by Sarah Monzon
© 2019 Sarah Monzon.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Radiant Publications
Moses Lake, Washington
This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly coincidental.
Scriptures used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased, are taken from:
New Life Version (NLV) Copyright © 1969, 2003 by Barbour Publishing, Inc
Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
The King James Version, Public Doman.
Cover design by Sarah Monzon
Manuscript edited by Katie Donovan
For those all those who never felt they had a voice or story to tell.
“Now may the God of peace…equip you with all you need for doing his will. May he produce in you, through the power of Jesus Christ, every good thing that is pleasing to him. All glory to him forever and ever!”
Hebrews 13:21
Chapter One
Holy Roman Empire, 1527
Early morning light shafted through the single window of Christyne von Heidelbraum’s bed chamber, spearing the lingering darkness of the clinging night, yet doing little to battle the chill that refused to welcome the coming day. The warm blankets cocooning her beckoned for her to slip back into a fitful slumber, still she must not allow them to draw her back. Not if her purpose for the day had a chance to succeed. Her father would be absent only a few more days, and if she desired to slip past the castle gates, it needs be done while he was away.
She slid from her bed and tiptoed on bare feet across the woven rushes to the warm brazier, treading carefully so her tender soles would not be pricked by a splintered fiber. She sighed deeply as she let her body adjust from sleep to wakefulness.
A sly grin slithered across her face. The penance Bishop Wilmer would require if she were discovered should deter her, yet she found she cared not one tittle about the clergyman’s displeasure.
Noise drifted through the window. Reluctant to leave the warmth of the burning coals, she leaned toward the outer wall, thankful she had left the shutters open the night before. Voices carried to her, and though she could not decipher the spoken words, it was sound enough to make her stomach plunge to her toes.
She had stayed beneath her warm bedclothes too long.
It would have been easier to escape the castle before the servants and her father’s men had broken their fast, but all was not lost. Mayhap the day would still unfold as she wished. To her knowledge, their suspicions yet lay upon pallets even if their bodies did not. And as long as those suspicions stayed abed, she could escape the donjon through the undercroft of the castle.
The vaulted storage room had been abandoned before her birth for reasons unknown to her. If not for her servant Hette’s loose tongue, Christyne would be unaware of its existence still. Divine providence. Especially the small window in the corner, devoid of shutters or parchments. Wide enough for her to thread her way through.
She lifted the clothing Hette had secreted to her the night before from the back of a chair by the brazier. If she emerged from her chamber in her own gown of fine cloth ringed with several stripes depicting her noble bloodlines along the hem, she would be spotted at once and refused admittance past the castle gates. Not with her father, Reichsfürst Ernst von Heidelbraum, prince of the region, away fetching a new bride to produce him male heirs. But with Hette’s birch-stained overtunic devoid of any adornment—a simple maid’s kirtle—no attention should be drawn Christyne’s way.
Her lips quirked. She must thank the countess that had visited from the seat of the Papal States months past for boasting at such length of masquerade costumes, thus giving Christyne the inspiration for her own concealment.
She stripped off her embroidered linen chemise and donned Hette’s faded hemp shift. Next, she pulled on an undertunic that fell midway between ankle and knee—longer than her own undergowns, but the added length shielded her from the coarse wool of the maid’s kirtle. She laced herself in at the front, relishing the independence such clothing afforded, as opposed to the restrictive brocades and velvets she was required to wear at court.
The low, square neckline pinched. Mayhap her bosom was a bit fuller than Hette’s. No matter. She was covered by the shift and supported by the undertunic. And, of more importance, she was disguised—insomuch as no one peered too closely upon her face. She prayed they would not, for then all would be lost.
Attaching first an apron and then a leather girdle to her waist, she examined the bag dangling from her hip. The sparkle of gold coins winked back at her. Insufficient for the needs, but the paltry sum would have to do. For now.
If only her father would stir himself enough to see the state of the least among them. Instead, he closed his eyes to the peasants’ plight. Allowed his gaze to be colored by the other princes of the empire and the drive of greed and power.
The yoke of taxes to fund the pope’s extravagant spending had threatened to choke them all. In answer, peasant lands had been seized, lower nobility snuffed out, and the feudal system strengthened.
Christyne pressed a hand to her middle, bile rising at the memory of the revolt two years past in response to the harsh treatment. It had been futile; the peasants brutally squashed, the lands watered with their own blood.
A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the keening cry that had echoed from the forest incline that separated the castle from the peasants dwelling in the village and farmlands. The terrifying copper scent the breeze had carried from beyond the safety of the quarried battlements. Tales of ruthless fighting from the landsknecht—the heartless mercenary soldiers the empire and princes commissioned—were enough to make even the most callous of men lose the contents of their stomachs.
Since then, her father had endeavored to assure her that the peasants in his province were treated fairly. That they wanted for naught and would not take up arms once more because their needs were provided for. But he retained a regiment of landsknecht to regulate the area. She had spotted them from her window in their notoriously bright-colored hosen and lederwams.
It had been that discovery that had spurred her to witness for herself how the people faired. Against her father’s wishes, she’d had her palfrey saddled and accompanied a group of house servants to town under the guise of shopping for a spool of thread for her embroidery.
Unwashed children had littered the streets, their dirty skin stretched over skeletal bodies in need of nourishment. Those, she had learned, were the hapless souls that had lost both mother and father. The more “fortunate” still toiled with their families in fields, their young backs bent under the weight of a grown man’s work. Wherever she looked, want stared back at her.
At that moment, a vow had pushed past her lips. One given to improve their people’s lives. The few coins she had concealed would be trivial compared to their need—a drop in a vast ocean—but mayhap it would ease at least one family’s burden and fill their empty bellies.
Costume almost in place, Christyne pinned her dark hair near the nape of her neck. She retrieved a padded wulstha
ube headpiece, placing the hem of material at her hairline so the bulge circled the top of her head near the back like a crown of thickly braided hair. Once secure, she covered the wulst with a linen schleier veil, twisting the long tail and wrapping it over her head before tucking it into place at the base. She would forgo a hat. Hette never wore one. Not even on journeys to town.
Behold. She was as transformed as she could be without the addition of extra padding or smeared soot to discolor her clean skin. If only she had a length of looking glass to discern her resemblance to a serving girl in place of a princess of the Holy Roman Empire.
With one last sweep of her hand down the front of her borrowed wool kirtle, she squared her shoulders and strode to the large door that would open to a passageway and then stairs down to the great hall. At the last second, she remembered herself and tucked her chin to her chest, borrowing yet still from Hette—her posture of humility and servitude.
She hugged the cold stone wall as she descended the winding stairway. She passed one of her father’s men, but he spared her not a glance. Breath released from her lungs. Safe, for now. But if her ruse were found out and recounted to her father, her life may yet be forfeit.
She shook her head, displacing such thoughts. Now was not the time to dwell upon the unstable relationship between Prince Ernst and herself. Besides, her father surely would not carry out his threat to her, would he? She recalled his crimson face when she had informed him she would not enter into marriage with the Duke of Schlestein. Forsooth, he had been angered.
Her eyes closed as she gathered about her the courage she needed. Without doubt, he would send her to a convent as spoken—though such an action would not increase his esteem among the other princes, those neighboring closest now requiring their people worship according to the newly established Lutheran doctrines.
Christyne herself had been privy to many debates during her time at court or hosting visiting families. The professor from Wittenberg had caused an uprising, and only the protection of his patron, Frederick the Wise, Prince and Elector of Saxony, had saved Martin Luther from a papal bull and death. Her father and other princes of the empire continued to remain loyal to the Roman Catholic Church, however, and so she did not think the threat of a convent idle speech.
Another shudder, reminiscent of the one not an hour past, coursed its way down her spine. As with reports of the ruthless landsknecht, stories of what transpired within the walls of some cloisters sickened her. Martin Luther’s own wife had run away from an abbey and made her escape in a fish barrel.
Surely her father was aware of such happenings. He would not be so cold hearted as to allow her fate to come to that.
She lifted her chin enough to mark her progress. Almost there. Her heart lightened and her feet picked up pace.
Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm and tugged her to a halt. “Where are you going, girl?”
Christyne’s breath hitched as her mind raced. What to do? She daren’t raise her face to let the man look upon her fully lest she be found out, but the grip on her arm demanded an answer.
“Your master is expected back with his new bride in three days’ time. The solar and adjoining rooms need airing and a thorough cleaning. Go.”
She eyed the end of the hall that led toward the gate to the village. The scents of birch and pine beckoned. Her father’s quarters lay in the opposite direction. The cold stone walls mocked.
“Are ye deaf, girl, or addle-brained? I said go. Now.”
Afraid that if she tarried longer the man would use force, she scurried around him and headed almost the same direction whence she came. When she reached the end of the hall, she glanced back. The man remained but conversed with another servant.
Heart pounding within her chest, she dashed to the side, away from the solar and toward the courtyard. Kitchen maids with woven baskets slung across their shoulders picked grapes from the vines her ancestors had planted more than a hundred years before. No one glanced up from their work.
The borrowed clothes were working. As princess, already she would have been stopped by a helpful servant wishing to fulfil her mistress’s desires. But this… This she needed to do with her own two hands.
Steps led down to the chapel housing a number of relics her father had purchased when her mother was alive and suffering illness. But none of the sacred objects had brought healing, and her mother had yet died.
She pushed back those thoughts and placed a hand over the heavy pouch on her hip. Though her father put stock in relics and had even purchased indulgences to release his wife from purgatory, Christyne purposed to use the money she had secreted away to help those yet living.
If she could only get through the portcullis.
Sliding around the outer walls, she passed the chapel and strangled a cry of joy. An open gate. Her muscles bunched with the desire to run through the raised portcullis. Instead, she retained her sedate walking pace. As she drew near, she held her breath, ears open and senses aware, but no shouts of halt pierced the morning dew. No alarm was raised. With a small bubble of laughter, she hurried to the tree line and flung herself behind a stout trunk, pulling in a deep lungful of air.
She had made it. Outside the castle walls, with no one the wiser save Hette.
With a shove against the coarse bark, she began the trek down the mountainside to the village. Now to do what her father should have been doing all along—help his people.
The trees towered over her, standing silent sentry as she picked her way along the path, their heavily fringed branches working as a blanket against the sun, blocking its warmth and light. These woods had earned the designation of Black Forest, though she gave no credence to the tales parents often told to frighten their children. Unlike the ones told of the landsknecht and convents, the stories about the forest were merely fables. Christyne herself had built such a tale in her mind about fairies and wood sprites.
The snap of a twig and rustle of branches pulled her to a stop. Had her own feet produced the noise? Straining her ears, she listened, her heart quickening its pace in her chest.
She had no weapon save a meat dagger, and that small blade would do little damage to a man bent on mischief. Could it have been a landsknecht in her father’s employ? Little they would believe she the princess, dressed as she was. Nay. More the kampfrau she looked than any other.
A low, pain-filled moan rose from the leaf-littered floor to the west. Her weight shifted between her feet. Should she see whence the sound came or be about her mission? She swayed where she stood. Her heart longed to help the people, did it not?
Another moan. A cry for aid if there ever was one.
Decision made, she hitched her skirts and scrambled over a dead log, her feed thudding softly on the carpet of leaves and pine needles. She stopped to listen again. A bird chirped. Branches scraped against each other in a gust of wind.
She waited two heartbeats, and then a cough erupted from the bushes beside her. As she pushed past the foliage, her stomach rose and lodged in her throat.
Not a landsknecht, for the man lying prostrate on the ground wore a dusty jerkin smeared with grime and slashed from thorny bristles. Her gaze scanned the length of him, and her breath caught. Through his torn black hosen, she could see the tip of a bloody arrow protruding from the meaty flesh of his upper leg. His eyes squeezed shut. If not for the low sounds of pain vibrating from his throat, she would believe his spirit had already departed his body.
She stifled a cry and fell to her knees beside the man, reaching out but pausing before touching the point of the arrowhead. The offending barb must needs come out, but how without causing more damage? Her mind worked back upon injuries her father’s warriors received in training and skirmishes. They tended their own wounds, and as princess, her presence was expressly forbidden, but had she witnessed a man shot through with an arrow?
Indecision caused her hand to shake. Perchance someone else was about…
Rising, she whirled in a circle, desperate
for another to appear who might have the skills to aid the fallen man. She took in her surroundings. The stately trees, boulders with green moss growing across their stone faces, grasses pushed over by the tread of feet. No one emerged from behind wood or stone, and no traveler journeyed across the path—which suggested whoever loosed the arrow had fled long ago. That thought caused her to release the air in her lungs. The next, however, seized her chest.
She alone must save the poor wretch.
But by what means? Nothing sprang to mind, though she searched around her and dug through her memory. She sighed and returned her gaze to the man. Alas, she could not leave him face down in the dirt any longer. Making the sign of the cross, she dropped back down to the forest floor. Her fingers shook as she gripped his shoulder and a span of hosen below his hip.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name.
The man twitched, and Christyne focused on the point of metal protruding from his flesh.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.
He turned with her careful movement, but her muscles strained against his weight and the slow, deliberate pressure she used to rotate him. When he was on his side, she stopped and peered at the wound from the other side. The wooden shaft appeared to have been snapped near the flesh. His body teetered, and before she could stop his progress, gravity pulled him with a thunk into a supine position.
He cried out, and she lost her balance and stumbled onto her bottom. Hesitantly, she scooted forward and listened. Had she killed him? His head moved listlessly from side to side. Not dead. Good.
The rest of the Lord’s Prayer left her mouth in a whispered rush as she peered down at his dirt-caked face. Having no rag to clean him with, she lifted the hem of her undertunic and swiped along his forehead and cheek. He appeared young, the lines around his mouth and eyes soft instead of deeply carved. His nose was straight, unlike many of the Imperial knights she had seen, and his strong jaw was shadowed by coarse hair. His skin appeared fair beneath the grime. As unmarked as her own. This man was no farmer, out in the sun all day. She glanced down at his hands, suspicions rising. Ink stained his fingers. Why had a scholar been the target of an arrow’s strike?