Sophia had taken part in a few of the reigen, holding hands with others in the circle and chanting the refrain along with everyone else.
She swallowed a yawn, uncertain as to the reason for her fatigue. Perhaps too much sunshine and worry over Mut had drained her spirits. She’d looked forward to this Maiden’s Banquet for weeks, now she was…
Bored.
The admission was unsettling. She didn’t notice her father approaching and was startled when he sat down beside her. “Liebling, why are you sitting here alone?”
She shrugged, wishing she knew the answer.
He put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ll find the right partner,” he whispered.
She leaned into him, thankful for a father who instinctively understood her disquiet.
“Johann mentioned you had a long conversation at the waterfall with Duke Conrad’s envoy,” he said after a brief silence. “What’s your impression of him?”
She didn’t blame Johann. Indeed his actions demonstrated his concern for her, and there was no censure in her father’s voice. She risked a glance at his face, but he continued to watch the revellers. Perhaps he saw more than she imagined, more than she was willing to admit.
What to say? His beauty took my breath away? I can’t stop thinking about him? His voice enthrals me? I think we are soul mates. He makes me warm in places…
“He is…handsome,” she stammered lamely.
Her father chuckled. “He is that. And a man who knows horses.”
He’d thrown her a lifeline. “Ja. He is very taken with Mut.”
He tightened his embrace. “I don’t think that’s all he is taken with, Sophia.”
The room seemed to tilt, the pulse at her throat ran wild, someone must have lit a roaring fire, voices boomed in her ears. She grasped the crucifix pendant at her neck, seeking reassurance. “I don’t know what…”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, coming to his feet. “You’re a sensible girl. I trust you.”
Sensible!
The word echoed in her head as she watched him walk away to rejoin the fun. She didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to be loved by a man in the way her father loved her mother. Recklessly, passionately. Surely he of all people understood that?
Yesterday she’d jested about living her life as a spinster. Now she was beset by a wanton desire for a man with whom she had a fleeting acquaintance, hoping against hope he might emerge from the darkness outside at any moment.
She must have inhaled some noxious substance in the forest that had brought on this malady.
~~~
Brandt lay on a camp bed, staring into the shadowed peak of the pavilion. Standard torches flamed throughout the encampment, chasing away the darkness.
He never had any difficulty falling asleep, but now sleep eluded him. Mayhap it simply wasn’t dark enough.
He folded his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles, doubting too much light was the reason.
Perhaps he was concerned for the lame horse.
He turned onto his side, almost laughing out loud at that absurd notion. It wasn’t as though Mut was at death’s door, and he could hear Vidar speaking softly to the beast not far away.
He sat bolt upright when the reason for his restlessness became clear. He’d failed in his duty as Duke Conrad’s envoy. The faint strains of music coming from the manor house indicated the festivities were still underway. The emperor was likely there, as well as the hated Duke Heinrich of Saxony. There had probably been many snide remarks about the absence of Conrad’s envoy.
He got out of bed and shook awake his squire. Drogo startled, nigh on falling off his cot. He regretted waking the lad, but time was of the essence. “Get my clothes, I’m going to the manor house.”
His squire scrambled to his feet and retrieved the clothing, yawning widely as he helped get the shirt over his master’s head.
Within five minutes, the faithful servant had him dressed and booted. “You’re a good squire, Drogo,” Brandt told him, realizing he didn’t praise the boy enough for his efficiency and loyalty.
Drogo tried hard not to yawn. “I’ll wait up for you, my lord.”
Brandt shook his head. “Nein. Go back to bed. I won’t be long. I’ll pay my respects to the emperor and be back before you know it.”
Even in the half-light he saw Drogo’s eyes widen. “You’re going alone? This is enemy territory.”
“The men are probably asleep. It’s a wedding. I’ll be safe walking to the manor house.”
He opened the canvas, stepped outside, then closed the opening behind him as Drogo regained his cot.
The air had cooled slightly but he looked forward to the walk.
Vidar, still perched on a stool beside Mut, came to attention, but Brandt waved him away. “I’ll be gone half an hour. Just to the manor house.”
“I’ll escort you,” Vidar insisted.
“Nein. Stay with the horse. He needs you more than I do.”
Vidar frowned, then seemed to appreciate the jest and smiled—a rare event, but Brandt deemed it best not to remark on it.
He strode off across the field in the direction of the house still ablaze with light. As he got closer he detected a sweet perfume on the warm breeze. Honeysuckle maybe. He inhaled deeply, the aroma filling his mind with images of Sophia von Wolfenberg. Her lovely face tilted to the sun, the incredible blonde hair, the breasts that looked just the right size to fill his hands, the tempting smile. A woman who cared about horses.
He paused and looked back to the field of tents and pavilions, narrowing his gaze to take better advantage of the vision dancing behind his eyes. Sophia naked…
Gooseflesh marched over his skin when a harsh voice jolted him back to reality. “Here comes Conrad’s lackey.”
SONG AND DANCE
Brandt turned slowly to face his adversaries. As he expected, the tunics of the five men who barred his way bore a red shield with two gold lions rampant—the Duke of Saxony’s devise. They reeked of ale and swayed noticeably. He was confident his sword would prevail if it came to a fight.
However, he had no desire to become embroiled in a conflict at a wedding.
He bowed slightly without taking his eyes off the belligerents. “I am Brandt Rödermark, Duke Conrad’s official envoy. I doubt your master would be pleased if you inadvertently caused an incident at what is essentially a convivial occasion.”
It was evident from the confused frowns on their faces he had used words beyond their understanding, but something seemed to give them pause. One leaned heavily on a companion and snorted with laughter. Another belched. A third hiccupped, staring into nothingness.
To his relief, the swords stayed in their scabbards and the grinning men merely jostled him as they staggered by into the darkness.
He walked the remaining few yards to the house, straightened his tunic and brushed off the front—just in case.
A servant standing outside cautioned him to avoid stepping on the pieces of pottery broken during the Polterabend. The smiling fellow opened the door with a traditional shards bring luck and he stepped inside.
He’d expected a jovial atmosphere, given that a wedding was being celebrated, but as he scanned the main room his heart filled. This was a happy household. It was a far cry from the cold austerity of his father’s house in Rödermark. He gritted his teeth. He’d lived his entire life in his father’s house, yet never felt at home there. Wolfenberg was a welcoming place though he couldn’t say why.
It appeared the emperor and Duke Heinrich had already retired, for which he was glad, though meeting them was the reason he’d left his bed, wasn’t it?
A few folk were dancing a reigen, among them Graf von Wolfenberg who beckoned him over. “Join the circle, Rödermark.”
He hesitated. The group was small, composed mainly of family members. The leader was the brother who’d called to them in the forest, and he recognised the younger brother he’d met in the stabl
e, the betrothed couple, and Sophia.
It was suddenly stunningly obvious why sleep had eluded him. The Saxon girl had carved out a place in his heart. His throat tightened when she broke the circle and extended her hand. He quickly matched his step to the rhythmic pace of the dancers, despite that the warmth of her hand and the flash of her green eyes had thrown him off balance.
She blushed prettily when Lute chanted a few suggestive verses—typical at a wedding. However, she repeated the words as a refrain along with the others, laughing all the while.
She was the epitome of youthful innocence, a girl on the brink of womanhood. Though she fluttered her eyelashes at him, he sensed she wasn’t a practised flirt. She likely had no idea the effect she was having on his manhood. Pleasant stirrings made him thankful his tunic was long enough to conceal his arousal.
She squeezed his hand when he faltered momentarily, thrown off stride by the scrutiny of an older woman in the circle, who couldn’t be anyone other than her mother, the countess. Did the gräfin’s narrowed eyes indicate she was angry or amused? She’d noticed his attraction to her daughter. He hoped he wouldn’t be summarily requested to leave and sent home in disgrace.
Everyone cheered when the leader brought the reigen to an end. A few clapped, but Sophia held on to him, seemingly as reluctant as he to separate.
The leader called for everyone’s attention and embarked on an announcement.
Sophia stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “You remember my brother.”
“Named for the emperor,” he replied lamely, when what he’d wanted to say was that her eyes were beautiful, her hair was…
“Yes, His Highness has already left and…”
Suddenly the color drained from her face and she gripped his hand. “I prefer not, Lute,” she hissed.
He’d been preoccupied with the vision of her lying naked in his bed and had no notion what her brother had said.
“Nonsense,” he insisted, taking her by the arm. Then he paused and looked at Brandt. “You must be Conrad’s emissary. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Lute von Wolfenberg,” he said. “You don’t mind if I steal my sister away? She and Kristina are going to play a duet to close the evening.”
Brandt wasn’t sure what to think of the distress in Sophia’s green eyes as her brother pulled her away, but he politely accepted the seat offered him by her father.
“Sophia plays the lyre,” Graf Dieter explained, “and Kristina the dulcimer. They are quite good.”
~~~
Maestro Grigor handed Sophia the lyre and she sat on the edge of her chair, wishing she and Kristina had taken the music lessons more seriously. It was suddenly vitally important they give the performance of their lives, but a glance at her friend revealed flushed cheeks and an uncharacteristic giddiness. “Are you able to play?” she hissed, aware Kristina didn’t always hit the right keys of the dulcimer even when she was in full possession of her senses.
Her friend’s broad smile did little to reassure her; it was too much like the grin of an imbecile. She supposed she shouldn’t be judgmental. She’d be a grinning fool if she was getting married on the morrow.
That notion conjured an image of Brandt Rödermark. Gripping the lyre, she risked a glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. He was staring at her, a strange half smile tugging at the corners of his sensuous lips.
She came close to dropping the instrument when Kristina hiccupped and let one of the hammers fall onto the keys. Her friend never drank wine, but perhaps on an occasion such as this…
Lute nodded when Maestro Grigor whispered something to him, then cleared his throat. “And to end our wonderful evening, Sophia and Kristina will render the ballad of the Honeysuckle and the Vine.”
She groaned inwardly. Her brother expected her to sing as well as play.
She thought to protest, but their music teacher clapped his hands in delight at the suggestion. “Ja, ja,” he exclaimed. “Gut.”
Kristina giggled, no doubt also remembering the laughter Maestro’s flatulence problem never failed to elicit. Every time he bent his knees when conducting…
She inhaled deeply to calm her fluttering heart, resolved not to think on it further, lest Brandt Rödermark deem her a complete idiot. He probably already wondered why her face flamed red.
When Sophia glared at her, Kristina sobered, straightened her back and picked up the hammers, poised to begin.
Sophia cleared her throat, then plucked the lyre. It was a ballad she’d performed many times and soon the well-loved tale of Tristan and Iseut calmed her. She sang of Tristan’s banishment, and his determination to see Iseut again.
It was better to risk death than lack
The one thing that counted in his eyes.
This shouldn’t cause anyone surprise—
A lover grieves and broods that way
If he is true and far away
From the lady who has won his heart.
Feeling more confident, she made the mistake of glancing up at Brandt. He was leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, studying her intently with those piercing eyes. Could he tell the alarming effect his presence had on her? A man such as he must be aware of his masculine attraction.
Maestro scowled when Kristina hit a wrong note. Sophia tore her gaze away from Brandt and sang on.
He could no longer live that way,
Cut off from the one he loved, for they
Were like the honeysuckle vine,
Which around a hazel tree will twine,
Holding the trunk as in a fist
And climbing until its tendrils twist
Around the top and hold it fast.
Together tree and vine will last.
But then, if anyone should pry
The vine away, they both will die.
My love, we’re like that vine and tree;
I’ll die without you, you without me.
Her father led the applause. Armond and Amara barked enthusiastically, their tails wagging. Glowing with pride, Johann swept Kristina into his embrace. Lute kissed Sophia on one cheek then the other. “By the morrow I shall have two talented sisters,” he declared loudly.
Sophia trembled, not daring to look at Brandt, but longing to know if he had enjoyed her performance.
She finally plucked up the courage to seek him out, dismayed when she saw he was taking his leave of her mother and father. She watched him depart, bereft he hadn’t bidden her goodnight.
THUGS
Brandt inhaled deeply as he left the manor house. A hint of honeysuckle still hung in the warm air.
The honeysuckle and the vine.
He regretted leaving without bidding Sophia goodnight, but feared he might have rained kisses on her tempting mouth if he’d approached her.
Her elegant fingers on the lyre had plucked his heartstrings. Her sweet voice enchanted him. His emotions were in disarray. What was special about Sophia? A relationship could never grow between them. She was the daughter of an enemy and he was to marry Dorothea. Yet the words of her song echoed in his heart.
My love, we’re like that vine and tree;
I’ll die without you, you without me.
He paused, filled with an irrational notion to turn back and tell her he was under her spell.
His preoccupation proved costly. A shiver of apprehension arrowed up his spine but it was too late. He was grabbed from behind, his arms held fast. The reek of ale indicated these were probably the same thugs from earlier.
A beefy, sweating face loomed, so close he gagged on the foul breath emanating from the toothless grin.
“Not so convivial now,” the lout taunted as he yanked Brandt’s dagger from its sheath.
A fisted blow to his belly robbed him of any ability to respond and these men weren’t in a mood to talk.
“Don’t want to mar that pretty face of yours,” the brute growled, chortling as he waved the stolen dagger under Brandt’s nose.
He struggled to free his arms. The da
gger bore his mother’s family emblem and was the only thing of her left to him. But the weapon seemed of little import when pain exploded in his chest as blow followed blow in rapid succession. They apparently didn’t have murder in mind or they’d have knifed him in the back, but if the Saxon continued his pommeling…
Gritting his teeth against the agony, he leaned all his weight against the men behind him and kicked at his assailant, satisfied when the toe of his boot landed in precisely the spot he’d hoped. The wretch doubled over. Howling, he staggered away, hands cupped to his balls.
Distracted by their companion’s distress, the others loosened their grip, giving him the opportunity to yank one arm free. He swiveled and struck out blindly, hoping to connect with a jaw, but the movement intensified the inferno consuming his body.
It was vital he free himself before the man he’d kicked returned, no doubt meaner and angrier than before, but he had no strength left to resist as his arm was pinned once more.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice. “Hold. What’s going on here?”
Vidar!
Brandt was shoved to the ground. Dizzy with pain, he curled into a ball, but one of the attackers kicked him repeatedly. Both fled when his adjutant appeared on the scene with a handful of Rödermark men who quickly formed a circle around their master. Vidar sheathed his sword and fell to his knees. “My lord, are you cut?”
Shaking from head to toe and fearing he might retch, Brandt struggled to all fours, barely able to breathe. “Nein,” he rasped, spitting what he hoped wasn’t blood into the dirt. “But my ribs are surely broken.”
“Scheisse,” Vidar swore, grasping his arm. “Saxons, no doubt.”
“Ja,” Brandt confirmed, gritting his teeth as the faithful soldier helped him to his feet.
“Help me get him to the pavilion,” he commanded his men. “I have the makings of a mustard poultice for his ribs.”
Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1) Page 5