it is not good for you. You must rest, and eat and drink something. Rest.”

  The man closed his eyes, but not as though he was trying to rest. More out of frustration. How could she convince him to be calm and rest?

  He suddenly sat up and put his feet to the floor. His breath was labored, and he pressed his arm against his middle.

  “No, no, he mustn’t get up!” Frau Lena put her hands on his shoulders to stop him, and he collapsed again onto the bed, his eyes closed. Frau Lena pulled his legs back up on the bed.

  He lay, pale and limp. After a moment, Margaretha realized he’d passed out.

  “How unfortunate that his injuries have him so addled,” Margaretha whispered.

  “Perhaps he will recover his senses in a few days,” Frau Lena answered.

  Margaretha set back to work, dabbing at his bloody head wound. Lena leaned over to examine it and said he needed stitches. “But I’m afraid to try to stitch him up. He might wake up and injure himself further.”

  Might he not also injure Frau Lena?

  A few minutes later, he awakened again, groaning.

  “Now will you tell me where you hurt?” Margaretha frowned down at him, wondering if he would try to get up again. What made him so frantic?

  He only blinked at her. “Where am I?”

  “You are at Hagenheim Burg, Hagenheim Castle.”

  “Thank God.” He blinked, then licked his swollen lips. “Who are you?”

  “I am Margaretha, the oldest daughter of Duke Wilhelm, and this is Frau Lena, our healer.” Margaretha indicated the thin, red-haired woman behind her. “You must listen to her and do as she says, for she is trying to help you.”

  “When might I be able to speak to Duke Wilhelm?”

  Margaretha shook her head at his boldness. “You have not told me who you are.”