To everyone’s surprise it was the aide who spoke up. “Your Highness, it will be my honor if you ride to our homeland with me.”
The duke snorted. “An emperor cannot ride with a common soldier.”
Lothair glared. “This brave boy has helped keep me alive so far. I’m confident he can get me home.”
“If we abandon the wagon, the ladies will have to remain here,” Heinrich shouted.
Francesca’s loathing for the arrogant man turned to outright hatred.
“Nonsense,” Lothair replied. “Lady Francesca can ride with Captain von Wolfenberg and I’ll warrant Captain Rödermark knows a certain young squire who will willingly take care of Zitella.”
Francesca marveled that, despite his dreadful illness, the emperor was obviously aware of more than anyone suspected, and had indeed been listening to the maid’s constant chatter about Drogo.
So it was that the Holy Roman Emperor left Italy on a carthorse, roped to a one-eyed soldier.
The wagon was stripped of the few pieces of baggage which were then piled onto an already overloaded cart.
Clinging to a smiling Lute atop Mitte, Francesca thought it highly unlikely she’d see any of her belongings again. In her former life she would have thrown a tantrum. Now her only regret was the possible loss of the harem pants.
Lute couldn’t decide if he was in heaven or hell.
He was mounted on his beloved horse. Mitte had survived the campaign, unlike many of the steeds that had set out from Saxony.
Behind him rode the woman he loved, her soft body pressed to his back, her arms around his waist. The mountain air was considerably cooler and he was concerned she might be cold.
The magnificent peaks, crashing waterfalls and seemingly bottomless canyons of the Pale Mountains filled him with awe.
The terrain was dangerous and he had to keep his eye on the rugged trail, but, in normal circumstances he might have enjoyed the experience.
However, riding alongside a carthorse bearing his Imperial Highness and making sure Lothair didn’t tumble into one of the crevasses was nothing short of terrifying.
He’d suggested to the duke that Kon take over command of his company since it was imperative Francesca ride close to the emperor. He feared after only a few miles that he’d put her life in greater peril. He wasn’t really sure what he would do if Lothair did actually fall from the horse. One wrong move and they could all plunge to their deaths.
He thanked the saints for Zyklop who seemed unperturbed as he guided the massive horse along the narrow pebbled trail with a dying emperor as his passenger. How the lad managed to navigate with only one eye was beyond his comprehension.
It struck him that Francesca’s refusal to give up on Zyklop was the only reason he was still alive. Indeed, Lothair himself would probably be dead by now but for her determination to keep him alive until he reached his homeland.
He was more sure than ever that she was destined to be his wife, though she had yet to commit to him. The natural cathedral of stone around them suddenly seemed the holiest place to ask the question that lay in his heart.
He patted her hands clasped around his belly. “You’re a remarkable woman, Francesca. Will you wed—”
A loud cry echoed off the rocks. “Avalanche!”
Francesca gasped as he reined Mitte to a halt. “What’s happening?”
“Up ahead,” Zyklop shouted over the ominous roar of boulders rumbling down the side of the mountain.
Mitte danced nervously.
A cloud of grey dust rolled over them. When it cleared, Lute’s gut tightened. The men in his company had been directly below the rockfall.
He leapt from his horse and ran forward, frantically yelling his brother’s name at the top of his lungs.
Avalanche
Lute came to an abrupt halt when he reached the scene of the rockfall. Boulders of various sizes lay strewn across the trail. Beyond the dust cloud frantic soldiers tried to calm terrified horses.
It was only when one or two choking figures staggered to their feet like ghostly apparitions that he realized there were men beneath the rubble.
Panic gripped his vitals as his eyes darted from one injured victim to another. Some groaned. Others lay still as death.
Where was Kon?
A man waved from the far side of the debris field. “Lute! Over here.”
Johann!
Heart pounding, he sidestepped rocks and men, falling to his knees next to his half-brother who sat on the stony ground cradling Kon. Blood gushed from an ugly gash at his younger brother’s temple. He wanted to cry out his anguish but his voice didn’t seem to be working.
Johann looked distraught. “He’s still breathing, but we must stop the bleeding.”
Lute covered the wound with his hands. “We need bandages,” he growled, sickened by the sight of his brother’s lifeblood seeping away between his fingers.
Suddenly his angel was there, tearing a strip from the bottom of her chemise. She knelt beside him and rolled the material into a wad. “Hold it firmly.”
He obeyed, his panic easing when she put her hands over his. “Scalp wounds bleed profusely, which makes them appear worse than they are.”
He swallowed hard, and stared at his brother, scarcely able to breathe. Men didn’t cry and he was ashamed of his tears. “I am no stranger to the spilling of blood. I’ve seen enough of it on this campaign to last me a lifetime.”
She gently brushed her thumb across his cheek. “But Kon is your brother. See, even Johann is crying.”
Johann clenched his jaw and averted his gaze, but there was no denying he too had been profoundly affected by Kon’s injury.
They startled when Kon’s eyes blinked open. “Slave traders. Damn them to hell,” he snarled before closing his eyes again.
Lute frowned at Johann.
His half-brother wiped blood from Kon’s face. “Bari. He couldn’t abide what he witnessed in the slave market.”
“I’m not surprised,” Francesca said. “It’s reported to be the largest and most profitable slave market in Italy. I have heard horror stories of young Dalmatian boys being kidnapped by slavers and transported across the Adriatic to be sold to Fatimids for the Mameluke armies.”
“Women too,” Johann added. “Kon tried to intervene to rescue one young woman, but was beaten for his trouble.”
It was a revelation. Now Lute had an inkling of what had caused the changes in Kon’s demeanor.
“He won’t thank me for telling you,” Johann muttered. “Heinrich disciplined him for it.” He got to his feet. “I must help the duke clear away this mess now our little brother is in good hands.”
Lute watched him stride into the midst of the noise and confusion. Men limped about, some supported by other soldiers. Dazed victims sat atop boulders. The duke was nowhere in sight but his strident voice dominated. Johann organised a group of uninjured men to begin lifting boulders off the trail.
Francesca struggled to her feet. “The bleeding has slowed. We must get him away from the dust.”
She held the linen against the wound while Lute scooped up his brother and carried him back through the fallen rock to Mitte.
Braced by his aide, the emperor sat on a large outcropping, his hand held under a small stream cascading from the rock. “Zyklop suggested this. Boy’s a genius,” he chortled with a smile.
It occurred to Lute that if the icy mountain spring had brought a smile to Lothair’s face, it might help Kon.
Francesca took the chance of removing the bloodied wad from Kon’s temple even before Lute’s suggestion they bathe the wound with the spring water. He sat beside the emperor and cradled his brother. She rushed to rinse out and soak the linen, all the while thanking the Lord God Almighty for the timely gift of this life-giving miracle.
She squeezed out some of the water with numbed hands before pressing it to the wound, relieved when Kon soon stirred. “Cold,” he murmured.
Lute’s gaze met hers. “Thank y
ou,” he whispered. “You truly have a healing touch.”
In the past such words had troubled her, even when uttered by her uncle. She had never felt worthy, but she basked in Lute’s praise, blossomed under the warmth of the love in his eyes. I’ll be your country, he’d promised. But obstacles still stood between them. Her mother had abandoned all she’d ever known to follow her father into exile—and poverty.
She pushed away the unpleasant memory. “We must yet be wary. Head wounds can befuddle the wits, even when the person seems recovered.”
Kon peered at Lute through narrowed eyes. “My head aches. What happened?”
“A rock fell on you, little brother, but it bounced off that hard skull of yours.”
She smiled at Lute’s pouting disappointment when Kon seemed not to appreciate the humor. He struggled out of Lute’s arms. “I have to return to duty. The d-d-duke expects…”
“You must obey lady Francesca,” Lothair rasped. “Rest.”
Kon gaped, apparently unaware he was sitting beside the emperor. “Your High—ness,” he stammered, swaying as he jumped to his feet. “I must find my…”
He gazed about as though unsure what he had to find.
“…Horse—horse.”
He bowed, then staggered away, holding the wet linen to his temple.
Lothair harrumphed. “Even a man half out of his wits knows it’s to his advantage to serve the next emperor rather than the one who’s on his way out.”
Francesca shivered at the prospect of Heinrich being elected the next Holy Roman Emperor and was glad of Lute’s arm around her shoulders. She shook her head. “I’m confident you will recover.”
Lothair winced as Zyklop dried his blighted hand. “You are not a good liar, Lady Francesca. All I ask is you keep me alive until we reach Saxony. Mayhap I’ll even be well enough to dance at your wedding.”
A shout from up ahead stole away Francesca’s protest. The pathway had been cleared and the march recommenced. In any case what was the use of arguing with a dying man driven half mad with pain?
Johann rode up as Lute and Zyklop were assisting the emperor to mount the carthorse. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Kon.”
Stern-faced, Lute cleansed the blood from his hands in the mountain stream, mounted Mitte and pulled her up behind him.
She made the sign of her Savior across her body when they rode past two mounds of stones. The twigs fashioned into wooden crosses marked the last resting place of the men who hadn’t survived the avalanche.
Breitenwang
Ten gruelling days later Francesca choked back tears as she watched the sons of Dieter von Wolfenberg assist a haggard Duke Heinrich and a weeping Zyklop to carry Emperor Lothair into a cottage in the Bavarian village of Breitenwang.
By some miracle, he had survived the mountains, but it was clear he wouldn’t last the night.
The news that the Holy Roman Emperor and their duke had sought refuge in the little town spread like wildfire. Folk gathered around the cottage and fell to their knees in prayer upon learning of the emperor’s illness.
Lute and his brothers stepped away from the bed into the shadows. She was glad the man she loved had stayed. His presence gave her courage to tend the putrid flesh that had once been the emperor’s arm.
Despite the poison ravaging his body and the agonizing journey he had endured, Lothair seemed stoic. He put a hand on the head of his faithful aide who knelt beside his bed, sobbing into the linens. “Do not weep for me, young man,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I am old and it is God’s will I die before reaching my beloved Saxony.”
Zyklop looked up. “I promised to carry you home.”
“And you will. To Königslutter.”
When she frowned, Lute stepped forward to put his hands on her shoulders. “The monastery church of Saints Peter and Paul in Saxony,” he whispered.
“Ja,” Lothair confirmed with a weak smile. “I laid the cornerstone almost three years ago. Endowed it as my burial church.”
Francesca feared transporting a decaying corpse such a long distance would be impossible. She wiped the perspiration from the dying man’s face and he saw her tears. “I’m sorry, my lady, you have done your best to keep me alive, but now I am content to die. Thank you. The brave knight who stands behind you is a lucky man.”
Lute’s fingertips pressed into her shoulders, giving her courage to face the approaching cataclysm.
Lothair closed his eyes. His breathing became an almost imperceptible wheeze. She wasn’t sure how long they waited as if frozen in time when the emperor opened one eye and beckoned Lute closer.
“Were it not for you, Luther von Wolfenberg, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”
Lute was clearly startled. “I did nothing but my duty, Your Highness.”
“Nein. You are the one who kept morale up when the mountains threatened to rob all of us of hope.”
Francesca feared her heart might burst. She’d marvelled at Lute’s ability to coax dispirited men into raucous singing around campfires. Night after night he’d told familiar folktales that had elicited wistful tears and loud laughter. He had a seemingly endless repertoire of jests. Battle-hardened and travel-weary soldiers had readily joined in reigen dances, echoing Lute’s bawdy refrains.
He’d done it despite his own exhaustion and worry over Kon’s increasingly sullen behavior and her reluctance to commit to him.
She had thought Lothair oblivious and yet he’d known and found strength in the festivities.
A woman couldn’t ask for a finer husband than Lute, yet fear held her back.
The emperor looked to his son-by-marriage. Francesca was surprised to see tears welling as the stern duke knelt by the humble bed.
Lothair somehow found the strength to raise his good hand to touch the duke’s face. “Say goodbye to little Heinrich for me.”
The duke put his hand over the emperor’s and sobbed. “He will miss his grandpapa.”
After long minutes the wheezing ceased.
Duke Heinrich kissed the emperor’s hand and lay it across his chest. He closed Lothair’s eyes and kissed him on each cheek. “Let all present bear witness that His Highness, Lothair von Süpplingenberg, Holy Roman Emperor, is dead,” he declared.
Francesca wept.
The other men bent the knee, bowed their heads and made the sign of the Savior, startling her when they stood almost immediately and came to attention.
“Long live Emperor Heinrich,” Johann rasped.
“Long live the emperor,” came the hoarse echo.
Abundance of Affection
As the army was approaching München in the duchy of Bavaria three days after the dreadful events at Breitanwang, Lute sought and was granted an audience with the duke.
Upon entering the pavilion he found Heinrich the Proud hunkered down next to the wooden box containing Lothair’s bones. He bowed. “Your Highness.”
Heinrich stood and shook his hand with unusual cordiality. “No need for an imperial title. I have yet to be elected to succeed my father-by-marriage.”
Thanks to his father, Lute was aware of rumblings that many imperial electors deemed Heinrich too proud, and it was widely rumored among the ranks that the Staufen dukes would again challenge for the throne. However he wanted a boon from the unpredictable duke that he wasn’t certain of obtaining. “Surely that’s a forgone conclusion?”
Heinrich clenched his jaw and picked up a beribboned parchment from the top of the ossuary that Lute hadn’t noticed. “I have been expecting you.” He handed the parchment to Lute. “Our late emperor’s last official act.”
Lute eyed the document with suspicion, but the duke thrust it into his hand. “The night before we reached Breitanwang, Lothair summoned me and a scribe. He dictated his wishes, I witnessed it and now give it to you as he commanded.”
Heinrich’s frown rendered it difficult to say if he was happy or annoyed about the contents of the document, and Lute realized with a twinge of guilt he and
Francesca must have been singing and dancing at the campfire when this meeting transpired.
Her presence at the nightly gatherings had kept him going when making jests and singing raucous drinking songs was the last thing he’d wanted to do.
“Open it.”
He slid off the ribbon, unfurled the parchment and scanned the ornate script. Certain he’d misread the contents, he began again at the beginning.
“Read it aloud.”
He risked a glance at the duke, cleared his throat and began.
Be it known that I, Lothair von Süpplingenburg, Holy Roman—
“No time for all the preamble,” Heinrich interrupted. “Get to the main part.”
Lute traced a finger down the document.
…That the lands within my estates and possessions heretofore unassigned and known as the Grafschaft of Herzlachen shall henceforth and forever become the estate of Luther Caedmon von Wolfenberg and his heirs to rule over as Graf in a manner he sees fit.
Lothair had endowed him with the title of count and given him control of lands not far from his father’s holdings. He was no longer a landless middle son. His heart filled with joy that he had a future to offer Francesca, but he clenched his jaw when a dizzying throb began at his temple. If she agreed to marry him now, he would never be sure…
The duke interrupted his meandering thoughts. “Read on.”
Lute squinted at the blurring script.
I bestow this gift out of an abundance of affection for the von Wolfenberg family and in recognition of the heroic defence of Termoli.
“But I wasn’t in command at Termoli,” he protested.
The duke brandished a second parchment. “Don’t be concerned. Rödermark will have his reward. Now, read on.”
I ask only that the new Count of Herzlachen guarantee a comfortable living for my loyal aide, Zyklop.
The duke slumped into a chair and put his hand once more atop the ossuary. “Gut! My duty is done. Now what is it you want?”
Lute rolled up the parchment with trembling hands and replaced the ribbon. He tucked the precious document into his gambeson and made a decision. “I request permission to escort Lady Francesca di Cammarata to her parents’ home in Grünwald.”
Romantic Legends Page 78