Emboldened, he squeezed both her nipples at once, struck dumb by her intoxicating beauty as she writhed beneath his touch, eyes closed. “Even if my father in his shy way hadn’t passed on things to me, your body would guide me, Francesca. It’s telling me what you like.”
“I love that,” she hummed when he squeezed a little harder.
He found the hem of her chemise and trailed his fingers up her thighs, sifting through the curls at her mons. Her hips began to move. Her open mouth was too tempting. He kissed her as his fingertip found the moist little nub.
She arched her back and growled. He was in dangerous territory, but his finger refused to leave the warm, wet haven it had found. He tapped the nub, over and over, feeling it grow. He thrust his tongue in and out of her mouth until she nigh on rose off the bed and her breathless scream echoed in his throat.
He gathered her into his embrace as wave after wave of pleasure shuddered through her limp body.
Elated he’d brought her to what he firmly believed was her first release, he chuckled inwardly at the memory of learning of the effects of touching a woman’s intimate parts. He’d been rather taken aback at the notion his father did such things to his mother.
It had all seemed so matter-of-fact and uninspiring, yet the woman he loved now lay asleep in his arms and he had a raging dragon at his groin.
DAY OF RECKONING
Francesca awoke the next morning, not surprised Lute had left sometime during the night, but wishing he hadn’t. She’d wanted to explore his body, learn how to give him pleasure, but had apparently fallen into a contented sleep in his arms.
She threw off the linens and stretched like a well-rested cat, her eyes darting around the cramped and dingy chamber now transformed into a beloved place she would never forget. It was where she’d surrendered parts of her body and all of her soul to a man. She’d become a woman.
She buried her nose in the bolster where he’d laid his head, inhaling the lingering male scent.
She trailed her fingertips over her breasts, desire spiralling into her womb when she recalled the magic Lute’s touch had conjured. Her hand wandered to her mons. She arched her back, remembering with wonder. Mayhap if she touched that intimate spot…
Zitella’s abrupt entry stopped her heart. She clamped her legs together and scrambled to draw the linens up to her chin. “Its customary to knock,” she spat, but annoyance and embarrassment faded when she realized the girl was crying. “What is it?”
The maid fell to her knees, fists clenched to her heaving breasts. “King Ruggero’s army has been sighted,” she wailed.
~~~
Lute stood with Brandt and Count William atop the battlements.
“We’ve done everything in our power to prepare for this day,” Brandt observed as they watched Ruggero’s army settle into an encampment about a mile beyond the hastily dug ditch and rampart designed to keep the enemy at bay.
Lute agreed, but that didn’t ease the grip of the cold hand squeezing his gut. “Not enough time or manpower to make it any higher.”
“And not enough men to hold it,” William complained.
“Ruggero might guess at that,” Brandt retorted, “but can’t know for sure how large a contingent Vidar commands on this side of the rampart.”
“Nor how small we are in numbers inside the walls,” Lute muttered, wishing he felt more optimistic. He wasn’t surprised Brandt’s adjutant had volunteered for the most dangerous assignment. Lute envied his nerves of steel. If anyone could defend the rampart, it was Vidar.
William gripped the top of the wall. “Unless he sends in spies.”
A shiver caressed Lute’s nape. Ruggero was Francesca’s flesh and blood. Could they even be sure of William of Loritello? “Mayhap they are already here. It’s difficult to control the port.”
Brandt scratched the stubble under his chin. “We must hope not, and I’ll order the port closed now to all except local fishermen. We have enough food and water to last for a while.”
Lute strode over to the other side of the battlements. “Tide’s coming in,” he shouted to his brother-by-marriage. “I doubt they’ll attempt an attack from the sea, but I’ll make sure the troops deployed near the beach are on alert.”
Brandt followed as he descended the stairway. “Keep a sharp eye out,” he advised before they went their separate ways.
Lute made his way through the eerily quiet streets, missing the smiles of local folk and the sounds of children and youths playing the games he’d invented. The handful of men loitering in shadowed doorways looked fearful and uncertain.
The port was deserted except for the soldiers he’d stationed there. He clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. A lump rose in his throat when he conjured an image of the manor house at Wolfenberg, and his father, no doubt enjoying his new grandsons and of course his dogs—the beloved hovawarts.
In Saxony Lute had a reputation for being the life and soul of any gathering, but that peaceful existence was far away. War brought disruption and fear. However, he was the son of a military hero whose daring and bravery had helped secure the throne of the Holy Roman Empire for Lothair.
He resolved to do his utmost to defend this little town, though it might cost him the woman he loved.
~~~
A fit of hiccups seized Zitella as Francesca guided her into the hall, but at least the girl had finally stopped crying. The reason for her sorrow became clear. Drogo had been obliged to join the militia guarding the port.
“Don’t worry,” she soothed, though she acknowledged the lad was no soldier. “He’ll be relatively safe there.”
Lute’s duty would put him in harm’s way wherever he went. She could only pray for God’s mercy and that he didn’t go out to the rampart.
Tending the injured men under her care would keep her occupied for most of the day, but she sensed the mood among the wounded Germans had changed. She suspected they’d been told of her kinship with the Sicilian king. Instead of trust she saw suspicion and fear in their eyes, and it pained her.
They recognised, as did her breaking heart, that the day of reckoning had dawned.
Her one remaining hope was that, when Termoli fell, she’d be able to convince her uncle to spare the men she’d healed, and the man she loved.
UNCERTAINTY
Francesca left her bed before dawn. Sleep had been elusive since the arrival of her uncle and his army a fortnight before. As more of her patients recovered sufficiently to rejoin the ranks, it became harder to wear herself out taking care of them.
Only two remained in the hall, one a young man who’d lost an eye. He seemed to rally then falter, and she suspected he didn’t truly want to recover. It was likely he hadn’t slept either, so she made her way in the darkness thinking to cheer him with a friendly voice.
In the event, she found him and the other man snoring softly, so she simply sank to her knees and prayed beside them.
She prayed for the one-eyed boy, for Lute, for Brandt, for Zitella, for Drogo, for her uncle, for the people of Termoli, for William even.
~~~
For a fortnight there had been no change in either side’s position. Vidar sent reports from the rampart that the enemy appeared to have pitched approximately one hundred large tents. The dust they raised made it difficult to ascertain their numbers.
“That means a thousand soldiers at least,” William estimated, pacing the hall where only two or three wounded men still lay in a shadowed corner. “Why haven’t they attacked?”
The count had aged visibly, and it was a mystery to Lute how he’d managed to increase his girth, since food was strictly rationed. “They’re waiting until we get desperate,” he quipped, though he acknowledged the uncertainty was playing on everyone’s nerves.
Ruggero’s arrival had brought an end to his trysts with Francesca. They’d both agreed, but he missed her more than he thought possible. Every time he caught a glimpse of her, he worried about the toll the predicament was taking. She alwa
ys smiled, but the sadness never left her eyes.
“As long as the local fishermen bring in good catches we’ll have enough food,” William advised.
Lute crossed his eyes and opened and closed his mouth several times. “I’ll have grown gills by the time this is over,” he declared, disappointed when no one else seemed to appreciate the humor of his fish imitation.
Brandt looked at him curiously for a moment, rolled his eyes then turned away. “Drogo reports the hauls are bigger, perhaps due to the port being closed to traders and anyone other than local boats.
“Our biggest problem is likely to be drinking water. We’re dependent on the wells, and as you’ve told us, William, they’ve been known to dry up in the summer.”
“When that happens we normally haul water from Lake Guardialfera,” William explained. “That’s out of the question in the present circumstances.”
“Speaking of questions, how are the Sicilians feeding a thousand men, and perhaps horses?” Lute asked. “They don’t have access to the sea, except mayhap further up the coast, and it’s a convoluted process to haul fish quickly enough for it not to spoil in this heat.”
“That’s a good point,” Brandt replied. “Maybe there are fewer in the enemy camp than we think.”
William tried and failed to fold his arms, ending up resting them atop his expanding belly. “There must be some way to find out,” he huffed.
~~~
Francesca startled when voices in the main part of the hall intruded on the confused petitions whirling in her sleep-deprived mind.
For a moment she thought she was dreaming, but then it came to her Lute was talking with others—Brandt and William. Obviously, they didn’t suspect she was there.
William would be lvivid if she revealed her presence, and Brandt might suspect her of spying, so she remained in the shadows, determined to immerse herself once more in prayer.
But the nagging worry in their voices drew her. When the besieging army first arrived she’d expected her uncle to send a deputation to negotiate her freedom. She’d agonized for days over how to find a way out of the impossible situation in which she found herself.
William’s question sparked an idea. She held her breath and stepped out of the shadows. “Send an envoy.”
~~~
Francesca’s unexpected emergence from the shadows took them all by surprise, but Lute feared William’s fat, red face might explode with anger.
“Spying,” the count shouted, wagging his finger as he strode towards her.
Lute hurried after him and grasped his wrist as he raised his hand to strike. “Why would she reveal herself if she was spying?” he hissed through gritted teeth.
The notion of any man striking Francesca filled him with fury, but she hadn’t flinched under the threat, and he admired her courage.
“I was tending my remaining patients,” she explained, addressing her words to Lute while William fumed. “How was I to know you planned to meet here?”
“Nevertheless,” Brandt interrupted, “you did overhear our discussion.”
“If you release me to my uncle, I will beg mercy for Termoli.”
The notion was a blow to Lute’s belly, and yet…
William scoffed. “Ruggero doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“And we don’t plan to surrender,” Brandt added.
She fixed her plaintive eyes on Lute. “But he will slaughter everyone,” she cried.
Lute had resigned himself to the probability of dying in Termoli after watching Lothair march away with the army, but there was no reason for the beautiful woman he loved to suffer further. He came to a decision. “I propose Lady Francesca be given safe passage out of Termoli.”
“But she is a valuable hostage,” William yelled.
Lute stood nose to nose with the spluttering count. “You wish to bargain with a woman’s life?” he asked softly. “That may be how you do things in Apulia, but Saxons don’t wage war on women.”
“Nor Frankens,” Brandt added. “We will defend Termoli with bravery and military skill.”
“You’re fools,” William spat before stalking away.
Lute turned to Francesca, his heart in knots. “Make ready, my lady. I will arrange safe passage to the rampart and from there a message will be sent to your uncle.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, Lute von Wolfenberg,” she murmured before returning to the injured men in the shadows.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Brandt told him.
Lute gripped the hilt of his sword, but his jaw was clenched so tightly he could make no reply. He strode off to make the arrangements for her departure before his heart shattered.
TOKEN
Despite Brandt’s objections, Lute rode out to the rampart with Francesca in the late afternoon. Neither spoke, though he longed to tell her what was in his heart. “You’re a fine horsewoman,” was all he managed to finally say in a strained voice he barely recognised.
She kept her eyes fixed on the rampart. “My uncle taught me,” she murmured in reply.
Vidar waited, mounted and ready to accompany her to the enemy camp. Francesca had insisted Lute not risk his life any further than the rampart.
“Are you ready, my lady?” the adjutant asked.
She nodded. “I am.”
The soldier urged his horse to the top of the rampart.
Francesca turned to look at Lute, her face streaked with tears. “I will never forget you, my one and only love.”
Lute leaned forward, took her hand and tucked his most precious possession into her palm. “Take this,” he rasped, curling her fingers around the souvenir. “It’s the only token of my love I have to give you. Wear it and think of me.”
She nodded, pressed her clenched fist to her breast and followed Vidar to the top of the rampart.
~~~
The minutes spent waiting for a delegation to appear from the enemy camp were the longest of Francesca’s life. She was afraid to open her hand. If she did she would burst into tears and turn her horse around to rejoin Lute.
She sensed his presence still behind her.
The enigmatic Vidar said nothing, for which she was grateful.
They’d waited until the afternoon to avoid the midday sun, but sweat trickled down her spine.
Perhaps her uncle would ignore the presence of riders atop the rampart, though surely he would see one of them was a woman and know it was his niece.
Just as her heart was calming, two turbaned soldiers emerged from amid the hundreds of tents and started slowly toward the rampart.
Squinting at the outriders, Vidar spat into the dry earth. “Fatimids!”
She narrowed her eyes, disappointed not to recognise either of the approaching men. “My uncle has many Mohammedans in his army,” she retorted, more to reassure herself. “They are fierce warriors.”
“And loyal to the highest bidder,” he growled.
The old Francesca might have argued that mercenaries were the life blood of any army. Even Lothair had his share of them. But what was the point? “I’m ready.”
“As you wish,” he replied, leading the way down the rampart and across the ditch.
She longed to look back at Lute for the last time, but therein lay heartbreak. Instead she uncurled her fingers, choking back a sob when she beheld the garter.
Chanting the familiar prayer to the Virgin as a mantra, she tucked the beloved token into the bodice of her gown and followed Vidar.
~~~
Lute urged his horse to the top of the rampart and watched the only woman he had ever loved disappear into the enemy camp.
Gone forever.
She was better off, he reasoned, safe with her own people—except neither of the men who had escorted her was Ruggero. But then a king was hardly likely to ride out into hostile territory.
He was relieved to see Vidar cantering back towards him, but worried by the scowl on the man’s face when he regained the earthwork. When he expressed his
thanks, the adjutant glared. “For what? Delivering her into the hands of Fatimids?”
It was probably the longest string of words he’d ever heard the franken speak, and the rare display of anger took him aback. “Fatimids?”
Vidar looked back at the camp. “She said naught, but it wasn’t what she expected. They didn’t seem sure who she was, even when I explained it in their language.”
“Every army has mercenaries,” he replied without conviction, filled with an insane urge to ride for the tents at full gallop.
“Best you return to the castle,” Vidar said. “I’ll remain here until my watch is done. I’m sorry, my lord.”
Lute nodded, at a loss for words. Even the dour adjutant sensed his pain. His mind and his heart were numb as he turned Mitte, contemplating the castle that would likely become his tomb.
ENEMY ENCAMPMENT
Many Mohammedans dwelt in Palermo. Sicilia had been an islamic emirate not that long ago. Those who remained were either servants, or soldiers. Since servants were expected to learn the language of their masters and she had no contact with mercenaries, Francesca had never bothered to learn Arabic.
She thanked the saints that Vidar knew enough of the islamic tongue to explain who she was. However, the furrowed brows of the two Arabs betrayed their confusion. They debated back and forth with each other before finally signalling she should accompany them. Vidar would have been forgiven for retreating immediately to the relative safety of the rampart, but he stayed and kept watch as they led her away.
She was dismayed to discover that the camp was extensive, but puzzled that it was strangely quiet. Soldiers lounged around in small groups, their heads turbaned, faces covered. Conversation ceased as she rode by, and the dark eyes that followed her progress sent a shiver of apprehension across her nape.
She caught sight of a string of magnificent ponies, but it occurred to her there must be more tethered elsewhere.
Courageous Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 2) Page 8