Faithful Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  CONTENTS

  FAITHFUL HEART

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  THE VON WOLFENBERG DYNASTY

  SKIMMING STONES

  MISTRESS OF THE FLEET

  THE DOCKS

  HATCHING A PLAN

  NIGHT

  FIGUREHEAD

  BODYGUARD

  IMPERFECTIONS

  FLOODGATE

  CONFESSIONS

  FOG

  INTO THE DEPTHS

  NEVER TRUST A PIRATE

  A SIGN

  NIGHT AT SEA

  LUST

  GIANLUCA

  GREEN HAT

  DEBTS

  RESURRECTION

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  A HIGH PRICE

  DESPAIR

  DREAD

  THE NEW ZARA

  TOO LATE

  MENAS

  NAVIGATING ROUGH WATERS

  PURSUIT

  HEAVEN AND HELL

  NO REAL PLAN

  TERREMOTO

  THE SEA'S FURY

  TURNING BLUE

  CHAINED FOREVER

  A SORRY TALE

  OLIVES

  WELCOME TO VENEZIA

  BRUNO

  A VENETIAN WEDDING

  MISCHIEF AFOOT

  A BEDDING

  GETTING TO KNOW YOU

  THE VENETIAN WAY

  BRUNO'S FLEET

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  ABOUT ANNA

  MORE ANNA MARKLAND

  FAITHFUL HEART

  By

  ANNA MARKLAND

  COVER ART BY STEVEN NOVAK

  COPYRIGHT

  This story is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. The reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All fictional characters in this story have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  © Copyright 2016 Anna Markland All Rights Reserved

  “Sail away from the safe harbor.

  Catch the trade winds in your sails.

  Explore. Dream. Discover.”

  ~Mark Twain

  For the men, women and children

  who cannot find peace though the war may be over.

  THE VON WOLFENBERG DYNASTY

  SKIMMING STONES

  Island of Chersos, Dalmatia, 1139 AD

  Konrad von Wolfenberg wouldn’t have revealed anything of his difficult past to his swarthy interrogator if he’d foreseen Drosik’s sarcastic disbelief. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut?

  The diminutive captain whose crew he sought to join made no effort to conceal his amusement. “You were destined to be a priest, and now you want to be a pirate,” he crowed for the fifth time.

  Kon supposed he couldn’t blame Drosik. He didn’t fully understand himself how his path in life had changed drastically.

  Hoping to provide a distraction, he braced his booted feet in the sand, bent his knees, leaned back and skimmed a pebble across the waters of the Adriatic—still and calm for once. “It’s a long story.”

  Drosik jumped down from his perch atop a boulder and picked up a rock. He closed one eye and stuck out his tongue, then tried and failed to match the six splashes. Kon wasn’t surprised. It was obvious from the way the Dalmatian had chosen the pebble at random he hadn’t been perfecting the skill since the age of four.

  The memory transported Kon back to happier times—their patient father teaching him and Lute and Johann, and even Sophia, how to choose the best stones to skim across the waters of the Elbe. To the annoyance of her brothers, Sophia had proven to be the most adept.

  It seemed long ago and far away, a lifetime. Each of his siblings was happily married and well settled. Johann might by now have inherited the prestigious title of Count von Wolfenberg. Their heartbroken father wasn’t expected to survive his beloved wife by long.

  Kon had been driven to leave the home he loved shortly after his mother’s death, though he had to admit he wasn’t certain what the driving force was. Perhaps he’d believed that if he left Saxony he’d rediscover the ability to feel grief, or any emotion. Or mayhap the real Konrad still lay buried beneath the deadly rockfall in the Pale Mountains during the imperial army’s long retreat from Italy.

  “We Narentines have been celebrated pirates for centuries,” Drosik declared, brushing off the rumpled sleeves of the brightest red shirt Kon had ever seen, apparently undismayed at his lack of skimming prowess.

  “Really,” Kon replied, his thoughts still in Saxony. “I assumed a man who lived on the sea would be an expert skimmer.”

  Drosik shrugged, seemingly taking no offence at the jest. “I was too busy learning to be a sailor.” He thrust out his chest. “I am named for Drosaico, a great Narentine pirate captain who signed a peace treaty with the cursed Venetians more than a hundred years ago.”

  Kon scoffed. “Peace treaty! Evidently it didn’t last.”

  His companion scowled. “What kind of world would it be if Dalmatians didn’t raid Venetian ships? Venezia is a wealthy trading republic because of where she sits.” He gestured to the trees clinging to the cliffs. “These islands provide the perfect lair from which our intrepid ships can launch raids on theirs. Wealth must be shared.”

  Having been ridiculed for his former vocation, it would have been wiser for Kon not to disclose that the acquisition of wealth wasn’t the reason he had chosen piracy, but his tongue got the better of him. “It’s the slavery,” he muttered as Drosik was in mid-throw.

  The pebble hit the water with a plop and sank. “What?”

  Kon clenched his jaw. “I can’t abide the notion of men, women and children being abducted from their homeland and deprived of freedom.”

  Drosik sneered. “You’re a lunatic.”

  Kon stared out at the rippling waves, resolved not to utter a word of his dreadful experience at the slave market in Bari during the imperial occupation. His impulsive attempt to free a kidnapped woman had resulted in a severe beating at the hands of turbaned slavers and disciplinary action by his commanding officer. “Mayhap you’re right.”

  Drosik clamped a bony hand on his shoulder. “On the morrow we sail to Venezia to scout out our next prize. We’ll need extra crew. You seem like an honest man to me, if a little mad. Welcome aboard.”

  Kon shook his head at the irony. He’d been judged an honest man by a pirate, and mayhap the eccentric fellow was right about the madness too. He sent another stone bounding across the water, then followed his new captain to the cog lying at anchor in the shelter of the hidden bay.

  MISTRESS OF THE FLEET

  Polani Apartments, Venezia

  “My pompous uncle Pietro is Doge of Venezia, yet I was not selected to sit on his council of sapientes,” Zara Polani hissed, pacing the elaborately tiled floor of her family’s private apartments adjacent to the Doge’s chapel, the Basilica di San Marco. She crossed her arms tightly. “I cannot be an advisor, despite the fact I own a fleet of the most successful trading ships in the republic.”

  Smiling too sweetly, Ottavia looked up from her sewing. “However, dear sister, in the eyes of Venetian law,
Bruno owns the fleet.”

  It was a lamentable truth. Their father had been legally obliged to bequeath his fortune to his eldest son, though her beloved brother was an imbecile. It didn’t make her younger sister’s retort any easier to bear. She ought to be immune to the pointed reminder by now. “But everyone is aware Bruno is a twenty-five-year-old child and I am the one in charge. They insult me because I am a mere woman. Who better to advise the Doge on the constant threat from neighboring city-states anxious to sink their teeth into our wealth? Genoa, Pisa, they are no better than the Dalmatian pirates.”

  Seated in a well-upholstered chair by the cold hearth, Ottavia paused in her needlework. “Ugh! Pirates.”

  Zara rolled her eyes. Ottavia had inherited their mother’s passive and sometimes sarcastic nature, whereas she was her shrewd father’s daughter in every way. Given his son’s mental state, he’d passed on to Zara his intimate knowledge of the trading routes that had made their family wealthy. She’d sailed with him as far as Byzantium and relished every minute—the storms, the tides, the waves, the sheer beauty and power of the sea. Ottavia had never set foot on a ship, but she enjoyed the fruits of the fleet’s success, the coin, the exotic spices and perfumes, and of course the silk fashions.

  Zara preferred male attire for her daily inspections of their ships docked in Venezia’s lagoon. She lived by her father’s mantra—an absentee mercante wasn’t likely to prosper. Experience had taught her that seafaring men paid no heed to orders issued by a woman in a frock.

  Confronting her uncle regarding the insult would be a waste of time since he wasn’t happy having an advisory council of wisemen forced on him in the first place. He’d also made no secret of his resentment when it became evident his older brother hadn’t bequeathed the Polani fleet to him.

  Determined not to allow the trembling fury to control her, she sat down, toed off her satin slippers and pulled on her boots. “How do I look?” she asked, getting to her feet.

  Ottavia didn’t approve of the Tuscan wool leggings, knee high boots and tight fitting tunic carefully tailored to minimize her inconvenient breasts. Her sister wrinkled her pert nose. “Like a pirate.”

  Pleased with the response, Zara braced her hands on her hips. She would tend to what was important and let the powerful men of Venezia flounder in their own incompetence. “I’m off to the docks,” she declared, though her first stop would be the family chapel in the basilica. The Polani fleet couldn’t have prospered over the years without the help of the Almighty and she sought divine protection at every opportunity.

  She exited the opulent apartment and set off with her waiting armed escort for the basilica and thence to the lagoon where her ships lay at anchor. She’d put reliable men in charge of loading the salt and woollen goods her captains would trade in the east for silk and spices. However, it never hurt to keep a close eye on matters, especially when they were engaged in the distasteful business of transporting slaves for the Egyptian Fatimids who sold them in the market at Bari.

  Rumor and suspicion were always rife among sailors, and the docks were a good place to glean intelligence concerning possible threats from sea raiders. She made jests about piracy, but it was the biggest threat to her future.

  THE DOCKS

  The brisk wind filled the square sail of Drosik’s cog for most of the two-day voyage to Venezia, for which Kon was grateful. The brief periods when rowing was necessary tested his mettle, though he considered he was fit and strong. He developed a new appreciation for the endurance of his Viking ancestors.

  By the time they rowed the Ragusa into Venezia’s humid lagoon, every member of the crew had stripped off his shirt. Kon twitched his nose as sweat obscured his vision. Muscles he’d apparently never used before groaned.

  He had a notion to give thanks to the Almighty that he’d been spared the agony of seasickness, but then remembered he no longer believed in God.

  The extensive Venetian docks were abuzz with feverish activity. He had never seen hundreds of vessels anchored in one place, never heard so many different tongues spoken at once. Certain from early childhood of his vocation to the religious life, he’d always been keenly interested in the study of languages. He recognised Greek, Italian, Polish and his native German. Long lines of grimy, sweating men carried bales of cloth, barrels, rope, sacks of salt, weapons, and all manner of goods onto the waiting ships. It reminded him of anthills he and his brothers used to poke sticks at for the fun of watching the industrious insects scurry here and there.

  His gut tightened when he caught sight of several turbaned Fatimids, their faces hidden. It confirmed his belief slaves were being loaded somewhere amid the hubbub. Bitter memories surged, and he feared for the captives.

  Assured the Ragusa was securely moored, Drosik gathered his crew in the center of the hull, urging them to hunker close together. “We are here to gather information,” he warned, “not to draw attention.”

  Kon deemed the caution amusing. Nothing drew the eye like Drosik’s shirt.

  “Wander around, pick out the ships loading the best cargoes and find out without raising suspicion when they expect to sail. I will make a pretence of seeking a cargo of our own. Wolf, you come with me.”

  The captain had congratulated himself at the nickname he’d bestowed, and Kon preferred it to the use of his family’s noble name. It had become obvious during the short voyage that the pirate crew depended on each other to weather the many hardships of their occupation. It was vital for his survival he not be considered an outsider.

  It occurred to him to grab his shirt before going ashore, but the others climbed over the side without bothering, so he did the same, imitating the captain’s confident swagger as they progressed along the busy dock.

  He slowed his pace when they passed the largest and most elaborately decorated cog. Gold embellishments adorned many parts of the sides and railings. Unlike the one masted vessels, another spar stuck out over the bow, perhaps for a smaller sail.

  But what caught his eye and caused his heart to race was the stunningly beautiful woman standing with legs braced and hands on hips atop a platform at the front of the ship.

  ~~~

  Zara had learned from her father the importance of keeping a watchful eye on foreign vessels docking in the lagoon. Some brazen pirates had been known to sail into Venezia precisely to scout out their next victim.

  It was no easy task. The port teemed with trading vessels from the four corners of the earth from London to the Baltic, from the North Sea to Byzantium.

  She watched the new arrivals from the forecastle of the Nunziata, the flagship named for her late mother. An unfamiliar cog snared her attention.

  The garishly dressed seaman in the bright red shirt who swaggered off the vessel must be the captain, but he held her gaze for only a moment or two.

  It was the tall sailor following in his wake who intrigued her. He dwarfed his captain and was likely nothing more than an ordinary seaman, well-muscled, stripped to the waist and sweating. Yet there was something about his bearing, the set of his shoulders, the long, chestnut brown hair neatly tied back. He was swarthy, but she’d wager not Venetian. Men who spent any length of time toiling in the shipping trade had a lean, mean and hungry look. This man was more like a disciplined soldier than a pirate. She had little doubt the captain was a Dalmatian pirate. The reek of greed filled the air when he strode by, his all-seeing eyes on the goods being loaded onto her ship.

  The fascinating sailor also looked across at the Nunziata. She became uncomfortably hot and gripped the railing of the forecastle when she realized he wasn’t staring at the ship, but at her, his mouth agape. It wasn’t the first time a man had been taken aback by her male attire, but when an amused smile lit up his handsome face a peculiar sense of recognition tightened her throat. Yet she was certain she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered such a man. Intrigued by a common sailor, a foreigner! Ottavia would be outraged!

  Searching for an escape from his pene
trating gaze, she looked away when three Fatimids appeared, herding a dozen or so chained captives destined for the market in Bari. She clenched her jaw, dismayed to see a young boy among the prisoners clad in ragged kaftans, though they were too light-skinned to be Arabs. However, at least this time there were no women. Slave-mongers were never to be trusted, especially ones who kept their faces hidden. It was a repugnant part of trade, but if Polani ships didn’t transport the wretches, somebody else would.

  When she turned back to the dock a few minutes later, Red-Shirt had walked on, but his crewman glared at her angrily, fists clenched, nostrils flared. His obvious fury left her strangely bereft. She wondered what had happened to change his demeanor, and why it mattered.

  HATCHING A PLAN

  Confused by the mixed emotions the striking woman had caused to swirl in his heart, Kon hurried after Drosik. Yet he was certain of what must be done. “I’ve found the ship,” he declared breathlessly.

  His captain eyed him curiously, then scanned the busy docks. “Which one?”

  “With the high platform front and rear, and the mast over the bow.”

  Drosik scratched his armpit and chuckled. “The fore and stern castles, you mean. See how the railing is made to look like the turret of a castle? The front mast is for an antemon.”

  Kon frowned at the unfamiliar word.

  “A headsail,” Drosik explained patiently. “Makes it easier to keep a steady course. You have a good nose for booty! The Nunziata is a ship of the Polani fleet. Or was it Zara Polani who caught your attention? She’s a beauty, eh? Mayhap you were right not to become a priest.”

  The hackles rose on Kon’s nape. He couldn’t deny the scandalously clad brunette had stirred his male interest, but his baser instincts had been roused years ago by the sight of the naked slave girl in Bari. That youthful folly had turned out to be a disaster.