Courageous Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  There were others in the stairwell, but whether above or below she couldn’t tell. Jumbled comments concerning the dire events intruded. It was believed Schurke’s cronies had aided in his escape and murdered the jailer. The emperor had apparently been wounded and oaths of retribution echoed off the stone.

  Recalling vague shadowy figures in the terrifying moments on the steps leading out of the cells, she shivered. Where were Schurke’s co-conspirators now? Had they overheard her frantic claims to be Ruggero’s niece?

  She was certain Lute would make sure they were caught, but then he might discover…

  The anxious maidservant waited by the open door of her chamber.

  Lute strode to the bed, but hesitated, turning to look at the door. “Your husband appears to have gone with the emperor.”

  His deep voice soothed some of the turmoil still roiling in her belly, but what to say in reply? William’s concern for the injured Lothair was understandable—to her.

  Lute leaned a knee on the mattress and laid her down gently. Their eyes met. He loomed over her, seemingly as reluctant to let go as she. In his arms she felt safe, protected, loved.

  “I apologise for the kiss, contessa,” he whispered, though his blue eyes held no hint of regret.

  She shook her head. “Kiss me again, Lute.”

  His brow furrowed as anger flickered in his gaze. “Not in your husband’s bed, Francesca.”

  She shivered when he straightened, turned on his heel and left, taking his warmth with him.

  She was grateful for the efficient silence of the maidservant who helped her disrobe. The girl had known enough to send for hot water. She washed Francesca’s hair and assisted with her bath, nodding her understanding of stammered instructions that the filthy gown and even the slippers were to be burned. She wanted to erase every memory of the harrowing ordeal—except for Lute’s kiss.

  Alone once more, lying abed in a fresh chemise, she traced a fingertip over her lips, remembering the salty taste of his Herculean effort to save her. He’d breathed life into her beleaguered lungs, brought her back from the brink of death.

  She hugged herself, feeling again the strength in his embrace that had brought reassurance she was alive and the terror had passed. She’d expected to awake in the lap of an angel and the memory of Lute’s solid and very human body pressed against her evoked delicious sensations in private places. Even her nipples tingled.

  Her throat was raw, her neck bruised, but in time those hurts would heal. The growing need for Lute would never go away.

  Her spirits sank when William arrived and paced, muttering to himself. He’d probably give her a tongue-lashing once he thought she’d recovered from the shock. Thanks be to the saints he didn’t know of her plan to free Schurke, and if Lute ever discovered it…

  Her throat tightened.

  “Lute,” she whispered.

  William waddled over to the bed, shaking his head. “What is this preoccupation you have with musical instruments?”

  She almost laughed, but that might turn to hysterics and bring on a fit of sobbing. “Let me sleep,” she murmured.

  He clenched his jaw. “Fine, but when you’re feeling better, cara, we have things to discuss. Your behavior with the Saxon soldier was shameful. No-one will still believe you’re my wife.”

  “Praise be to God I’m not,” she murmured as he huffed out of the chamber.

  She drifted off into a doze, vaguely thankful Lothair must have survived. William would surely have mentioned if the emperor had been assassinated in his little town.

  ~~~

  After leaving Francesca’s chamber, Lute did everything duty demanded, despite the conflicting emotions tearing his heart apart.

  Francesca had almost died…but she belonged to another and could never be his, no matter how much…

  He hastened to the hall where a regimental corpsman was swathing the emperor’s hand in bandages. “Is it serious?” he asked Brandt.

  “Apparently not,” came the reply, “but in this heat…”

  It was a troubling turn of events. “Perhaps the march to Bari will be delayed.”

  “Lothair insists the main army will depart on the morrow.”

  He took his leave and hurried down to the beach where Schurke’s broken body lay on the rocks at the foot of the wall. He stared at the lacerated arm twisted grotesquely like a gutted snake. The wound must have bled, but…

  A peculiar shiver rushed through his veins when it dawned on him for the first time his tunic was splattered with the wretch’s blood. An urge to run into the incoming tide and wash away the horror of the struggle seized him, but Kon appeared at his side.

  “We’ve arrested them,” his brother declared.

  Lute dragged his gaze away from the corpse. Two imperial soldiers were on their knees in the sand, hands bound behind their backs. Vidar stood guard, sword drawn. Lute recognised them as part of the contingent transferred into his company after Salerno. Schurke’s cronies. He might have known the unlikely duo of his pious brother and the frighteningly efficient Vidar would quickly roust out the culprits.

  “They’ve confessed,” Kon explained. “They were afraid of Schurke and claim he coerced them.”

  Lute gritted his teeth. “Nevertheless they will hang for their part in the attacks on the emperor and the contessa.”

  “Mercy, my captain,” one of the men cried, squinting up at him. “We meant no malice to our beloved emperor, and the woman is an enemy, a Sicilian.”

  Sicilian? Was it possible Francesca had deceived them—played him for a fool? “She is William of Loritello’s wife,” he retorted.

  “But she’s also the niece of Ruggero of Sicilia,” the soldier wailed. “In the cells she promised great rewards if we let her go.”

  Lute glanced at Kon and saw his own puzzlement mirrored in his brother’s eyes. “In the cells?” he rasped in a voice he barely recognized.

  Both accused men nodded like marionettes. “I don’t know why she was there, but Schurke seized her and…”

  “Enough!” Lute shouted, turning to Vidar. “They are to be gagged and imprisoned. Chain them together.”

  Vidar nodded and called for the aid of two soldiers from the ranks. Lute was confident Brandt’s adjutant would repeat nothing of what he had heard.

  “They’re lying,” Kon insisted as they watched the pair being hauled away. “Why would she be in the cells? It’s not a fit place for a woman.”

  A thousand possibilities whirled in Lute’s mind, but only one made sense. If Francesca was indeed the niece of King Ruggero, her intent had been to free Schurke. Perhaps she’d succeeded and the brute had turned on her. He didn’t want to believe she’d participated in the murder of the jailer.

  But who knew what a woman who feigned passion in order to thwart her uncle’s enemies was capable of? Now he understood the reason for the scorpion. What a fool he’d been to believe she had feelings for him.

  PRISONERS

  Just after dawn, Francesca stood atop the battlements watching the main imperial army march away on the road to Bari. She was troubled by William’s assertion that it was expected Rainolfo’s army would join forces with the emperor. It was unlikely Bari could defend against such a combined force.

  She wished the clouds of dust would obscure the bodies hanging from the hastily erected scaffold in the bailey.

  Struggling not to retch as the criminals convulsed in the noose, she’d wondered if they had wives in Saxony, widows now, with children who would never see their fathers again. She’d been too close to death in past days. The carefree life of Palermo seemed very far away.

  Retribution for Lothair’s wounding had been swift, and she was grateful the condemned men hadn’t been tortured before the sentence was carried out. She assumed her identity remained a secret.

  But all was not well.

  William stood beside her, his normally red face pale and drawn. She felt his fear and understood it. Her uncle wasn’t a merciful man. Once he
retook Termoli, the count would be lucky to escape with his life. The token force left behind might withstand a siege for a while, but Ruggero would eventually prevail.

  Standing closer to the wall, Lute and his brother-by-marriage also watched the departure. She couldn’t see their faces, but the rigid set of both men’s shoulders betrayed their turmoil.

  Johann and Kon von Wolfenberg had been ordered by the duke to accompany the army to Bari.

  Her heart grieved for Lute, separated from his brothers, but when she’d tried earlier to offer brief words of sympathy, he’d scowled in reply.

  William leaned towards her. “I’ve had your belongings returned to your own chamber. You’re to stay there until I send orders to the contrary.”

  Indignation tightened her throat. She was to be a prisoner. He hadn’t consigned her to the cells, but obviously wanted to put paid to any thoughts she might have of aiding her uncle. He didn’t trust her and would easily explain away her absence at meals in the hall.

  Lute had apparently turned his back on her. She was alone in the enemy camp. What choice but to remain loyal to her own flesh and blood?

  ~~~

  When the departing troops were a faint dust cloud on the horizon, Brandt turned to Vidar. “Cut those men down.”

  His adjutant strode off to complete the grim task.

  “So the foul deed done to you in Wolfenberg has been avenged in full,” Lute said.

  Brandt shrugged. “I take no pleasure in their deaths. Had they not attacked me I wouldn’t have convalesced in your home and subsequently married your sister.”

  They stood in silence for several long minutes. Lute gripped the top of the wall, reluctant to turn around lest Francesca was still standing beside Count William. “Bereft as I am to see Johann and Kon go on to Bari, they probably stand a better chance of survival than we do.”

  Brandt scratched the dark stubble under his chin. “You may be right, but I don’t intend to die here before I’ve set eyes on my son.”

  Lute chuckled. “I must confess that when we first met I didn’t like you.”

  Brandt eyed him with a curious half-smile.

  Lute gazed up at the relentless sun. “I suppose I felt protective because it quickly became apparent Sophia was taken with you, but you were an envoy for the hated Staufens.”

  “And now?”

  Lute grinned. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have as my Commander, and I don’t want my nephew to grow up without a father.”

  They’d spent hours discussing with the duke how best to fortify, supply and defend Termoli. The stockpiling of food and water had already begun and rationing put into place. Lute had confidence in the mettle and loyalty of his own mostly Saxon troops; the Swabians and Frankens lent by the Staufen dukes respected Brandt. Schurke and his cronies had been the rotten apples. It was unlikely any of the other men would desert or mutiny.

  “We can always flee by boat,” Brandt quipped, pointing out to sea.

  Lute followed his gaze, relieved to see out of the corner of his eye that William and Francesca had left. “Do you think it’s true she’s Ruggero’s niece?” he asked.

  “I do,” Brandt replied before striding off towards the stairs.

  Lute glanced down at the scaffold. Vidar kept a watchful eye on a small company of soldiers who were taking away the corpses, much to the indignation of raucous crows. High tide had carried Schurke’s body away, and he supposed Vidar would organise a burial at sea for the others.

  His conversation with Brandt evoked memories of home. The easy going middle son with no responsibilities, he hadn’t appreciated the freedom of his carefree life, his indulgent, loving parents and a comfortable home in a land relatively free of conflict. He longed for those things now he was a virtual prisoner of war, obliged to defend a miserable little town, all the while drawn by the lodestone that was Francesca.

  The warning in Brandt’s terse reply to his question about her kinship was a sharp reminder she wasn’t to be trusted, especially not with his heart.

  ZITELLA

  The day after the main army’s departure Lute and Brandt moved into the chamber vacated by the emperor. Vidar, who was to serve as adjutant to them both, took a smaller one the duke had occupied. His growled acceptance of the news Drogo was to sleep on a pallet in the chamber indicated his discomfort with the proposal, but he raised no objection.

  Brandt understandably preferred the boy sleep within the safer confines of the castle rather than remain in his local billet. Lute simply thought it made sense for the squire to be nearer at hand since he was to serve as their valet.

  Surprisingly, Drogo seemed disgruntled with the new arrangement. Pouting, he threw his sack of belongings to the floor, looked around his new lodging as if he’d been condemned to the cells, and slumped down on the pallet.

  “No time for rest,” Brandt admonished. “What’s amiss?”

  Drogo stared at his feet. “I could have stayed with the local family, my lord. I didn’t mind.”

  Brandt scoffed. “No doubt. Nothing to do there but eat their food and mayhap drink their wine.”

  Drogo looked up and Lute caught a glimpse of wistful longing in the boy’s eyes. “I’d hazard a guess it’s not local food he’ll miss but mayhap a delicacy of a different kind.”

  Brandt laughed out loud.

  Drogo scrambled to stand. “It’s true the family has a daughter, but…”

  Lute held up a hand. “Pax, lad, your red face betrays you.”

  Brandt scowled. “I hope you were a gentleman, Drogo. I don’t need an irate father demanding my squire wed his pregnant daughter.”

  The boy’s virginal blush deepened and Lute suspected he hadn’t detected the teasing tone of Brandt’s taunt. “Nein, my lord. Zitella is from a good family; she serves as maid to the lady Francesca, and I would never…”

  “She’s the countess’s maidservant?” Lute interrupted.

  Drogo puffed out his chest. “Ja, my lord. Though she doesn’t condone her mistress sleeping…”

  The lad’s eyes widened as he glanced at his master, then at Lute.

  “Out with it, boy,” Brandt demanded. “What is it about her mistress?”

  Drogo frowned. “I promised Zitella I wouldn’t tell. She was sworn to secrecy.”

  Brandt fisted both hands in his squire’s tunic and lifted him so they were nose to nose. “Best you remember where your loyalty lies, Drogo, to your emperor or to your lady-love.”

  The youth swallowed hard. “The lady Francesca sleeps in the count’s bedchamber, though they are not wed.”

  Elation and despair warred within Lute. His heart and his body hadn’t betrayed him. He wouldn’t be cast into the fires of hell for lusting after another man’s wife. However, it didn’t mean she had feelings for him.

  Although the kiss…

  “In his bed?” Brandt asked after a brief glance at Lute.

  “Ja!”

  Lute’s heart sank.

  “But the count sleeps in a chair.”

  Hope rose from the ashes.

  Drogo seemed unable to stop talking. “The count had Lady Francesca’s belongings moved back into her chamber. She’s to remain there.”

  Brandt set his squire’s feet back on the planked floor. “You’re not to reveal that we know these things. Now go tend to our horses.”

  Once his squire had left, Brandt turned to Lute. “This marriage was obviously designed to deceive us. It adds credence to the probability she is Ruggero’s niece. The count’s decision to confine her means he fears she will betray him.”

  Lute gritted his teeth. “And us. Best she be kept under lock and key.”

  It was a bitter necessity, but he would miss seeing her every day.

  ~~~

  The first night after the attack, Francesca slept the sleep of the dead in William’s bed, exhausted by her terrifying experience.

  The second night, in her own chamber, she was too agitated to even try to sleep after Zitella left. The g
irl meant well with her incessant chatter, but what did Francesca care about a German youth billeted in the girl’s home?

  She lay in bed, thinking of the suite of rooms she had in Palermo. Her parlor at home was larger than the musty, stiflingly hot cupboard she occupied now. She was forced to stop counting the cobwebs in the rafters when the lone candle finally guttered out.

  She could only hope more candles would be brought on the morrow.

  Cobwebs conjured thoughts of big, black wolf spiders, the sight of which never failed to render her incapable of speech or movement. That in turn reminded her of the scorpion fiasco. Thanks be to the saints the peasant lad had held the box and set the loathsome creatures free, otherwise…

  An involuntary sob stuck in her throat at the memory.

  She had left Palermo blithely content with the notion of marrying an unknown nobleman. It was expected of a woman of her rank. But now that she’d savored the incredibly unsettling taste of sexual and emotional cravings, the only course open to her was a solitary life. The man who filled her heart and thoughts would never be hers. He belonged to a different world, and she’d alienated him beyond redemption.

  He must have deduced by now that she and William weren’t married.

  She tried to think of happier things. At least the lack of light had caused the moths to be still. She hated moths with their fat, hairy bodies. How could butterflies be so endearing and moths so…

  She closed her eyes tight and swallowed hard, certain that if confinement to this tiny chamber went on for more than a day she would lose her wits entirely.

  PASSING THE TIME

  Zitella brought a tray of food for the midday meal and promised to return.

  Driven by the relentless heat to remove her gown, Francesca lingered over the food, filling the tedium with small sips of broth and chewing chunks of bread until her jaws ached. Despite her thirst she made a point of counting the number of planks in the floor between each swallow from the tankard of watered ale.