As the emperor and duke returned to the table she edged along the bench, away from the young man, her gaze fixed on Lute Wolfenberg.
Coaxing bones out of the overcooked fish, she reviewed what of importance she had learned about the invaders. She was proud she’d elicited information from the unsuspecting adjutant. However, upon reflection, the most significant thing she’d gleaned was that the first man to ever draw her eye and the interest of her intimate female parts wasn’t married.
Satisfied the still-belligerent Schurke was locked away in the cells, Lute paused when he and Brandt regained the bailey. “To my way of thinking Heinrich should be relieved that the thug who almost killed you has been tracked down.”
Brandt shrugged. “It looks bad for him. Schurke was a member of his personal guard when the attack took place.”
“At least he might have congratulated you on the safe return of a family heirloom.”
Brandt drew the weapon out of the sheath at his waist and ran his fingers over the crest. “The only thing of my mother’s family I have left.”
He sheathed the dagger and they resumed their walk back to camp in the waning light.
Lute hesitated to mention something that had perplexed him, but finally decided to speak of it. “The behavior of Count William’s wife was equally disturbing. She flirted blatantly with Johann. I’m not surprised her husband scolded her.”
Brandt halted abruptly. “Her name is Francesca, and she wasn’t flirting with Johann. It was you she couldn’t take her eyes off.”
“Me?” he retorted, but then he remembered the stirrings her insistent gaze had caused.
Francesca.
“What kind of woman stares at another man’s groin while she’s sitting next to her husband?”
Brandt slapped him on the back, grinning broadly. “Evidently, an Apulian.”
Did He Wave?
After a fitful night’s sleep in the hot and humid tent he shared with Kon, Lute rose before dawn the next day. The sandflies seemed not to realize the tent wasn’t pitched on sand and he was sure he’d been bitten at least a hundred times.
The nagging memory of the blonde woman’s blatant gaze refused to leave him. He wished he’d been close enough to discern the color of her eyes. Dark brown, he’d wager.
Like most men of his acquaintance, breasts were normally the first thing he noticed. Preoccupied with her face, he hadn’t paid attention, except he recalled she wore red. He was contemplating donning his uniform, all the while engaged in conjuring an image of her body when an imperial messenger arrived, Brandt close on his heels.
“We’re tasked with patrolling the town,” his brother-by-marriage explained before the soldier had a chance to speak.
Lute scratched the reddening welts on his arm. “We?”
“You and I are to billet our companies in the bailey. Heinrich thinks it will be easier to police the streets if the men are stationed inside the walls.”
“Hopefully there are no biting insects in the bailey,” Lute replied. “I itch all over.”
Kon sat up, yawning and scratching his head. “As do I.”
“I had the same problem,” Brandt confessed, “but a quick swim earlier seems to have solved it.”
Lute wadded the shirt he was about to pull over his head and threw it at Kon. “Good idea. Come on, bruder. I’ll race you to the water.”
Kon leapt from his camp bed and they jostled each other to get out of the tent, almost bowling over the bewildered messenger.
The tide was far out. “It’ll be a good run,” Lute shouted over the warm breeze.
He laughed as he loped along the hot sand, feeling refreshed with the wind in his hair, confident he would win the race.
“Pax,” Kon shouted breathlessly half way to the water. “You win. I’m winded.”
Lute turned. His brother was bent over, hands on hips. He thrust a triumphant fist in the air and looked back at the town.
Once again, Lady Francesca stood atop the battlements. Watching.
He stood transfixed for a moment. His mind was unsure what to do, but his rute had no hesitation in rising to the challenge. She moved her arm and he wondered if she mistakenly thought he’d waved. He lowered his fist and she began fidgeting with her hair.
Kon’s warm hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his preoccupation. “I suppose if she wants to watch naked men running along the beach, we should oblige.”
Lute laughed out loud at the uncharacteristic remark from his pious brother, filled with a sudden urge to strut like a rooster. He resumed a slower pace. “You’re right. Hope she likes what she sees.”
Francesca made the sign of her Savior across her body and glanced around furtively, relieved the soldier patrolling the wall wasn’t paying attention to her. “Forgive me, Mary, Mother of God, I didn’t mean to set eyes on naked men.”
She held her breath, certain God would strike her dead for the outright lie.
She’d risen early after a restless night, hoping to perhaps catch a glimpse of the tall Saxon who’d insinuated himself into her dreams.
A priest would condemn her sinfulness. But why was it sinful to look upon a beautifully formed man who had no wife?
“Because,” she hissed out loud, pressing her fists into the rough stone, “you are supposed to be married to Count William and your sudden wantonness will jeopardise us all.”
The foreigner was aware she’d seen him, and he’d probably sensed her brazen stare in the hall. For a moment she thought he was waving. Thanks be to the saints she realized in time he wasn’t.
Still she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his well-muscled body as he ran towards the water.
Wolfenberg.
Lute.
Short for Luther perhaps.
She chuckled. It was evident he was showing off, but perhaps he had a right to be proud of those long legs, broad shoulders and endearingly white natiche.
He was an officer, so it followed he was of noble blood.
She whirled around, a chill racing up her spine when she detected a familiar odor of male sweat. William had approached surreptitiously. She flounced away from the wall. “Are you stalking me, husband?”
He raised an eyebrow and waddled to where she’d been standing. She prayed Lute had reached the water.
To her relief, he turned away from the beach and leaned against the stone. “What are you doing up here so early?”
“It’s much too hot to sleep in your castle. In Sicilia we have ornamental pools that keep our residences cool.”
“A benefit of Islamic architecture,” he conceded. “I agree Termoli needs such innovations, but alas, unlike Sicilia, the town was never an emirate of the Islamists.”
A longing to be back in her uncle’s palace in Palermo swept over her. “I have yet to break my fast,” she told him, anxious to get away.
He frowned. “I have sent your escort back to Sicilia. The risk of keeping them here is too great.”
So she was alone, without protection, but he carried on before she could protest.
“Alas, I cannot join you at table. The emperor has arranged for imperial troops to occupy the castle and environs in order to patrol the streets. I must prepare for their arrival.”
She held her breath, somehow knowing what he was about to say next.
“He has selected the two officers you gawked at last evening.”
A thrill of anticipation rippled through her belly and rose up her throat. But then she sobered. Lute Wolfenberg was her uncle’s enemy and Fate had decreed she must do everything in her power to defeat him.
Celebration
“The servants were only too willing to give up this chamber,” Lute said.
Brandt toed one of the straw-filled mattresses on the stone floor. “This garret can hardly be called a chamber, but you’re right. Seems to me they weren’t happy with Ruggero as their overlord.”
Lute wrinkled his nose. “Musty. But not the worst place we’ve slept since we left home.”
Brandt grinned. “And no sandflies.”
Lute sat on the other mattress and eased off his boots. “For all Count William’s unattractive appearance, his people apparently respect him. His father died only recently, so he hasn’t had the title long.”
Brandt pulled down the linen covering his mattress and inspected both. “The townsfolk welcomed the soldiers billeted in their homes with the same willingness, though feeding extra mouths can’t be easy in time of war.”
Lute also examined his bedding, relieved to find no vermin. “Either it’s true they prefer us to Ruggero, or it’s a massive plot to fool us.”
Brandt shrugged. “They are simple folk, and there has been no sign of resistance in the streets so far. I think they are happy just to get on with their daily lives.”
Lute stretched out on his pallet, ankles crossed, fingers laced behind his head. “It’s beyond me why anyone would want to live in this place.”
Brandt combed his fingers through his hair. “I miss home too.”
Aware that what his brother-by-marriage missed was Sophia, Lute made no reply. As he stared up at the cobwebs in the rafters his thoughts went to the Countess of Loritello. He looked forward with anticipation to dining with her later at the invitation of the emperor. Yet he dreaded it. Lusting for another man’s wife was sinful. He might not be the pious soul Kon was, but such behavior went against his upbringing. However, the harder he tried not to think of her, the more she preoccupied him. It was becoming an obsession.
“Tread carefully,” Brandt advised.
Evidently his infatuation was obvious. He let out a long, slow breath. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Brandt chuckled. “If you’d asked me that before I met your sister, I’d have said no. But now…”
Lute envied the depth of feeling that caused a strong man like Brandt to choke with emotion. “My parents fell in love the moment they met, though it took them a while to acknowledge it.”
“You cannot even think about a relationship with Count William’s wife. You will jeopardize your immortal soul.”
A loud rap at the door preceded Johann’s entrance. Lute had never seen his half-brother look more pleased with himself and he sensed what was coming before the announcement was made.
“A message has arrived from Papa,” Johann declared. “There is much good news to share. Firstly, I have a son. Kristoff Bryce von Wolfenberg.”
Brandt slapped him on the back.
Lute got to his feet to embrace the new father. “I’m an uncle,” he crowed.
“Twice over,” Johann replied with a curious smile at Brandt. “Sophia has also borne a son.”
Brandt thrust both fists in the air. “A son! Sophia!”
Lute embraced both jubilant men, suppressing the twinge of jealousy in his gut.
“What is my son’s name?” Brandt asked.
“Axel Dieter Gunther Rödermark.”
“Axel,” Brandt whispered. “She chose well. He will be a bringer of peace.”
Johann sobered and stood to attention. “Which brings us to the bad news. Your father died sennights ago. You are now Count Rödermark.”
The pain that darkened Brandt’s gaze was evident, though everyone was aware he’d been estranged from his father for years. He struck the wall with his fist. “I should be there instead of in this unholy place.”
“My father sends reassurances,” Johann told him. “As soon as Sophia is recovered he will accompany her to Rödermark. Duke Conrad Staufen has assured them safe passage through his duchy.”
Panic replaced sorrow in Brandt’s eyes. “Recovered? Is she ill?”
Johann laughed. “Nein, bruder, but bearing a child takes a lot out of a woman, and she’ll have to wait until your son is old enough to travel. However, the messenger has been en route for a fortnight or more.
“The other good news is that your squire has finally arrived with the baggage train. He’s billeted in one of the houses near the castle.”
“Drogo,” Brandt exclaimed with a half smile. “He’s a good lad, and I’m relieved he is safe. Vidar isn’t a willing valet.”
Lute was delighted and relieved as he watched Brandt and Johann embrace again, slapping each other heartily on the back. Kristina and Sophia had been safely delivered of sons, but his sinful mind filled with an image of Francesca’s belly rounded with child. His child.
Formal introductions were made before the evening meal. Both young officers politely kissed Francesca’s knuckles when Duke Heinrich presented them to her, but it was the moist warmth of Lute Wolfenberg’s lips that sent a warm, wanton sensation spiralling unexpectedly into her womb.
“Countess Francesca,” he said in a husky, accented voice that echoed in her fluttering belly.
“Captain Wolf…berg,” she stammered like a giddy girl.
The crooked smile he sent her way at the mispronunciation of his name compounded her confusion. She feared she might drown in the sparkling depths of his blue eyes.
The Saxons were in high spirits. Evidently both babes whose births they were celebrating were heirs to the title of count. That meant Lute Wolfenberg was the son of a count, above Francesca’s rank. Her uncle had withdrawn his sister’s titles after her marriage to a lowly Bavarian. That was long before Francesca was born, and he had never blamed her for her mother’s perceived treachery. But then of course Francesca had been gifted with something her deeply religious uncle prized and respected.
For an emperor and a duke to be so obviously pleased at the turn of events spoke to the high regard in which the Wolfenberg and Rödermark families were held. It came as a surprise to learn that Duke Heinrich also had a young son. The white hair suggested he was too old to have an eight-year-old. The feared warrior came close to tears simply mentioning the boy.
The festive mood seemed to relax William’s stern demeanor. Having recently lost his father, he was under tremendous strain. He must know her uncle would exact revenge when he regained Termoli, but he was trying too hard to please the Germans. He could easily have concealed her escort among his own soldiers.
Annoyingly, the servants had taken to the invaders. Peasants who served her with sullen faces laughed and jested with the imperial noblemen.
She held her shoulders rigid and her spine stiff as long as she could, but it was impossible not to find pleasure in the obvious happiness of the Saxons. Lute in particular was full of fun and good humor. She found herself laughing at his jests, despite the rebellious schemes running around in her head.
It was difficult to resist his charm, especially when his eyes sought her reaction to everything he said.
She was confident that if Lute were a nobleman visiting Palermo, her uncle would actively encourage a friendship between them. King Ruggero would approve of his humor and his rank.
But Fate had made them enemies.
Feigning a headache, she begged leave to be excused. William scowled as the men came to their feet to bid her goodnight. She hastened away to the kitchens to meet with the peasant who had agreed to supply the first weapon in her campaign against the imperial usurpers.
A Narrow Escape
“I’ve never had a head for wine,” Lute admitted, leaning heavily on Brandt for support.
His brother-by-marriage steadied him. “Hold onto the frame while I get the door open.”
Lute clung to the wood. “Everything seems to be spinning.”
Brandt chuckled. “I know what you mean. I may have imbibed too much myself, but it’s not every day a man celebrates the birth of a son.”
Lute hiccuped. “And two nephews.”
The door finally gave after Brandt put a shoulder to it and they stumbled together into the tiny chamber, giggling like naughty boys.
Brandt leaned on the wall, trying to toe off his boots. “I’m too drunk to take off my clothes. Where is Drogo when you need him?”
Lute bent the knee. “Let me help,” he offered, reaching unsteadily for Brandt’s foot.
It took several attempts and a great deal of laughter for both men to rid themselves of their boots.
Lute swayed, eyeing the mattress. “I’ll sleep well tonight. No insects.”
But then he frowned, troubled by something he couldn’t name, until it came to him. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air. “I smell perfume.”
The grin left Brandt’s face as he scanned the cramped space. “It’s an exotic fragrance. A woman has been in this chamber since we left.”
Lute sobered quickly as a shiver of apprehension stole up his spine. As far as he knew there was only one woman in the castle likely to wear a costly perfume. “Why would the countess…?”
Boot in hand, Brandt strode over to his bed. “If it was the countess, it’s unlikely she came to steal anything.” He lifted the linen carefully and peeled it away from the mattress.
A strange black creature about the size of Lute’s thumb made a peculiar rattling sound as it scurried away on yellow legs across the stone floor. Brandt whacked it three times with the heel of his boot.
Lute’s gut clenched at the sight of the mangled bits. “What in the name of all the saints is that?”
Brandt approached Lute’s mattress. “Scorpion. We sometimes see them in Franconia. There’s probably one in your bed too.”
As predicted, another scorpion made a run for it when the linen was lifted but quickly fell victim to Brandt’s boot.
Lute peered at the dead insect, struggling to understand why the countess would put such a thing in his bed. “Are they venomous?”
“Nein, but we’d have felt it if we’d been stung. See the tail? Like a bee sting. Only worse.”
Disappointment flooded Lute. Obviously, Countess Francesca of Loritello hated him and wanted him gone.
Torment
Francesca had lain awake all night, torn between listening for shouts of pain and outrage, and rushing to Lute Wolfenberg’s chamber to forewarn of the scorpions and beg forgiveness. The creatures wouldn’t kill them but she knew first hand the lingering discomfort of a scorpion sting.
Romantic Legends Page 68