“Perhaps I can separate them.” Magdalen took her long, thin stick and moved cautiously so as not to frighten the sheep. She urged one of the geese to move, a bit at a time, until she had herded it away from the sheep. But twenty-nine more geese still infiltrated the sheep flock.
Gradually, painstakingly, she managed to coax all the geese out from among the sheep and into their own side of the meadow. Meanwhile, Steffan talked to the sheep.
“Do not worry,” he said in a soothing tone, “just keep eating your grass.” He kept his body between them and—to judge by his expression—certain death. “Stay where you are. No running off, now. That’s a good flock.”
“How long have you been tending sheep?” she asked as she separated the last goose from the sheep.
“I am an inexperienced shepherd. Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Not at all.” She shook her head, suppressing a smile. “It’s only that I don’t know much about sheep, but you seem to think them very timid creatures.”
“They are timid. It’s the geese you must watch out for. They are evil birds, bent on mayhem and cruelty.”
“They only wish to eat and be safe. They’re only birds, after all.”
“How can you say so with that fresh wound on your forearm?”
“I’d hardly call it a serious injury. The bird was simply frightened of an unfamiliar person.”
He grunted. “You should take care.”
Magdalen studied his profile. He did not appear to be in jest. He seemed to genuinely hate the geese. But why? He seemed to like the sheep and treated them with gentleness.
For the rest of the day they grazed their animals, making sure they stayed separate, and talked occasionally. Near the end of the day, as the sun was getting low, he put away his book.
“Where did you get that book?”
“Oh, this? It was . . . in my bag.” He obviously did not want to tell her.
“Well, if you have another in your bag, would you allow me to read it tomorrow?”
“You know how to read?” A suspicious light flickered in his eyes.
“Of course. I mean, I learned . . . when I was . . . younger.” A servant, especially one as lowly as a goose girl, should not know how to read. But then, neither should a shepherd.
“I see.” He shuttered his eyes, half closing them and turning away slightly. “I shall bring you something to read tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Do you happen to have paper and ink as well?”
He turned back toward her. “I do.”
“Would you bring me some?”
“In exchange . . .”
“Exchange for what?”
“For you telling me your name.”
“Very well. Tomorrow when you bring the paper and ink, I will tell you my name.”
Chapter Nine
As Steffan herded his sheep up the hill beside the comely servant girl and her easy smile, he was convinced this goose girl was Lady Magdalen of Mallin. But until he had proof in his possession of his own identity, he did not want to confide in her. She might think he had sent her the letter proposing marriage. But she was only a poor baron’s daughter, and his grandmother had warned him not to marry beneath his station. Dukes did not marry for love. Marrying for love was foolish, and it led to heartbreak and sorrow.
Besides that, with his region’s wealth and his title, he could expect to marry very well indeed.
His parents had married for love, and when his mother died suddenly, his father had been so heartbroken, he stopped caring about anything or anyone. He followed his wife to the grave less than a year after she died. Steffan had vowed never to fall in love like that, never to care so much for someone that he would grieve himself to death. And the only way to ensure that was to marry for practical reasons and not for love.
But why in the world would his uncle ask Lady Magdalen, a poor baron’s daughter, to marry his son, then throw her out to watch the geese and instead marry him to an imposter? None of it made sense.
As they drew nearer the castle, a man was running and looking behind him as he ran. The goose girl noticed him, then hurried toward him. He was twice her size, and he was heading straight for her, his face twisted in a strange expression.
Steffan broke into a run, ready to defend her. But when the man saw her, he stopped.
“Oh, Lenhart!” the goose girl cried. “What has happened to you? You poor thing.”
A line of blood ran down the side of the young man’s face. And on getting a closer look, he seemed less of a man and more an overgrown boy of fifteen years.
She took a cloth out of her bag and dabbed at his face. “Who did this to you?”
He only shook his head.
“Come.” She touched his arm. “I have to put these geese in their pen. As soon as I do, I want you to show me who hurt you.”
“Do you need help?” Steffan asked.
“I might. Will you return after you put away your sheep?”
“I shall.” He herded the animals to the barn—they could walk quickly when they were forced to—and ran back to where he had left the goose girl and the large young man.
She stood talking softly to him, dabbing at the blood on his temple and cheek.
“What happened?”
She turned to look at Steffan. “I don’t know. Lenhart, show us who did this to you.”
But the boy only shook his head, then pointed to the girl and shook his head again.
“Why does he not speak?”
“Lenhart does not speak with his voice.” Then she looked into the boy’s eyes. “Did Erlich do this to you?”
He hung his head.
“He did, didn’t he? It’s time to confront him.”
Lenhart shook his head with vehemence, but the goose girl had already started off across the bailey. The boy went after her, and Steffan ran after both of them.
They headed toward the stables, and when they reached them, a man was dumping out a water trough and adding more water from a bucket.
“Where is Erlich?”
The man put down the bucket and stood to his full height.
“Run along, maiden. Everyone has a place here, and this is not yours.”
Steffan stepped forward, but she was already speaking again, her voice icy. “Do you not know that this boy’s angel is always in heaven beholding the very face of God? Erlich may be bold enough to mistreat him, but you and the other men should defend him if you have any fear of the Almighty.”
“I asked him a question and he didn’t answer me.” A note of complaint entered the man’s voice.
“He cannot speak.” She looked at him as if he must be daft.
“If he can hear me, why can he not speak?”
“He cannot speak because his throat was injured. Nothing is wrong with his ears. And even if he could speak but did not answer you, that is no reason to stand by and do nothing when someone else strikes him and bloodies his face. God will not look favorably upon people who strike those who—” The goose girl took a step back as a man Steffan did not recognize emerged from the stable.
This man, who looked to be around forty years old and had long hair and squinty eyes, glared at her as he approached. She took another step back, then stopped.
“You are not to hit Lenhart again”—she looked him in the eye—“or he and I will speak to Lord Hazen about you.”
“You will not, because you will be dead.” The man lunged at her, grabbing her around the neck. He was strangling her.
Steffan ran forward as Lenhart leapt at the man, as did the other stable worker. The three of them reached him at about the same time and pulled him off of her.
Steffan clenched his fists. “How dare you attack this young maiden?”
But the man curled his lip and pointed at her while she held her hands at her throat and coughed.
“If she wants to live, and wants her friend to live, she had best stay with her geese.”
Lenhart and the maiden both glared back
at him, but he suddenly smiled, then laughed. “You cannot win against me. I am the stable master here, and I will do as I see fit. Lord Hazen listens to me, not some little goose girl and a mute puppy. You two.” He pointed at Lenhart and the other stable worker, whose eyes were cautious. “Get to work.”
“People in Wolfberg are expected to treat others with mercy and respect,” Steffan called after the man, but he did not even acknowledge Steffan’s words. What kind of fiends had his uncle hired to work in place of their old loyal workers?
He turned to the goose girl. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, still rubbing her neck gingerly, while Lenhart hovered next to her.
“Let me see.” He eased her hand away. Two red thumbprints marked the front of her pale throat. “I should have that man thrashed for what he did to you.” And he would, if he were still the Duke of Wolfberg and the ruler of this castle and town.
She looked at him curiously. Did she know he was the duke? Did she recognize him? Could it be that they were both in the same predicament?
But her gaze was drawn to the boy. “Lenhart, are you in danger? Do you think he would . . . kill you?”
Lenhart took a breath and let it out slowly. Then he shook his head.
“Perhaps you should run away, back to Mallin.”
An uncomfortable look crossed his face, then he shook his head. Lenhart bent down and started writing in the dirt. I want to stay with you. But I will go back to get help if you want me to.
How did this mute servant boy learn to read and write? But he held the question for later.
The maiden seemed to think for a moment, then finally said, “No, it would be dangerous for you. It would take at least three days, especially if you had no horse, for you to make it back to Mallin, and anything could happen to you on the road. You might even get lost.”
He brushed the dirt with his hand, erasing his words, and wrote, Erlich said if I ran away, he would track me down, chop off my head, and hang it over the stable door.
She suddenly threw her arms around him. “I’ll find a way to save us,” she mumbled against his shoulder as they squatted in the stable yard.
His heart gave a squeeze at their affection. He shoved that feeling away.
She let go of Lenhart and stood. “You know where I am if you need me?”
He nodded, then gave her a wave. She waved back and turned away.
“Who is that insane man who tried to strangle you?” Steffan said as they walked back through the bailey toward the servants’ barracks.
“He is the stable master now. He . . . does not like me or Lenhart.”
“And how do you know Lenhart?”
“I have known him for a long time. My father discovered his own father was beating him, so Father brought him to live with us. He is a good boy but can be stubborn with men who remind him of his father. It makes me furious to think of someone striking him.”
“I can see that.” He felt a strange warmth as he remembered the way she had stood up for the boy, the way she clenched her fists and raised her voice and demanded respect for a poor mute servant.
“So, you both arrived here from Mallin recently?”
“Yes.”
“You taught him to read and write, didn’t you?”
“I enjoy teaching others.” She did not glance his way as she brushed some dirt from her skirt.
He waited, but she wasn’t going to give him any more information. “I’ll walk you back.”
Her green eyes were quite beautiful, whether she was giving a death glare to a man twice her size or giving Steffan a suspicious side glance.
He should not be—but he was—looking forward to taking his sheep out to graze tomorrow.
Magdalen could hardly wait to see the duke’s look-alike shepherd so she could get the paper and ink from him that he had promised. She arose early, got dressed, and sat on the edge of her bed.
If she could only write those letters and find someone to deliver them to Thornbeck and Mallin, she would feel she was finally making progress toward getting her identity back—and discovering what had happened to her duke.
Katrin rolled over and blinked. Her eyes focused on Magdalen and she sat up. “Why are you up so early?”
“Oh, I’m hungry, and . . . I was tired of lying in bed.” Both of which were true. She had awoken before anyone else and could not stop thinking about her situation, trying to think of what to say in her letters, writing them over and over in her head.
Her mind also kept going back to the shepherd, Steffan. Where would he get paper and ink? What if he was lying to her? She might not even see him again if he did not graze his sheep in the same meadow.
When Katrin finished dressing, they went together to the privy, to the well to get water to wash their hands and faces, and then to the servants’ dining hall. They were almost the first to arrive, and Steffan was not there.
The breakfast was the usual porridge, but today it had a scorched taste.
Katrin looked disgusted. “Can they at least not burn the tasteless food?”
“It isn’t tasteless. Now it tastes like coal.”
“Or half-burned peat.”
Magdalen put another bite in her mouth. She would have to wait several more hours before eating again, so she chewed the bits of oats in the porridge and swallowed. Katrin held her nose while shoveling it in. “It’s easier to eat it if you can’t smell it.”
Magdalen ate another bite, also holding her nose. But after three more bites, her stomach began to protest. Since she didn’t want it coming back up, she put her spoon down and took a deep breath.
She took notice of every face around the room and each person who came in the door. Steffan had not shown up. She let out a deep sigh. How would she get her paper and ink now? But she still hoped she would see him in the meadow. The hours went by so much faster the day before, and it must have been because she’d had Steffan to talk to.
Magdalen fetched the geese, letting them follow her down the castle mount and to the meadow where they’d grazed the day before. Steffan was not there either. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she saw that she and the geese were the only ones there.
Ah, well. She didn’t need Steffan. Perhaps God wanted to teach her that she did not need to depend on this man’s help. God wanted to show her He could provide the paper and ink—and fend off the dullness of a long day—another way.
She sat beside one of the friendly geese, whom she had named Flaumig, and stroked her back while she fed on the tender green grass and clover.
Suddenly she heard the gentle bleating sounds of a flock of sheep coming her way. She watched the narrow pathway from the other end of the meadow, her heart beating just a bit faster when Steffan appeared, leading his sheep.
His whole face was scrunched as he caught sight of her. “You will not believe what has happened. I am beginning to think Wolfberg the most lawless, evil place I’ve ever been to.”
“What? What happened?”
“The paper and ink you wanted? I had them. I had them in my small trunk, which I kept under my bed, and some scoundrel has stolen them. Stolen everything!” He threw his arms out wide as though the statement was inconceivable.
“Nothing truly valuable was in the trunk,” he went on. “No gold or silver or copper coins. I was not foolish enough to leave such things in plain sight. But some people will steal anything. The only things they did not steal were my books.”
He looked like he had the first time she’d seen him in the dining hall, with his brows drawn down in a scowl. How could a shepherd—one of the lowliest of the servant positions—be so appalled that someone would steal his things? And how did a shepherd know how to read or have the money to possess books and paper and ink?
He squatted next to his sheep and pounded his fist into the ground.
She would have felt more pity for him if he had not lost the paper and ink she so desperately needed. “How did you get paper and ink
? Perhaps you could go acquire some more.”
“I . . . brought it with me.”
“You are not from Wolfberg?”
He heaved a sigh. “Do you want to hear all about my life . . . now?” He ran his hand through his hair. “You haven’t even told me your real name.”
“You did not bring me any paper or ink.”
“As I just explained to you, they were stolen.”
“You did not uphold your end of our agreement, but if you cannot get any paper and ink . . .” She did not want to be cruel, but she needed those materials.
He closed his eyes while raising his brows in that imperious way of his. “Very well. If you will watch my sheep for me, I shall retrieve the items for you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Into town to purchase some paper and ink.”
“Do you want to know my name that badly?”
“Nearly. I also want to know why you want paper and ink.”
“How do you know I will tell you?”
“Because if you do, I shall buy you something to eat besides that burned porridge I heard about.”
The thought of edible food—some roast pheasant or wheat bread with a thick slice of butter—made her mouth water. She had been hungry since arriving in Wolfberg. But did she dare tell him why she needed the paper and ink? Perhaps she could get away with being vague.
“Decide quickly, for I am going to buy myself something, regardless.”
“Are you always so curious about your fellow servants?”
He looked up at the sky as if he was thinking. Finally, he looked back at her. “Nein.”
“Very well. I am so hungry I could eat three breakfasts.”
He stood and bowed to her. “I shall return as soon as I can.”
“I cannot pay you for the food.”
He gave her a tiny smile. “I may not be a knight, but I am too chivalrous to allow you to pay me for food.” And with that he loped away on his long legs.
Magdalen had a strange feeling in her stomach, which she was vaguely aware that she had felt before. Where had she felt this? Oh yes. At the ball at Thornbeck when she danced with the Duke of Wolfberg. If this shepherd was not the duke . . . he made her feel the same way he had.
The Noble Servant Page 7