by TJ Bennett
A few of the sailors tried to dislodge Fritz from his seat when he attempted to ride up the very gangplank of their ship. He struck wildly at them with the reins, the intensity and despair on his face a testament to the urgency of his errand.
Robert followed her, his surprise evident. He shoved hard at two of the shipmates who tried to manhandle Fritz off the horse. One fell over into the oily harbor water below, sputtering curses as he came up.
Robert stood at Fritz’s side, placed his hand on his sword hilt, and faced the sailors.
“Leave this man be, “he commanded in a voice of authority. “He is my servant and bears important news.” The sailors stared uncertainly at him, but backed a small distance away.
One look at Fritz’s face gave the truth to Robert’s hasty fabrication. Robert pulled Fritz off the horse and held him up when his knees would have buckled beneath him. Fritz and the horse panted hard, both pushed to their physical limitations.
“Fritz, what is it? What has happened?” Alonsa demanded, her hands grasping his wind-burned face.
“Señora, you must come at once …” Fritz mumbled, then collapsed against Robert in a dead faint.
“Mon Dieu!” Robert looked over his shoulder for his manservant, who materialized behind him. “Get my wineskin and bread,” he ordered. “Quickly! Bring it to the lady’s cabin. And see to this horse.”
The manservant, eyes wide, nodded and grasped the horse’s reins, murmuring quiet words to the exhausted beast as he pulled it away. Robert lifted Fritz as though he were no more than a child in his arms and carried him onboard.
The first mate stopped him. “Is he to be a paying passenger, then? No stowaways.”
“Mind your business, man, and fetch the captain,” Robert ordered grimly. The first mate hurried off to find him.
Alonsa led the men to the small cabin the captain had appointed her, and Robert laid Fritz on the bunk. She filled a basin with cold water, dipped a cloth in it, and pressed it to Fritz’s face.
He revived slowly, his blue eyes blinking in confusion. Spying her, he sat up, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head again at the sudden movement.
Robert placed a hand on Fritz’s shoulder and gently eased him back. “Careful. You will collapse again. Now tell us, what is so important you have nearly killed yourself and a good horse to get here?”
Fritz’s gaze found Alonsa’s, and the look in his eyes filled her with terror.
“It is Günter.” She did not ask—she knew already. “Is he—?”
She could not bring herself to say the word. Dead. At the moment she thought it, a vision of the vast world without him in it intruded upon her soul, and she felt the horrible grayness of it, the never-ending blackness of despair. She feared for her sanity, for her very life.
How could she bear to live in a world that did not have Günter in it?
“Nay, Señora,” Fritz said, and she nearly sagged with relief until she heard his next words.
“Not yet.”
“Not … yet?” she asked.
Fritz nodded, never taking his eyes off her.
“He is to be tried for mutiny, according to the military articles of justice. He is guilty, my lady. He will die.”
Alonsa flung out a hand in alarm as the cabin walls began to waver and her vision grew gray at the edges. Her knees would not support her, and she felt the ship tilt. The next thing she knew, Robert had seized her and deposited her on the bunk next to Fritz with a gruff admonition to him to make room.
“What do you mean to do,” he snapped at the younger man, pushing Alonsa’s head between her knees, “shock her senseless? You might have delivered your news in a gentler manner.”
“Forgive me, forgive me,” Fritz burst out while Robert patted Alonsa’s shoulder anxiously, “but there is no time for gentleness.”
“No time?” Her skirts muffled her words, and she pushed Robert’s restraining hand away and rose. Her head spun once more, then righted itself. “What do you mean, ‘no time’?”
Fritz’s words came out in a pained rush. “He has asked me to bring you a message. He is safe, but only for a little while longer. He has appealed to military tradition by seeking sanctuary from the master-general of the ordnance, but time grows short. You must come at once.”
“Wait,” Robert broke in. “Begin at the beginning. Tell us first what has happened to cause such dire circumstances.”
Fritz chafed impatiently, but obeyed. “When we returned to Pavia—Günter, Inés, and I—we encountered one of our raiding parties attacking a French baggage train that had somehow become separated from their group. There has been sporadic fighting in our absence to test the lines and the resolve of the forces on either side,” he explained.
Just then, Robert’s manservant arrived with his wineskin and bread, as instructed. Robert took the items from him, and they murmured together for a moment. Alonsa understood him to instruct his man to stand guard outside the door until the captain of the vessel arrived.
After hastily drinking a draught of the wine and chewing a fortifying piece of bread, Fritz wiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued.
“Many of the Landsknechts who had been assigned to carry out the raid were little more than low-ranking riff-raff, no better than bandits—the sort to enjoy such tasks as attacking the unarmed and undefended. They were not satisfied with removing the spoils and taking a woman or two to serve in the baggage train,” he said, his lip curled in disgust. “Nay, the debaucheries we came upon that day were …” he shuddered. “It was as if God had turned his head away and let the devil do his worst. I know those in the train were only French and therefore the enemy, but—” he stopped suddenly, flicking an embarrassed glance at Robert. “Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord.”
Robert waved his hand and bade him continue with a grim nod of his head.
Fritz nodded. “Still, they were women, children, old men. Cobblers, whores—harmless people. There was no
need. And the raiding party had wasted precious time in doing it, had lingered long over their pleasure when their instructions were to take what spoils they could and return quickly to camp.”
Alonsa shook her head in confusion. “But what of the code? As long as they stay outside the direct path of battle, the members of the baggage train are not at risk of violence. Soldiers may do what they will, but the baggage train—it is a matter of honor, is it not?” She looked to Robert for verification.
Robert nodded. “More than that. When you kill a man’s wife, violate his daughters, slice his babies’ throats open, you rouse him to a dangerous place. What a hired mercenary will not do for king or country, he will do for his family. An army of mercenaries thirsting for vengeance is a terrifying thing, difficult to withstand. They go without food, coin, pleasure, anything in order to exact vengeance in return.”
Robert paced away, stared at the walls as though he saw something other than the weathered, knotted wood.
“I remember … not long ago, a certain duke secretly hired bandits and cutthroats to attack the baggage train of one of his own companies. This was to falsify the signs of the opposing company there in order to rouse his legion to victory. You see, he could not pay them, and they would not fight otherwise.”
He smiled tightly. “It worked—they nearly obliterated the enemy. But when the mercenaries discovered his treachery, they stripped him of his skin and tortured him for three days before they allowed him the mercy of death.”
He turned to Fritz again. “But surely your commander would not be a party to something like the sort of raid you describe? I have heard of him. He is a nobleman of good repute.”
Fritz frowned. He lifted a shoulder helplessly. “I don’t know … he is in a difficult position. Coin and plate run short. The men are restless, and many are openly balking at his orders. Some have been whipped. They are hungry, supplies are few … that is why he ordered the raid in the first place.”
He bunched a fist on the blanket upon which they sat.
“They were only to take food, munitions, supplies—anything moveable. But tempers are short, and things became out of control. When we came upon them, the officer in charge of the contingent was even engaging in the debauchery.” Fritz drank another draught of wine, then stared down into the cup. “Not all of the men were involved, but they did nothing to prevent what happened. Some went back to camp for the provost and reinforcements before the French troops could become aware of what happened. But then Günter saw …” Fritz’s gaze flicked back to Alonsa, “I cannot say what he saw, not with a lady present.”
Alonsa placed her hand over his closed fist. “You must, if I am to understand what happened, and how, with so much violence, Günter was the one charged with mutiny and not these other men. That is what happened, isn’t it?”
Fritz nodded. “Yes, Señora.” He gulped. “There was an officer he had known before. The man is the worst sort of garbage, but a friend to the higher ranking officers. He has his own coin, and engages his own guard. Günter found them—this man and his cohorts, abusing a woman and her son. They had tied the woman up, and—and defiled her horribly.” He closed his eyes as if to push the memory away.
He spoke in a whisper. “She bled from everywhere, but her cries were not for herself—they were for her son. When we came upon them, one of the men had taken the blunt end of a pike and was—was wielding it in—in an unholy manner upon the pitiful boy, and laughing. Laughing! I am ashamed to say at the sight, I lost my stomach contents on the ground.”
Fritz put his other hand over his eyes, and she saw that it trembled.
“Go on,” she murmured.
“Günter became enraged. He pulled the man off the boy, but it was too late. The lad died before our very eyes. And when he did, the officer and his guard laughed even more, the light of the devil in their eyes. They said, ‘Well, at least that is one less French bastard to deal with. ‘“
Alonsa gasped at the evil of such men, and she heard a low growl from Robert.
“Filthy pigs,” the noble snarled.
“It was too much,” Fritz said, shaking his head and dropping his hand. “Günter killed some of the officer’s guard, and the others fled. The provost arrived and ordered him to stop so he might take the man into custody. The officer had friends in high places, those who wield political influence even the provost fears, and Günter knew there would be no punishment for him. He killed the officer, and as he stood over the man’s body, he said, ‘And one less German bastard to deal with, too.’ The provost was forced to arrest him for mutiny, for not obeying a direct order without question. If he had stopped when commanded … nothing would have been said of his defending the helpless. But to murder an officer before the provost himself—it could not be tolerated.”
Robert spoke up. “Where is Günter now?”
Fritz looked up, his eyes filled with anguish. “The day of his arrest, a French contingent came upon our artillery train and attacked it in retribution. They were turned back, but in the confusion, Günter escaped. He barely made it to the artillery park before the provost caught up with him, but it was too late.” Fritz smiled weakly. “Gunter reached one of the guns and claimed sanctuary! As long as he keeps a hand on it, he will be safe. The court refuses to convene until he leaves sanctuary.” He frowned again. “But he cannot leave it to find rest, or food, or shelter, and no one can bring him anything—only water.”
Fritz moved in a distressed motion of restlessness, as if only then recalling the urgent nature of his errand.
Alonsa pressed a hand to her lips, trembling, but did not even try to prevent the sobs that escaped.
Fritz struggled to rise, and Robert fit a hand under his arm to assist him. “Señora, Günter will not last much longer, if he has not already succumbed. I left him two days ago, and it will take you at least as long to return to him, even if you pressed hard. You must come at once. He expects to be punished, is ready for it, but he begs to speak to you once more before he is executed.”
He knelt before her, taking her hands into his, and took a deep breath. “He told me to give you this message, in these exact words. ‘Alonsa, if you love me, come to me. Let me speak my heart. If you do not, Fritz will tell you what I have to say, for I would not die and leave my feelings for you unspoken.’“
Fritz gazed up at her, his blue eyes searching. “Do you love him, Señora? Will you come?”
Would she come?
The gates of Hell could not keep her away. Fritz was in no condition to accompany her, however. She would go alone, if she had to, but perhaps …
She turned her tear-blurred gaze to Robert, who quickly nodded his support.
Alonsa made her choice. “Yes.” Her voice cracked, and she spoke again, stronger this time. “Of course I will come.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GÜNTER FELT THE COOL METAL OF THE ARTILLERY gun beneath his cheek. The chill of the winter wind had risen, but he could no longer feel it, a fact that concerned him more than he wished to admit. He suffered from exposure, and pangs of hunger attacked his stomach like a knife. To quiet his belly, he pressed it against the gun, since he draped over it like a man astride a horse. He shuffled his feet beneath him, his fingers grasping the gun by sheer will. His body, deprived of sleep and rest, other than the short catnaps he had managed in the past few days, was stiff and unresponsive to his demands upon it. Still, he did not release his grip on the artillery gun, and he wouldn’t until he lost consciousness or Alonsa came to him.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon for the fourth day, he wondered again, would she come? If Fritz found her before the ship sailed, she would have to choose between coming to him and returning home to her father. He did not want to force such a decision on her, but when he realized he was a dead man, he’d wanted nothing more in this world than to see her once more.
Why had he killed the officer? Why, of all the death he had dealt in his seven years, did this one have to matter most? He wouldn’t have minded so much a year ago. Now, for the first time in seven years, he had a reason to live, yet his life had become forfeit. If he had it to do again, would he choose differently?
He thought about the boy he couldn’t help, about the ravaged and bleeding mother, and he firmed his jaw. Nay, he would do it again. He’d had no other choice.
So be it. He would accept his punishment. He only wanted to see Alonsa before he died.
“Still holding on, Günter?” The voice of the ordnance master intruded upon his brooding thoughts. He brought the one cup of water per day allowed to Günter by the laws of sanctuary.
“Aye.” Günter’s voice croaked. He shifted his body on the gun as he tried to return the feeling to his legs. “Still holding on.”
The ordnance master lifted the battered metal cup to Günter’s mouth, allowing him to drink.
“Son, you cannot hold out much longer.” He shifted a glance over his shoulder to where the provost’s man rested against a nearby tree, his head nodding as he drifted into sleep. The ordnance master frowned through his grizzled beard and turned back to Günter. “What will you do if she does not come?”
Günter blinked up at him through eyes gritty and swollen from lack of sleep. “She will come.”
He believed it, even if he did not know it to be true.
The other man lowered his voice, his gaze secretive. “There are many in camp who support you, who feel justice has been violated and turned on her head. Perhaps the provost’s man could be distracted for a few moments—”
“No, my friend,” Günter warned him. “Where would I go in the condition I am in?” He shook his head. “I am afraid my fate is sealed. I won’t let you or my comrades risk punishment.”
The ordnance master snorted, a glint in his eye. “They wouldn’t dare. There are a hundred ways to destroy an artillery gun, and only one of them involves direct enemy fire.”
Günter managed a weak chuckle.
Then he heard it. The thundering hoof beats, the faint cries of
a woman. He lifted his head toward the sound, blinking his eyes against the fading light of the sun.
Over the rise, a woman in black, her hair flying wild behind her, rode through the gathering mist, hunched low over a horse whose bit was frothed with foam.
Alonsa had come.
“Günter!” she cried.
She rode alone. Two sentries tried to impede her as she came, stepping in front of her with their halberds. She reared the horse back, arguing with them furiously in Spanish, then in German.
Günter struggled to rise, casting an urgent look at the ordnance master. “Please,” he begged. “Help her.”
The man nodded and swiftly rose, striding over to the scene to explain to the sentries who Alonsa was and why she was here. After an anxious moment, the sentries stepped aside, and the ordnance master led her winded horse past the provost’s man, who had awoken and hastily stood, to where Günter sat slumped over the artillery gun.
“Günter,” she called, her face stricken, and tried to climb off the horse. She slid more than jumped to the ground, and gasped as her feet touched the earth. When her legs crumpled beneath her, she turned white, hanging on to the pommel for dear life.
The ordnance master rushed to her aid, grasping her by the elbows. She swooned for a moment, then came to herself, pushing him aside. “Let me see him! I have come all this way. I will see him!”
Günter forced himself upright, swinging one leg over the side of the artillery gun. Unable to hold himself up, he slid to the ground, his back against the gun.
Alonsa stumbled to Günter’s side, sinking onto her knees before him. Her hair whipped around her in the wind, and her eyes, bruised with fatigue, filled with tears.
With trembling hands, Günter reached for her.
“You came,” he whispered, no longer capable of full voice.
She cuffed him. “Of course, you ass.” She wiped her eyes across her sleeve and slid down beside him. “Did you doubt it?”