The Noble Servant

by Melanie Dickerson

  She did her best to surreptitiously wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry for all that has happened to you, Lady Magdalen.” He patted her shoulder as someone might pat a sister.

  The tears she wiped away were quickly replaced with more.

  “I’m going to get a drink.” She practically ran to the little spring at the edge of the trees. She fell to her knees beside it, bent, gathering the cold water in her hands, and splashed it on her face. And still the hot tears squeezed from her eyes onto her cold cheeks.

  She took deep breaths. Thoughts flitted through her mind.

  Mother will be so angry that I’m not marrying a duke after all.

  I was a fool to think a duke would marry me.

  The handsome shepherd, who’s also the handsome duke I met years ago, doesn’t want me, isn’t even willing to do the honorable thing and promise to marry me.

  Her heart ached, but her pride was injured the most. Foolish pride.

  Why should I care if he doesn’t want me? I have to focus on getting back to Mallin.

  But her mother would be furious and blame Magdalen. Somehow everything was always her fault. Such as the time when her mother’s favorite dress had become entangled in a thornbush after she alighted from her horse.

  This is your fault, she had screamed after looking down at her ripped dress. You love these ridiculous bushes with their berries and flowers. Now look at my dress—it’s ruined!

  Mother could not accept that anything was her own fault. So her dress had ripped because Magdalen loved the flowers of the thornbush that ripped it.

  And now, whether Steffan was able to take back his rightful place as the Duke of Wolfberg or not, it would be Magdalen’s fault that he didn’t marry her. She would face the humiliation of having thought she was to marry a duke, as well as her mother’s many recriminations for allowing it to happen. Magdalen might as well face it and go home forthwith, even though she would have to walk the entire way.

  And the Duke of Wolfberg would just have to solve his own problems.

  These empowering thoughts completely stopped her tears. She took out her cloth and dried her face, taking more deep breaths as she reclaimed her dignity and stood up straight and tall, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Without even a glance behind her, she turned and started walking toward the servants’ quarters.

  “Where are you going?” the duke asked, much closer than she might have expected. He must have followed her to the spring.

  “Home.” She flung the word over her shoulder and kept moving at a brisk pace.

  “What do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer. Let him figure it out.

  “You cannot go. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” She should have had the self-control not to ask him that, because she truly should not care. She quickened her pace as he caught up with her.

  “I may need you to help me prove who I am. You are a witness.”

  “But no one believes I am Lady Magdalen, so I am useless to you.”

  They were climbing the path up the castle mount and would soon be in the bailey and among other servants.

  “But I need you not to tell anyone what is happening here, not until I can prove my identity.”

  “You had better hurry up and prove it, then. Because as soon as my mother finds out what has happened, she will demand justice, spreading the news from one corner of the civilized world to the other.” She was not at all sure that was what her mother would do, but it sounded good.

  “I cannot allow that.” Panic was in his voice now.

  She rather enjoyed his distress. It lifted her shoulders.

  “Please, Magdalen. For the sake of our friendship.”

  “Friendship?” She halted just short of the top of the hill and faced him. “Friends don’t go two years without writing.” Now he would know that she was angry he had not written to her, that she had expected him to after their time at Thornbeck.

  “Well . . .” He seemed at a loss for what to say to that. “Some friends don’t write. Some friends stay friends even though they haven’t seen each other or spoken for two years, or many more years than that. Some friends, like us, recognize each other even after two years have passed and one has grown a beard and the other has become a goose girl.”

  Magdalen clenched her teeth to hold in the growl of contempt in her throat. “I would be a fool to stay here now that I know you never wished to marry me. I came here to marry a duke, and now I am going home. Do you hear me? Home. Where people respect me and care about me and have my—my—welfare in mind.” Not her mother, perhaps, but she would not tell him that.

  “Lower your voice.” Steffan glanced around. “Someone might hear you.”

  “Is that all you can say to me?” She spun around and marched straight to the servants’ quarters.

  “You cannot leave now. Wait until tomorrow.” He followed her across the open yard.

  She suddenly realized something else and spun around so swiftly, he had to bring himself up short to keep from running into her.

  “You were never planning to send my letters, were you?”

  The guilty look in his eyes and the way his mouth hung open gave her the answer.

  “Give them back to me.” She thrust out her hand. “Immediately. I demand you give me back my letters.” She stared pointedly at the big leather pouch hanging by his side.

  He put his hand protectively on the bag.

  How dare he keep her letters from her? She lunged at the bag. He held on to it, holding the flap closed. She tried to rip it out of his hands, but he was too strong.

  “Stop. I will give you your letters, if you are so determined to have them.”

  She let go and he reached in, pulled out her two letters, and held them out to her. She snatched them from his hand and marched to the servants’ quarters.

  Just as she reached the door, a voice called out, “Agnes!”

  The voice was so familiar, Magdalen turned her head.

  The real Agnes was walking toward her with one of the guards from the castle. But she was not smirking. Her eyes were wide and she looked almost . . . afraid.

  “Where are you going?” She tried to smile. “I thought you were taking care of the geese.”

  “I . . . I was . . . looking for something in my room.”

  “What is that in your hand?”

  Magdalen’s stomach sank like a stone.

  “Nothing. Just some paper.”

  “Magdalen, I want you to work in the castle, close to me. Come. Get your things and I shall make you an indoor servant. You would like that better than being a goose girl, would you not?”

  Her mind was racing. Why would Agnes want her working in the castle where the duke—Alexander—might see her? Did Agnes know he was not the real duke? Or was she planning to lure Magdalen into the castle and then lock her in the dungeon? Either way, this would ruin everything. She had to run away, to get back to Mallin, and she could not if Agnes held her captive in the castle.

  She glanced back at Steffan, but she could not ask for help from him. He was supposed to be dead—or he would be if Agnes’s husband and Lord Hazen discovered he was still alive.

  With the guard standing there, she had little choice but to go inside the servants’ barracks, gather her things—the things Agnes had allowed her to have—and head back out to where Agnes and the guard were waiting for her.

  Steffan stood not far away, watching, but she ignored him.

  But as she passed him, he asked, “Should I watch the geese for you?”

  “Oh, Ag—I mean, Lady Magdalen, won’t you find someone to watch the geese? This shepherd will not be able to watch both the sheep and the geese.”

  “Of course.” Agnes looked down her lashes and said, “I shall have someone take care of finding a new goose girl.”

  Magdalen was following behind Agnes, with the guard just beside her, when Steffan touched her arm and whispered, “Are you in danger?”
/>   She shook her head, even though she was not certain, and whispered, “You should go.” And she handed him the two letters.

  He stuffed them in his bag.

  “What was that?” Agnes turned around.

  “The shepherd was bidding me farewell. Farewell!” Magdalen called, waving her whole arm in the air as Steffan hurried off. “Take good care of those animals.” She turned back to Agnes. “He is very good with sheep, but he is not so good with geese.”

  “As I said, I shall send someone to help with the geese,” Agnes said with the kind of tone one might use with a child.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Magdalen could see Steffan gazing over his shoulder at her. She refused to look in his direction.

  They went inside the castle, up two flights of stairs, and then down a corridor. Agnes paused in front of a door and told the guard, “You may stand guard here.”

  The guard bowed, and she led Magdalen inside and shut the door behind them. Did Agnes plan to murder her here in the castle? Magdalen was determined to fight to the death. She glanced around, looking for a weapon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Now, don’t try to attack me.” Agnes held up her hands. “All I have to do is scream and that guard will come and defend me. He will not hesitate to kill you.”

  “I have no wish to attack you, Agnes. I simply want you to tell the truth about who you and I are.”

  “I cannot very well do that. I am married now to the Duke of Wolfberg.”

  Should Magdalen tell Agnes that her husband was not the real Duke of Wolfberg? She decided to keep this information to herself for now. “And where is Wolfie? I don’t see your doting husband anywhere.”

  “You will be respectful, or I shall have you thrown in the dungeon.”

  “Why did you bring me in here, Agnes?”

  “I want to keep an eye on you. I can’t have you running back to Mallin, can I?”

  “Are you not afraid your husband will recognize me and realize what a terrible mistake he has made?”

  “Not very much.” Agnes aimed her nose at the ceiling. “He admitted to me that he barely spoke to Lady Magdalen at the Thornbeck party. He doesn’t even remember what you look like.”

  Was that what he told her? No wonder she wasn’t afraid he would recognize Magdalen.

  “Here is your new clothing.” Agnes moved to take some clothes from a table.

  “Why keep me here? Why not just kill me?”

  Agnes shrugged. “I imagine my father plans to do just that. To be honest, I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “You have a conscience?” Perhaps she shouldn’t antagonize Agnes, but the bitterness just flew out of her mouth on its own.

  Agnes pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “If you stay close to me, I can protect you from my father. But if he suspects you are trying to tell someone about what we have done, he will not hesitate to stop you, in whatever way he deems necessary.”

  If I wish to survive, I must go along with her. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, here is what every house servant wears at Wolfberg Castle. I will expect you to attend me at all times during the day, but at night you may sleep with the other house servants at the top of the stairs.”

  Magdalen looked down at the clothes, the same color and style as those she had stolen and were now stuffed under her bed at the servants’ barracks.

  Agnes put one hand on her hip and gestured with the other. “Now I want you, Agnes, to put on these clothes and clean my rooms while I go downstairs and join my husband. He is in the Great Hall waiting for me, and we have a wedding feast to attend.”

  Magdalen’s blood boiled. She will get what she deserves when everyone finds out what she’s done. When Steffan revealed the truth, she would discover that she wasn’t married to the Duke of Wolfberg at all, but his cousin, and Agnes and her pretend husband would be executed for their actions. People had been hanged for far less.

  Agnes spoke muffled words to the guard on the other side of the door. Magdalen was left alone in the silent room.

  Trapped. If only she had left as soon as she saw the man Agnes was marrying. But it was dangerous for a woman to travel alone. And she had not looked forward to going home and facing her mother.

  This deception Lord Hazen had played on the people of Wolfberg and the true Duke of Wolfberg would have been chiefly perpetrated against Mother. His actions would have caused her by far the most injury. And Agnes . . . Mother would be convinced that Agnes had forced Magdalen to switch places with her to get back at Mother for some unjust reason. And Magdalen’s suffering at Agnes’s hands would be nothing compared to Mother’s disappointment, Mother’s humiliation, Mother’s suffering.

  Father had always been quick to ask himself how someone else might feel in any situation. He seemed to know, instinctively, what other people were thinking and feeling. He was sympathetic, gentle, and kind. At least she’d had his example.

  Magdalen sighed. Perhaps Lenhart could go home with her, minimizing the dangers.

  Poor Lenhart. He was not accustomed to working in a stable any more than Magdalen was used to cleaning up after the woman who was once her own servant.

  “This is unfair, God,” Magdalen whispered. “I never mistreated Agnes in any way. Please come to my rescue. Defend me and restore to me my fortunes.”

  It was the people’s plight that filled Magdalen with guilt and regret. They were depending on her to marry someone wealthy who could help them improve their lives and provide a better way of sustaining themselves than trying to live off crops grown in their rocky soil.

  She tried not to dwell on these painful thoughts as she tidied up Agnes’s room, putting away her discarded clothing.

  Shouting erupted from the corridor outside the bedchamber door. Magdalen stood still and listened. Was that Steffan’s voice?

  She ran to the door and opened it, just in time to see the guard slam the hilt of his sword into Steffan’s forehead, then punch him in the stomach.

  He crumpled to his knees. The guard grabbed him under one arm and raised his sword.

  “Stop!” Magdalen lunged forward and threw herself between the guard and Steffan. “What are you doing to this poor shepherd?” She glared up at the guard, then remembered that she was not the daughter of a baron now. The guard could knock her out of the way and no one would blame him.

  “He does not belong here,” the guard growled. “Get back in Lady Magdalen’s chamber where you belong.”

  If she obeyed, he would surely continue to pummel Steffan. Her limbs went weak at the thought.

  “Please, please do not harm this man. He . . . he did not know where he was. He was looking for me.” Her mind was spinning, trying to think of the most plausible thing that might convince him to stop beating Steffan.

  “Looking for you?”

  “Yes, he . . . he is very simpleminded and has attached himself to me.” She clasped her hands together in what she hoped was a meek and humble posture. “Please, he is quite harmless. Do not beat him anymore. In your great strength you will surely kill him.”

  The guard stepped back and his face lost some of its scowl. “Simple? Do you mean he is daft?”

  “Yes, now please, help me get him up. He is bleeding all over the floor.”

  The guard didn’t move for a moment, then he sheathed his sword and placed a hand under Steffan’s arm, lifting him up.

  Magdalen put his other arm over her shoulders and walked him through the open doorway of Agnes’s bedchamber.

  The guard growled, “If you get blood on Lady Magdalen’s chamber floor—”

  “I’ll clean it up. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

  He guided Steffan to a bench by the wall, where Steffan plopped down, his head still lowered. That was when Magdalen noticed the blood dripping on the floor.

  “Clean his face,” the guard said, “then send him out before Lady Magdalen gets back. Tell him he’s not to be in the castle. His place is with the sheep.”


  “Ja, of course.” Magdalen ran to the water pitcher while the guard shuffled out the door. She grabbed two cloths and poured water into the bowl, splashing it on the floor in her haste. She carried the bowl and cloth back to Steffan, then set it on the bench beside him.

  “Hold your head up. Let me see.” She pushed on his shoulder to make him sit up straighter and knelt in front of him. The blood flowed from a cut above his eye. She pressed a cloth over it.

  “Hold this here.” She put his hand over the cloth. “Press it firmly to stop the bleeding.”

  His lip was also bloody. She dipped the other cloth in the bowl of water and squeezed it out. “Are you in much pain? Say something.” She wiped the blood that had run down his cheek.

  “I will live.”

  She started dabbing at the blood on his lip just as he started speaking.

  “What did you say?”

  He touched her wrist and pushed her hand away. “I said, why did you tell him I was daft?” His voice was strained, as if it hurt to talk.

  “I was trying to save your life. And it worked. If I had not said that, he would have beaten you senseless and dragged you down to the dungeon.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  His hand was still holding her wrist, and her stomach did a strange flip-flop, partly in sympathy for the pained look on his battered face and partly because his hand felt warm and gentle on her wrist.

  But neither of them were safe at the moment. She needed to keep her mind clear.

  “Here. Let me see.” She pulled his hand away from the wound. “It’s still bleeding. Keep holding it.” She pressed the cloth back to the cut above his eye. “What were you doing coming into the castle, drawing attention to yourself? You know it’s dangerous for you. What if Lord Hazen or your cousin were to see you?”

  “They’d have me killed.”

  “Yes! Why did you do it?”

  “I thought that woman might try to murder you.”

  Her heart clenched at his bloody face, wounds he acquired while trying to protect her. He didn’t meet her gaze. But she knew already that he did not care for her, not any more than he would care for any other lady. She needed to hold on to that anger because he took her letters but did not intend to send them. He lied to her. She should remember that.