Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1)

by Anna Markland

  “It was even better than Mama foretold,” she murmured with a contented sigh. “Your turn now.”

  ~~~

  Sophia dropped to her knees between Brandt’s legs and nuzzled her nose against the hard bulge at his groin, concerned when he groaned. “Am I not doing it correctly?” she asked.

  He leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. The meagre moonbeams penetrating the wooden slats of the summer-house highlighted the strain on his handsome face, intensifying her worry. “Better than correctly, Sophia, and I’d like nothing more than to have you strip me of my leggings and let me show you how effective your touch is.”

  She lay her head on his thigh. “But…”

  He drew her back up on the bench and put an arm around her shoulders. “There’ll be a better place and time, when we aren’t worried about disturbing your parents. I might shout out my euphoria if we continue.”

  She cuddled into him, smoothing down her skirts. “Euphoria is a good word for what you made me feel. Thank you.”

  He pecked a kiss on her head. “You’re welcome, my little Saxon.”

  “I’m part Danish too,” she teased.

  He chuckled. “I might have known.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Danish women are reputed to be passionate. My Viking ancestors came from Roskilde.”

  “My great grandmother was Danish, but I am not sure from where exactly. Her name was Ragna. She came to Northumbria and married an Anglo-Saxon, but they died along with their two sons when marauding Scots attacked their manor-house. That left my grandmother an orphan.”

  “Tragic,” he said, stroking her hair. “I suppose that was after the Norman invasion? Dangerous times in England.”

  Her thoughts drifted to the woman she’d never met but to whom she owed so much of the person she was. “The nuns took her in, and she expected to take vows, but then along came my grandfather. She nursed him back to health after he was wounded at the Battle of Alnwick. Her name was Agneta.”

  “That’s one of your given names,” he remarked.

  She nodded. “And Lute is named for my grandfather, Caedmon. They both drowned in the White Ship disaster.”

  They sat for long minutes, the silence broken only by the distant croaking from the Elbe.

  “I don’t think my mother ever got over it,” she said at last. “But at least she has my grandmother’s dagger.”

  His heart lurched. “How did that come about? Your mother was living here when they died, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. My grandparents were returning from visiting their new granddaughter—me—when they drowned. But a few years later my aunt Ragna undertook a voyage to bring the heirloom dagger to her sister. She was shipwrecked, but eventually my father brought the weapon here. It’s hanging on the wall in the main room. I’ll show it to you on the morrow.”

  “The thugs who attacked me stole my dagger,” he confided. “It belonged to my mother’s family.”

  She grasped his hands. “Why didn’t you mention it before? You must get it back.”

  “It seemed trivial, but now I know you understand what it meant to me.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, aching for his loss. But she was tired. “I need my bed.”

  “As do I,” he replied with a hint of regret. “Come along, prinzessin, allow me to escort you.”

  “That’s funny. Tante Ragna was always teased by her family with the nickname wild Viking princess, not because she was a Viking—she was born and raised in England—but because she was, well, wild.”

  He took her arm and led her to the doorway. “Sounds like there is much still to learn about your aunt.”

  “There is. But we are both tired.” She paused and looked back into the summer-house. “This little place holds many good memories. Now it has given me another.”

  Arm in arm they strolled back along the well-lit pathway.

  ~~~

  Once he reached his chamber, Brandt didn’t wake Drogo.

  Dressing and undressing was still a slow process. Finally naked, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his rampant rute. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered.

  He’d always taken care of his body, kept it strong, but now he felt like Hercules. He’d brought the woman he loved to her first release; the aroma of her arousal lingered on his fingertips.

  He’d foregone his own pleasure—no easy feat given the uproar Sophia caused in his hodensack. She fired his blood like no woman ever had.

  And therein lay his problem. Hercules perhaps, but he was also a mere mortal—weak and needy.

  He climbed into bed and lay flat on his back, trying to summon unpleasant thoughts and keep his hands off his shaft. Dorothea came to mind, but that simply made him laugh. Images of his father’s angry face filled him with pity.

  The Italian invasion. A knot tightened in his gut. Lothair might be a spritely three score and one, but leading a military expedition across the Italian Alps wasn’t for the faint of heart. And what would the Staufens decide?

  He turned carefully onto his side. Sophia was his, so he might as well resign himself to letting things take their natural course. Useless to worry about what Conrad and Friedrich might decide or the likelihood he’d wake up on the morrow to damp linens.

  NEGOTIATIONS

  The negotiations began the next day. Brandt expected to sit down with the three dukes, the emperor and Graf Dieter, but Sophia’s father quickly disabused him of the notion as they hurriedly broke their fast. “I will meet with the emperor and Heinrich; I will then relay their thoughts to you; you will take them to Friedrich and Conrad.”

  His instinct was to suggest that it would be easier and more efficient if the parties met face to face, but he acknowledged Graf Dieter had more experience with diplomacy. “Then I assume I bring their replies back to you to pass on to the emperor.”

  “Exactly. It’s a slow process, but one that avoids angry confrontations, though I don’t guarantee your dukes won’t get angry with you.”

  He hesitated as the winking count got to his feet, bread and cheese in hand. It was important to ask von Wolfenberg’s blessing for his marriage to Sophia, but this didn’t seem like the appropriate time. “I have much to learn from you,” he said.

  The count shot him a curious smile. “Well, with any luck we’ll get to spend lots of time together and we can learn from each other. Now, the Staufens are likely expecting you.”

  He watched the man hurry away with his beloved dogs, unsure what Graf Dieter could possibly learn from him, then wolfed down the last of his bread and set off for the Staufen pavilion.

  Both dukes awaited him, drumming their fingers on the arms of the ornate wooden chairs. He gaped at the transformation they’d wrought since their arrival. The large canvas shelter he’d slept in now reminded him of stories he’d heard of palatial Saracen dwellings. Costly rugs, silken drapery, cushions—it was difficult to take it all in.

  “What do you think of our little desert oasis?” Conrad crowed.

  A twinge of resentment skittered up Brandt’s spine. They hadn’t thought it necessary to provide their envoy with any of these luxurious comforts. “Impressive,” he replied, hoping they wouldn’t detect the hint of annoyance in his voice.

  Friedrich fixed his one eye on him. “What will they ask for first?”

  This was an aspect of the talks he hadn’t considered, but he’d spent enough time with the emperor before the arrival of the Staufens to be aware of the imperial plan. “You’ll be reminded of your pledge to participate in any future campaign in Italy when you swore your oath to him at the Reichstag in Bamberg last year.”

  Friedrich bristled. Conrad raised an eyebrow. He’d riled them so might as well drive the point home. “When you recognized him as emperor and he pardoned you for challenging him for the throne.”

  Friedrich pouted, his good eye blinking rapidly. “We’re aware of what took place in Bamberg, but…”

  Conrad raised a han
d. “We shall wait and see if Rödermark is correct. Here comes his squire now.”

  Drogo hovered in the doorway, his mouth agape as he took in the surroundings.

  “Am I summoned by the count?” Brandt asked.

  The lad swallowed hard, his eyes darting back to his master. “Ja, my lord.”

  ~~~

  Sophia gladly spent the day doing needlework, a pastime she usually loathed. However, she’d readily accepted her mother’s invitation to sit with her and Kristina in the solar while they plied their needles.

  The chamber had a view of the ducal and imperial pavilions, enabling her to watch Brandt and her father come and go.

  Judging by the stern expressions on both their faces each time they emerged into the sunlight, things weren’t going well.

  Food was delivered to the pavilions at midday, depriving her of the opportunity to ask how the negotiations were proceeding.

  She punctured her finger several times, resulting in smears of blood on the embroidery. Not a good omen.

  “Be patient,” her mother chided. “Your constant sighing is making us all nervous.”

  She put the needlework on the table. “Sorry, Mama. I’m not good at sewing at the best of times.”

  “I just thought it would keep you occupied.”

  Kristina looked up from her work, tears welling in her eyes. “Whatever happens won’t change the fact that all our men will soon be marching off to war.”

  Sophia came to her feet, hoping to calm the adder writhing in her belly. “But it’s important they all fight on the same side. You and I can’t have our husbands…”

  Her mother glanced up sharply. “Husbands?”

  Sophia fell to her knees at her mother’s feet and lay her head on the lap where she always found comfort. “I have agreed to marry Brandt, Mama,” she sobbed. “I know it means…”

  “Hush, Sophia,” came the soft reply. “I knew the first time I saw Brandt watching you dance in the reigen that he was smitten. I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes before.”

  “But…”

  “And when you sang to him in the carriage on the way back from Naumburg, it was obvious you loved him. It broke my heart to see you so distraught.”

  Finding solace in the gentle touch of her mother’s hand stroking her hair, she became aware Kristina knelt beside her. She straightened and faced her lifelong friend. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things so complicated.”

  Kristina embraced her. “You don’t need to apologise to me, blöde gans. I am overjoyed you’ve found love—at my wedding!”

  Her mother helped them both to their feet. “We three are fortunate, and you’ll be a silly goose indeed, Sophia if you don’t seize Brandt with both hands. The Church teaches that a man must leave his parents and cleave to his wife, and the same goes for women. It’s a sad truth that most women don’t get to choose the man they marry.

  “Now, we need to find out what the cooks are up to in the kitchens. Sometimes a good meal can achieve what men and their meetings cannot.”

  As her mother left, Sophia took a last look out into the field. Brandt chose the moment to stride by. Her heart lifted when he waved, but he’d gone on his way before she had a chance to return the gesture. “It’s amazing,” she said to her friend waiting by the door, “the significance of one small gesture. When you told me Brandt had returned my wave the morning we set off for Naumburg I knew he was the man for me.”

  PEACOCKS

  After five days of fruitless back and forth, Brandt was contemplating lifting Sophia onto a horse and riding off to…anywhere.

  The weather broke on the fourth day and the heavens opened. The downpour was a welcome relief for the parched fields and sluggish Elbe, but the comings and goings of dozens of servants, soldiers and horses churned the field to mud.

  Brandt almost lost his footing on more than one occasion. Appearing in the opulent Staufen pavilion soaked to the skin and covered in muck wouldn’t endear him to the brothers. They now focussed their complete attention on supervising servants who poked long sticks at water-laden canvas, sending torrents of water off the pitched roof. The yellow Staufen standard hung limply from the peak, its single black lion sable looking more like a drowned rat.

  He despaired of his boots ever being clean again, and an amicable solution seemed more out of reach than when they began. With the rain had come demands from the Staufen dukes they apparently hadn’t thought of at the outset of negotiations.

  Every evening he looked forward to Sophia’s smile and her optimistic reassurances that all would be well. The evening meal in the intimacy of the von Wolfenberg dining room was the only bright spot in dark days.

  Even Graf Dieter’s good humor seemed to be flagging. Brandt was therefore surprised when the count, looking relaxed, greeted him jovially at their first meeting in his solar on the sixth day. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the armchair facing his own. “Time we got down to more important matters. I understand we’ve a wedding to plan.”

  Brandt hadn’t looked forward to reporting that the Staufens refused to budge on any of their demands. It rankled that in five days he hadn’t found an opportunity to discuss his proposal and its ramifications with Sophia’s father. He recalled his discomfort sitting in the very same chair for his last interview.

  “It wasn’t my intention to conceal my affection for Sophia,” he began.

  “Don’t worry,” the count assured him. “I understand. You’ve been preoccupied with an unfamiliar role as diplomat—a task you’ll excel at with more practice.”

  His unexpected praise stunned Brandt into silence.

  “And I hardly think affection is a suitable word for what you feel for my daughter. At least I hope that’s the case.”

  Brandt finally sat. “I can never go back to a life where there is no Sophia.”

  The count slapped his thigh and laughed. “Exactly what I said about my Blythe Lacey FitzRam many years ago. You know the story, I’m sure.

  “My late father-by-marriage…” He paused to make the sign of their Savior across his body… “God rest his soul, came to Köln to rescue his daughter from my clutches. But he saw what we had tried to deny—that we were in love. He gave us his blessing.

  “It wasn’t easy for a young English girl who barely spoke my language to commit herself to me, a widower with a little boy, but she did, and we’ve been more than happy together. How can I deny that chance at happiness to my daughter when I see how much she cares for you?

  “Your determination to do your duty and ride to Naumburg if it killed you also impressed me,” he added with a laconic smile. “Though it was somewhat foolhardy.”

  His words rendered Brandt speechless and hammered home how much growing up with a cantankerous and selfish father had cost him.

  A servant entered bearing a tray with two tankards of ale. The count took one tankard and offered the other to Brandt. “We’ll drink a toast.”

  He stood quickly and accepted the ale, wondering when they were going to get around to discussing the dukes’ intransigence. He stared into the amber liquid, nervous about staggering drunkenly through the mud to the Staufen pavilion.

  “I propose a toast,” the count declared, raising his tankard. “To a happy marriage between you and my daughter and many, many grandchildren for me to enjoy in my old age.” He paused and looked askance at Brandt. “I suppose you’ve already gathered that Agneta FitzRam’s female descendants are…” he tapped his chin. “…shall we say well informed on the topic of sexual congress?”

  Brandt swallowed hard. How to respond. Indicating he and Sophia had shared intimate moments might get him killed.

  The count laughed. “No need to reply. Your red face says it all. Believe me, there is nothing more satisfying than being married to a passionate woman, and unless I am mistaken, Sophia is her mother’s daughter.”

  Rattled yet strangely elated, Brandt raised his tankard and watched the count almost drain his. “I appreciate the toast, but
we have to consider that if the Staufens refuse…”

  “They won’t refuse,” von Wolfenberg replied with a satisfied belch. “They never had any intention of rebelling.”

  Brandt frowned. “Then why…?”

  “Posturing. Face saving. Call it what you will. They are strutting peacocks, but in the end it’s all show. They depleted their resources fighting Lothair the first time. That’s the reason they lost the war. You know that. You fought on their side. They don’t have the manpower or money to mount another campaign against him. The Italian offensive offers a chance to acquire land, replenish coffers, bring home booty.”

  Brandt gaped at his future father-by-marriage. “You knew this all along.”

  Graf Dieter smiled. “Of course, and so did the emperor. Heinrich was the naysayer, naturally, but his antagonism made it easier for the Staufens to play their role.” He raised his tankard again. “Now, drink.”

  Brandt smiled and touched his tankard to the count’s. “You’re known as the Wolf of Saxony, Graf von Wolfenberg, but I think you’re more of a fox.”

  The count laughed. “And I think it’s time you called me Graf Dieter. At least until you and Sophia wed. Then you can start calling me Papa, if your father has no objections.”

  Brandt felt the color drain from his face. He’d always addressed Gunther Rödermark as my lord, or vater, never Papa. “He’ll have no objections,” he rasped. “It will be my honor.”

  He lifted his tankard and drank every last drop of the ale.

  “Gut?” the count asked.

  “Very good,” he replied, gasping for breath before belching loudly.

  Graf Dieter laughed. “Now, please inform the Staufens the negotiations are at an end. If they aren’t going to join the campaign they may as well go home.”

  ~~~

  “The rain has stopped,” Blythe von Wolfenberg declared as she bustled into the solar.

  Since watching Brandt make his unsteady way to the Staufen pavilion an hour before, Sophia had been determined to keep her attention off what was going on in the field. It broke her heart every time he walked by looking less and less hopeful. “Mayhap it’s a good omen,” she replied, poking her needle into the quilt depicting scenes from the legend of Tristan that she and Kristina had embarked on.