The Noble Servant

by Melanie Dickerson

  “Where is your bandage? Is your head still hurting?” She spoke softly.

  “What are you doing up so early?” he groused. She looked quite lovely in the torchlight, with her reddish-blonde hair glowing around her head and her eyes wide and anxious.

  “I came to see how you were faring. Is your head still bleeding?” She stood on tiptoe to inspect his forehead.

  “No.”

  “It does not look so bad.” She glanced behind her down the corridor, then leaned close to his ear. “I can go to Lord Hazen’s rooms and search for your portrait.”

  “No.” He drew back to look into her eyes. “If he thinks you suspect his scheme, you will quietly disappear and no one will ever discover what happened to you. You must stay away from his rooms.”

  He gave her his most severe scowl, but she did not seem very intimidated.

  “You cannot go searching if you are working all day in the kitchen. I do not think your getting a job working in the kitchen was a good idea, but if I can find what you need—”

  “No. It is too dangerous. Do not do it.” To emphasize his point, he took hold of her arm.

  “But I will wait until Lord Hazen is away from his chamber, until I know he won’t be back, and I can—”

  “You cannot know when he will return.”

  “But I have so much more time and freedom than you do. It will be easy. Besides, I am a house servant. It will not seem so suspicious if I am in his chamber cleaning.”

  Forcefulness was not working. “Please, Magdalen. Do not do this.” He took her small, soft hand between his and peered into her eyes.

  Perhaps that had not been the best idea either, because now she was gazing up at him, her pink lips parted, as if she was startled. What would she do if he kissed her?

  He could not be thinking about her like that.

  “Please wait.” He let go of her hand. “I shall come up with a plan. There is no need to rush into something. It will be better to be patient. Please, Magdalen. Trust me and wait.”

  She bit her lip. “Very well. I shall try not to endanger myself or you.”

  “Thank you.” He turned away.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  Her eyes were wide and her brows were drawn together. “Please be careful. I am praying for you.”

  How long had it been since he’d felt someone truly cared for his welfare, enough to pray for him? Not since his grandmother died and he left for Prague. His sister, Gertrudt, married a prince a year ago and went to live in Burgundy, which was many days’ journey on the other side of the German regions. Most people only cared what Steffan could do for them. Since Jacob was gone now, too, Steffan was truly on his own.

  He continued down the steps, biting back a groan. He did not wish her to know how much pain he was in. Not only were his ribs sore from getting punched by the guard but he was also in pain from carrying firewood and buckets of water.

  Steffan had befriended Magdalen, had bought her food and paper and ink, but he had also deceived her by not intending to find a courier for her letters. And yet, she could still look at him with great concern in her eyes, had carefully bandaged his head, and rose early to check on him.

  She deserved a husband who would cherish her. Was Steffan even capable of cherishing a woman? He’d seen the way his father loved his mother, so much that when she died he was a broken man. Anger welled up at his father for the kind of weakness that would cause him to leave Steffan and his sister with no one but his grandmother, servants, and a less-than-honorable uncle.

  But perhaps what he was really feeling was fear, fear that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. He never wanted to feel that kind of devastation.

  That old familiar emotion—fear or anger, they felt about the same—rose inside him. It was as if he’d fallen into another abandoned well—trapped, in danger, and helpless.

  No. He was not helpless. He would defeat his uncle and cousin and would once more feel powerful, calm, and content.

  Steffan just had to stay away from Magdalen until he could get back his rightful power and send her home. Perhaps he would even find her a husband among his peers.

  He finally reached the kitchen where Magdalen went to fetch the food for Agnes and Alexander. Meanwhile, he carried in two loads of wood and then several buckets of water, as the cooks were already preparing the day’s food, beginning with several loaves of bread.

  After picking up the second load of wood, he noticed an older man standing at the edge of the trees that bordered the bailey around the castle. The man’s face was familiar. Could it be? He looked very much like the horse groomer Ansel.

  Steffan pretended not to stare at the man, but he was certain he was Ansel. His clothing was ragged and patched, and he looked much thinner than the last time Steffan had seen him.

  His heart clenched. Poor Ansel. But Steffan had no choice but to ignore his old servant and go inside with his load of wood.

  Soon the smell of warm bread filled the air. The cooks removed the loaves from the large brick oven, and Steffan stoked the fire with more wood.

  He started out the door to get another load of wood. The bread loaves were sitting just inside the large window casing, and Ansel was there, staring at the cooling bread. The gray-haired man snatched a loaf and stuffed it inside his shirt. But as soon as he turned around to flee, a guard grabbed the back of his neck.

  “Thief!”

  Steffan hurried outside.

  “That is the Duke of Wolfberg’s bread!” the guard yelled. “How dare you steal from the duke?” He raised the hilt of his sword to strike him.

  “Wait!” Steffan leapt toward them, throwing his arm between Ansel and the guard.

  “Get out of the way,” the guard growled through clenched teeth.

  “Will you injure this poor old man over a loaf of bread?” Steffan’s blood was boiling up inside him, especially to think he would do this in the name of the duke—in Steffan’s own name.

  “No one steals from Wolfberg Castle.” The guard, whose face was twisted in a menacing scowl, still held on to Ansel’s neck.

  “Let him go. It was only bread.”

  “Will you take his beating for him?” The guard tightened his grip on Ansel, the older man’s eyes widening. He looked so frail, as if the guard could easily break him in two.

  “If you let him go, then yes, I will take his punishment.”

  The guard looked hard at Steffan, but only for a moment. He let go of Ansel with a shove. Ansel stumbled and broke into a run.

  Steffan barely had time to raise his arm to protect the wound on his forehead before the guard slammed the hilt of his sword into Steffan’s shoulder, then punched him in the mouth. The next blow was to Steffan’s chin. Stars exploded before his eyes.

  He fell to the ground. Blood, salty and metallic, ran over his tongue. He braced himself for the next blow. A sharp pain exploded in his side as the guard kicked him once, then again.

  Steffan lay still, waiting, finally opening his eye. The guard was gone.

  Steffan lifted his head and spit a stream of red on the ground. His shoulder burned, his face ached, and his ribs throbbed. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth. He lay his head back down on the ground. Perhaps he could get a few moments’ rest before anyone came looking for him.

  Steffan opened his eyes to three people standing over him and the sun shining brighter than it had when he’d closed them.

  “He’s awake now. You can cease your fretting.” The head cook glanced at the person beside her, then looked back down at him and thrust a cloth at him. “Cover your mouth with this. You’re bleeding. Now go upstairs and get cleaned up. You can come back to your duties after the midday meal.”

  Magdalen and Katrin were hovering beside the cook. They stretched their hands to him. “Let us help you up.”

  They each took his elbow and pulled him into a sitting position while the cook went back inside the kitchen.

  The world started spinning. His he
ad and lip throbbed, and his shoulder still burned, but not quite as much as before. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the world had almost stopped spinning. He spit out the blood that had been collecting in his mouth, careful not to get it on the maidens’ shoes. He heaved himself up with the young ladies helping him.

  “What happened?” Magdalen asked.

  “What are you doing here?” He cringed at her coming to his rescue yet again. He wasn’t sure he could bear staring into her concerned face one more time.

  “Katrin came and got me from the dining hall. She said you were badly injured.”

  “I am not badly injured.” But his lip was so swollen that his words were slurred.

  Katrin said, “I saw him defending an old man who was stealing a loaf of bread from the kitchen window. He offered to take the old man’s punishment if the guard would let the man go. It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.” Katrin’s voice cracked on the last two words and she burst into tears.

  Magdalen stared up at him. “Oh, Steffan,” she breathed. She took the cloth the cook had given him from his hand and wiped his face. “Your wound from yesterday is bleeding again.”

  “It’s nothing.” Katrin’s crying was making him so uncomfortable, he chuckled. “You two act as if I’m the first man to ever bleed or get a few blows from a man twice his size.”

  “Katrin!” the cook yelled out the window. “Get back in here. I need you. That other maiden can take care of him.”

  Katrin ran back into the kitchen.

  “You heard her,” Magdalen said. “I can take care of you. So come.”

  She steered him back toward the kitchen and walked him through, her arm around his back and his arm around her shoulders. Most of the servants were eating their breakfast, so no one was there to see his bloody face.

  “Wait here.” Magdalen propped him against the wall. She ran off into the dining hall.

  He’d been beaten by two different guards. He only hoped that someday he would see both those guards’ faces when they discovered the man they had wrongfully beaten was the Duke of Wolfberg.

  Magdalen came hurrying back, her expression sober, as when she had walked back to the stables with her mute friend, Lenhart, intent on defending him from the men who were mistreating him.

  Her fierceness made him stand up a bit straighter and pay closer attention.

  “I got you some breakfast.” She held a bundle in her hand. “You can eat it after we clean up your face.”

  Now that he was standing on his own, she seemed uncertain as to whether to put her arm around him and serve as his crutch. But she only hesitated a moment. She took him by the wrist, laid his arm across her shoulders, and started toward the stairs. He didn’t protest.

  They walked slowly, his sides burning as if on fire every time he took a breath. He tested his jaw again. It was still a bit sore but felt much better than earlier. His lip was still bleeding as he held the cloth against it. He would at least be able to rest until the midday meal, a few hours.

  A pang of guilt stabbed him as he thought about how kind she was being, how determined she was to help him. What spoiled, privileged nobleman’s daughter was so uncomplaining and willing to help someone who was dirty and bloody?

  He thought of his own sister. He couldn’t imagine her even touching him in the state he was in. He could just see her wrinkle her nose and recoil from him, having never done an hour of actual work in her life.

  “You don’t have to help me,” he said, even as his foot caught on the next step and he stumbled.

  “I want to. Besides, I don’t have to assist my lady for a few more hours.”

  Finally, they made it to the fourth level of the castle.

  “Let me make sure no one is in the men’s bedchamber.” He removed his arm from around her shoulders and opened the door. “Anyone here?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Magdalen followed Steffan inside. She forced herself not to think about his pain, what he had done, or what had been done to him, but to concentrate on tending each injury.

  He went straight to a bed and lay down, moaning as he did so.

  Never had she been inside a man’s bedchamber or near his bed. She halted midstride. But no one was around and this was Steffan. He would not harm her.

  He took the cloth, which was nearly saturated with bright-red blood, away from his mouth. His bottom lip was terribly swollen, and the lower half of his face was bloody.

  “It appears to have stopped bleeding.” She tried to look at him as a task, to be cold in her assessment of him. She did not want to break down in tears as Katrin had done—which had brought tears to Magdalen’s eyes as well.

  “I am well,” he said. Or at least she thought that was what he said. It was hard to understand him, and his lip might still be swelling.

  “I wish I had some ice or snow to put on your lip.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Wrong time of year.”

  “And your other injury only bled a bit.” She pointed to the cut over his eye. But dried blood stained the side of his face.

  Footsteps shuffled down the hallway, coming closer.

  Magdalen turned and watched as one of the other menservants walked through the doorway with a bucket and a cloth.

  “I thought you might need this.” He headed over to the table against the wall and poured some of the water into a pitcher and some into a pottery bowl. Then he handed the cloth to Magdalen.

  “Thank you, Dietrich,” Steffan said.

  Dietrich came over and looked down at Steffan. “I’ve seen raw meat that looked better than your face. But you won’t die.”

  “Ah, that’s very encouraging,” he managed to say in spite of his fat lip.

  “We all heard what you did,” the man said. “That was . . .” He paused, nodded, and raised his brows before he said, “Very brave.” He tilted his head to one side. “Stupid, but brave.”

  Steffan seemed to be trying not to smile, not to stretch his lips. “Ja. Danke.”

  “I must go back to my duties and leave you to your lovely healer.” He winked at Magdalen.

  “Thank you for the water,” she said, then realized what he’d called her. She felt herself blushing and went over to get the bowl of water so she’d be facing away from Steffan. She took a deep breath, then carried the bowl back to him and set it on the bed.

  She squeezed the cloth out over the bowl. “I feel as if I’ve done this before.” She had to make light of the situation because she felt her heart twisting in pity and admiration as she started to wash the blood from his cheeks and beard.

  She stroked the side of his face where the cut over his eye had left traces of blood. She would not think about how he had defended an old man and willingly allowed himself to be beaten so the thief could go free. She would not think about how unfair life was at the moment to both Steffen and her, about how he was the only person who knew her pain.

  She dabbed at the cut over his eye. He winced.

  She might have told him something that Hegatha had once said, that the cut might not scar if it did not scab over. But she did not trust herself to speak.

  She wiped the blood from the whiskers on his chin with the cloth. His eyes were half open, watching her face. She pretended not to notice and dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and squeezed it out, turning the water pink.

  Her heart beat faster and her breath became shallow. She tried to think of something to say to break the tension in the air as she dabbed at the spot just below his bottom lip.

  “You aren’t doing very well at not drawing attention to yourself.”

  He did that thing again where he quirked one eyebrow up. Even beaten and bloody, he was handsome, with intelligent eyes emphasized by distinct black eyebrows.

  “All the servant girls will be in love with you before the day is out, as Katrin will tell them all about your noble and chivalrous deed.”

  He pushed himself up on one elbow. “I need to spit.”

  S
he nearly laughed. His statement finally broke the taut feeling in the air. Magdalen turned away to get a cup and the slop bucket she had spied by the door.

  She held the bucket for him while he spit. Then she filled the cup with fresh water from the pitcher and handed it to him.

  He swished some water around in his mouth, then spit it in the slop bucket. He repeated the action, then drank the rest of the water in the cup.

  She took the cup and then remembered the breakfast she had snatched for him—a bread roll and a piece of cheese. She removed it from her pocket and handed it to him.

  He unfolded the cloth and bit into the bread, still half sitting up. Magdalen retrieved pillows from two other beds and placed them behind his back.

  “Thank you.”

  Her cheeks were beginning to burn again. “I think I should go now.”

  He swallowed his bite. “Finished doctoring my wounds already?”

  “If I could do any more for you I would. God will do the rest of the healing, no doubt.”

  His brown hair was tousled and lying across his forehead in a wavy swath, a healthy color back in his cheeks as he ate his roll and cheese, and his intense brown eyes were staring back at her. If it weren’t for his enormously swollen lip, she might be tempted to do something very improper, like bend down and kiss him.

  She took a step back. How foolish her thoughts were! She was no immature girl fancying herself in love with every young man she met. Then she remembered that she was angry with him for not sending her letters.

  What she should be thinking about was how to get their identities back.

  “I can go and see if Lord Hazen is in his rooms, and if he isn’t I can—”

  “No.”

  He leaned forward and grabbed her wrist, holding it loosely. “I don’t want you getting in trouble with him. He is a dangerous man.”

  “But it makes more sense for me to look for the portrait. He thinks I am only a house servant. He would not be so alarmed if he saw me—”

  “If he thought you were trying to steal from him, he would. He would suspect I was still alive and that I had sent you. He would torture you and use you to get to me. It is entirely too dangerous. I forbid it.”