Knight of Love (3 page)

She blushed again, ashamed with herself for listening, but fascinated all the same. These two good souls had found each other and, by the sound of it, shared great enjoyment together.

What would that be like, to be intimate with someone by choice and with such pleasure as the result? Lenora could no longer imagine anything of the sort forming any part of her fate. She knew no man would ever touch her without her remembering Kurt's pinching grip, his loathsome sneer as he forced her to her knees, his sick excitement when he'd twist her arm high behind her back. “This is what it means to be a wife, to be my princess,” he'd said, laughing wickedly. “Do you like it?”

The very thought of ever being intimate with another man made her shudder.

And yet . . . here were the good Widow Stanfeld and Herr Blumthal.

He groaned, and Helga matched him with lusty cries of her own, invoking the good Lord and the four Evangelists.

Something else stirred within her, a strange echo of Helga's pleasure. Curiosity and a peculiar yearning. Not for Herr Blumthal, certainly, but . . . for a man of her own one day? Confused by her feelings, she backed away from the house wall.

And straight into a stack of garden trowels. They clattered noisily as she stumbled and caught herself on a bench.

A dog began to bark from within the cottage's enclosed yard. “Hush, quiet!” she hissed, fear spiking cold and sharp across her skin.

Another dog in the distance took up the call with a deep growling bark.

She began to run. Around the corner of the garden shed lay the path to the orchard gate. But as she rounded it, the pale blur of a gray dog emerged from the night, closing in fast from the direction of the stables.

She looked around wildly, near blind in the dark. The violent staccato of her heart hammered in time to the dogs' angry barks. Were she caught now, it could mean her death.

She reached into her satchel, rifling desperately for the dried sausage, but the beast was upon her, jumping up with snarling jaws. Before its teeth could close on her arm, she threw the meat at it. When the dog pushed off her to lunge for the food, her purse strings snapped as the dog's nails tangled with the leather ties at her waist. Her bag of coins tumbled into a clipped hedge. She froze for one frantic moment. Without her money and only partial food stores, what chance would she have to traverse Germany on her own as revolution raged?

But when she reached into the hedge for the purse, the dog looked up from the meat and snarled.

She took off at a run, sending up a desperate prayer of thanks when the animal didn't follow.

She made it through the orchard gate just as the barking started up again. Male voices from the direction of the garden and stables began to take up its chorus.

“
Meine Dame,
are you followed?” The worried whisper came from Herr Steinberg, Franz's father. He held the reins of a shaggy horse. Her spirits sank at the dim outline of its swayed back, but it had four legs and a saddle. It would have to do.

“Not yet, but I must go quickly, as must you. Here”—she thrust the last gold bracelet at him—“with my thanks.” With a few more hasty words, Herr Steinberg hoisted her into the saddle. She rode off into the night as fast as she dared along the dark forest path.

Her heart beat a panicky accompaniment to the farm horse's hooves. Her plan was already in jeopardy. The remaining food in the satchel wouldn't last more than a few days. Without money, she'd have to beg or steal for more. And the alarm might already now be raised about her escape.

But she'd slipped the castle and Kurt's grip. Not for the world would she go back. She'd die before letting him imprison her again.

Before she let any man have power over her.

A cold rain drizzled down her neck. For days now a steady rainfall had added to her misery on the roads and to the danger of her escape. For despite the drenching skies and frigid temperatures, the countryside seemed on fire.

Everywhere she rode, people gathered at rallies in favor of freedom, civil rights, and unity. From the news she picked up, the trains and mail coach barely ran. The universities and newspapers were shut down or operating under heavy censorship. Skirmishes between revolutionaries and the ruling forces popped up everywhere with gathering speed. Even the small hamlets that she deemed safe enough to enter hosted speeches by local leaders calling for a unified German nation. Flags in the black-red-gold tricolor of the revolution bore the inscription
Deutschlands Wiedergeburt
—“Germany's rebirth.” Broadsheets, melting in the rain, covered signposts everywhere.
Springtime of the People,
they boldly proclaimed, with demands for voting rights and more freedom for the press and the universities. Militiamen galloped past her, shouting at her to join the cause. She yelled back an excuse about being on a commission for her master and trembled with relief when they rode on.

Overall, the commotion provided excellent cover in the long week following her escape. She traveled toward Frankfurt on a crisscrossing path to avoid the worst areas of conflict, as well as to throw off any pursuit. Few people proved curious about a slim boy on a shaggy horse. She bedded down at night where she could, in deserted hunting cabins or under rocky overhangs, keeping the horse with her for warmth. Her biggest problem was food. By the end of four days, the remaining provisions she'd packed were gone. She risked only quick stops in the smallest villages, bartering for food and asking for directions. She got little enough for her comb on one village baker's strong suspicions that a messenger boy would have no reason save thievery to carry a lady's silver comb. She'd accepted the loaf he'd offered and slunk out of town.

And then, posted at a crossroads, she spied another broadside that turned her blood cold. It bore an excellent likeness of her, copied from her engagement portrait, under her name in bold letters:
Lady Lenora Trevelyan
, British Fiancée of Prinz Kurt Von Rotenburg-Gruselstadt, Kidnapped by Revolutionary Outlaws!
And under the drawing, in bolder letters yet:
Reward in Gold for the Lady's Safe Return to Schloss Rotenburg
. She looked around furtively, nausea churning her stomach, before ripping down the broadside and stuffing it in her saddlebag.

She rode on, alone, in the freezing rain.

Around noon on another day with nothing to eat save a raw turnip stolen from a bin outside a farmer's barn, the pounding of hooves came at her fast around the bend ahead. A big cavalry horse passed her on the narrow road before the rider pulled up short. The bay reared and snorted as the officer, wearing the tricolored armband of the revolutionaries, turned his mount back into her path.

“Boy, stop! I would speak with you,” the rider commanded in German.

She tried to rein her horse around him. “Sir, I ride on an urgent matter for my master,” she said over her shoulder, pitching her voice low and mimicking the German diction of the castle servants. “I dare not dally.”

The officer maneuvered his much larger horse across her path. “You ride from Bielstadt, don't you? You can take a moment to tell me how goes the uprising in the village.”

She kept her face averted and pulled up the collar of the greatcoat. “I traveled around Bielstadt, sir, through the woods on a shortcut. I have no news of how the village fares.” Town gates and crossroads now all displayed the broadsides of her portrait with the reward for her return. She'd taken to avoiding them whenever she could.

“No news at all? What of Lady Lenora from Rotenburg? Have you heard aught of her disappearance?”

Her heart began to hammer. “No, I know nothing of her.”

The man laughed. “You're a poor liar, boy,” he said. “You're turning red as a beet. Come, tell me what you've heard. Has she been found? Was it really the revolutionaries who captured her?”

“I know naught!”

The officer advanced his horse closer to her. He frowned, gazing intently at her face. “What's your name, boy?”

Her horse shied when the militiaman's arm suddenly whipped out. He ripped the soaked cap off her head and pulled roughly at her braid. Her hair spilled from its pins, and the braid uncoiled to slap against her back.

A laugh shook his frame. “Well, what have we here?”

She tried to spin her mount into a fast turn, but he grabbed at her reins. Her smaller horse whinnied in alarm as the well-trained cavalry horse slammed into it. She pulled her dagger from its sheath. He seized her wrist and twisted hard, staring at her for a long moment. She was immobilized, unable to move or pull away, panting with fear and the pain radiating down her arm.

“Lady Lenora, I presume?” he asked. “Daughter of the British Duke of Sherbrooke? Fiancée to Prince Kurt von Rotenburg-Gruselstadt? The kidnapped bride?” He narrowed his eyes. “Or are you perhaps a runaway?”

Then he grinned with triumph. “Either way, we have you now.”

Chapter 3

I
n the dusk of that afternoon, her captor led her horse into a militia camp after a hard gallop on muddy roads in the rain.

Her stomach ached and her head swam after a day with little food. The leather thong of her reins cut off circulation to her hands where her wrists were lashed to the saddle. The collar of her coat had come askew, and cold rain soaked the back of her shirt to her still-bruised skin. Her secret was out, her identity discovered. She'd fallen into the clutches of an enemy camp as all of Germany blazed in rebellion and revolt.

Her father's voice came to her:
Bit of a pickle, isn't it?
A bubble of hysteric laughter caught in her throat. Dear Lord, the duke's dry reserve and her safe English home seemed a lifetime away.

A group of four heavily armed militia officers stepped forward from the campfire where they'd been warming themselves.

“Becker!” called out a tall one in scarlet. “What's this you've found on the road? Have you taken to kidnapping boys?”

The men were all huge, hulking, clothed in leather jerkins and swirling greatcoats, with swords sheathed at their sides and guns in their belts. She sat silent and ignored on her horse as her captor dismounted and revealed her identity to his comrades. The moment allowed her to study their group. Tents scattered the field of the encampment, with a pack of hobbled horses grazing off to one side. The rain had finally stopped, and smoke rose from where groups of a few dozen men sat at campfires, eating, talking, and laughing in the gathering dusk.

She'd seen numerous such bands in the past week: a ragtag pack of German rebels. No reason to be cowed, she tried to convince herself. She straightened her spine and kneed her horse forward into the knot of men. “I demand to speak with your leader,” she said. When they ignored her, she raised her voice: “If you men are at all true to the principles of freedom and rights for which you fight, you will not hold me against my will.”

The militiamen turned toward her. Laughter burst from the one who'd towed her from the Bielstadt Road—Becker, they'd called him. “See that, men? She's a fit mate indeed for Prince Kurt, issuing her commands!”

A beefy one with arms like corded tree trunks pulled his dagger and cut loose her hands. He dragged her roughly from the saddle and pushed her to the ground by their fire. “Join our campfire,
F
räulein
. You'll find our hospitality in exact proportion to the care doled out by you aristocrats to your peasants.”

“
Halt!
” She scrambled to her feet. “You claim to be the new order! Bringing justice to Germany and fighting for freedom! Is this how you inaugurate your precious democracy, by threatening abuse toward an innocent and defenseless woman?”

“Marie Antoinette lost her head last century, just like her king,” the beefy one said, sneering. “If you choose to bind yourself to scum like Prince Kurt, you must be no different—and no better—than him.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to disavow her fiancé—although he was surely no longer even that. Kurt's pride wouldn't tolerate her betrayal. But she was uncertain enough of the situation to hold back. Perhaps her status as bride-elect of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt held some possibility of protection for her.

Becker walked to the fire and spooned himself thick stew from the pot hanging there.

Her mouth salivated at the smell—Lord, she was hungry.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “And somehow I doubt you are defenseless.” He turned his attention back toward his fellow militiamen. “She fought like a she-lion when I discovered her on the road. Look what she pulled on me!” Becker drew her dagger from its scabbard tucked in his belt and used it to spear himself a chunk of meat from the stew.

“Prince Kurt's broadsheets claim you were kidnapped by rebel brigands while delivering charity baskets in the countryside,” Becker continued, chewing heartily. “Is that true, or another one of his lies? Why were you alone on the road when I found you?”

She hesitated. The truth might help her with these men, but they also mightn't believe her, nor care to champion her cause against Kurt. They may well hate the prince as much as she did, but sharing a common foe did not make them her allies. They certainly showed no gallantry in their behavior so far.

“I will answer all your questions, gentlemen, but I should like, if I may”—she sketched them a mocking bow—“the privacy to change into dry clothing and then to share in a bowl of your excellent-smelling stew. And since you know who I am, I would appreciate knowing to whom I speak and who leads your militia band. I am not unsympathetic to your cause and may even be able to help you.”

“You, help?” the tall one scoffed. “How?”

She decided to test the waters of an alliance. “I know Schloss Rotenburg well and am familiar with the castle routines and personnel. I could provide valuable information in any action you might plan in the area.” It mightn't be much of a bargaining chip, but it was as much as she dared venture at the moment.

They stood in a silent semicircle around her, five hulking and armed soldiers. Then they laughed in her face.

“Let's let her get cleaned up for Wolfram,” said Becker. “He can decide what to do with her.”

“Is this Wolfram in command here?” she asked.

“
Ja
, the
Freiherr
is out scouting,” answered the husky one, crossing thick arms across his chest. “He'll be back soon. Save your demands for him. The Black Knight has a heart chivalrous enough to be bent by a pretty woman's plea.”

His sneering tone wasn't lost on her. Pretty she was not. Her brown hair, always the bane of her toilette with its willful corkscrew curls, was a frizzled mess that could be nesting squirrels by now. Mud caked her clothing and skin. She stank of sweat and wet wool and her own wretched fear.

“I think we should have some suggestions ready for
der Wolfram
,” piped up the taller man.

“Good idea, Müller,” said the beefy one. “We could just kill her and send back her body to Rotenburg. With a note, perhaps—compliments of the Black Knight himself.”

“
Nein
, Horwitz, too quick,” answered the one they called Müller. “And remember, she'll be worth something in ransom. I say we send her back to Prince Kurt for the money, but let the men use her for a few days first.”

Horwitz laughed, his barrel chest booming. “
Ja
, let's send her back with the smell of it on her. A fine humiliation for both of them!”

“She's a drowned rat now,” said another who sported a brutal scar across his left check, “but I lay money she's got fine curves and soft skin under those boy's rags.”

“Let's have a look!” piped up the youngest of them.

She couldn't tell if they were serious. They were certainly laughing enough for it to be a cruel joke, but she'd seen atrocities enough on her ride this past week to give credence to their words. People were wild with fury for change. They sought a new life without the oppression of the old feudal system still clinging to the land. After what she'd seen of Kurt's ways, she couldn't blame them. But nor did she want to get caught in the deadly revolution sweeping the country.

Her moment to battle—to escape—was now, before their leader Wolfram returned.

Her thoughts spun wildly. Surely she could outwit these rowdy brigands. Then she saw her chance: a sword, a light one, lying against a saddle by a tree.

She pounced on it. The well-polished weapon unsheathed easily, and she took her stance with her back to the tree. Fencing was an unusual sport for a woman, but she had four younger brothers and indulgent parents. She'd learned enough. The hilt felt good in her grip.

She'd hold these men off or die trying.

Becker recovered first from the surprise that had left the men's mouths hanging open. “Our scruffy she-cat has claws, boys. Look out!” he said, laughing.

“Johann, why don't you take her on?” suggested the scarred one to the young man with them. “You fight like a girl anyway; maybe she'll have half a chance.”

So very amusing
, she thought bitterly as they all laughed. She wished to God she had her throwing knives. She would take them out like rats.

Johann drew his sword and advanced. She took his measure: overconfident, swaggering, careless. A slim, pimple-faced youth—a boy, really—arrogantly assuming she knew nothing. She waited, drawing him in closer, then flicked her wrist in three quick twists to send his sword clattering to the road. Some footwork and a lunge brought her sword tip to his throat. But when he stared at her, more shocked than scared, she hesitated.

She's never killed a man before. He looked of an age with her youngest brother, Nicholas. Although she wanted to run him through, her stomach rebelled.
Stupid time to develop nerves, Lenora!
Men had no such compunctions. How did
they
do it?

And then Becker's sword pressed against her throat. From behind, he hissed in her ear, “Drop it or you're dead.”

No hesitation for him, apparently.

Her own death, it occurred to her, might be easier borne. She balked at killing someone, but the end of her own life began to seem a not-unwelcome prospect. Tears pricked her eyes on a flood of despair. She was so tired of this winter's drawn-out pain and of living prisoner to a man's whim. For the first time death appealed as respite and sanctuary from the violence of men. The idea of ending it all beckoned with the comfort of a warm, dark dream.

She pushed her neck into the edge of the sword, testing the feel of steel against her flesh.

Suddenly horses came galloping around the corner. Her head turned, and Becker slammed his sword hard against her hilt. Her sword fell from her numbed fingers. He pulled her back, his blade still against her throat, as three riders swept into camp.

The one riding last seemed the leader, an indistinct hulk of a man in the near dark. He reined in by their group, with orders to the two riders with him to care for the horses and get themselves something to eat.

“Christ!” the man cursed, dismounting unsteadily. “There are soldiers everywhere in the next valley!”

This new man was huge—massive across the chest and shoulders, easily a head taller than all the others. Fresh blood matted one side of his longish black hair and smeared his clean-shaven face and neck. Mud stained his black tunic, and more blood soaked through his sleeve.

“Becker”—the man turned toward her, frowning—“what the hell are you doing with your sword at that boy's throat? Who is he?”

“We'll get to this
boy
soon enough.” Becker waved over Johann and pushed her toward the youth, who glared at her as he grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back to keep her immobilized. “What happened, Wolfram? You look like hell.”

“A group caught us in an ambush after we left the last village,” one of the men who'd ridden in with the giant answered as he led away their horses. “The
Freiherr
took a bad blow, but he felled them and we got away without being followed.”

They forgot her for a while after that, crowding around their leader and sitting him down on a stool by the fire. The one with the scar across his face proved to be their medic. His name was Krause, she learned from the men's banter, as he cleaned up Wolfram and examined his wounds.

“Gunther!” Krause called to a boy refilling beer steins at the next fire. The lad looked up and ran over. “Fetch me hot water, scissors, and the
Freiherr
's shaving kit.” Krause turned back to his patient, bending over him by the firelight to examine his head. “We're going to have to cut this hair, Wolfram. It's too long for me to get at the wound.”

“Finally!” said Horwitz. “You've looked like a girl long enough.”

“Luckily you've got a rock for a head, or they might have had to leave you dead by the road!” added Müller.

She would have tried to bolt save for the sharp eye of Johann. The young man clearly took it as his personal assignment not to leave off his hard grip. For the moment, she allowed him to redeem his pride through her submission and resigned herself to capture. She tried out the thought that these men might help her now that their leader had returned.

A foolish hope,
whispered her despair.

Learning as much as she could about this Wolfram might, however, serve her advantage. When Krause sliced open the man's tunic and shirt to get at the sword cut along his upper arm, she had ample opportunity for such observation.

Too ample.

With their leader's back to her at the fire, the breadth of his shoulders was intimidating enough. But when he turned toward her to answer a question from Johann, she instinctively backed up at the sight of the corded muscles wrapping his massive chest and tight abdomen. He was easily the biggest man she'd ever seen.

The men bantered among themselves as Krause cut Wolfram's hair and shaved his scalp to a rough stubble. Night fell as the medic cleaned his wounds and stitched up the cut on his arm, working by the light of the fire.

“You must be getting old, Wolfram—not fast enough anymore to duck when a sword comes your way?”

“
Nein
, it's not his age, it's that half-English blood diluting his veins and making him weak like an Englishman!”

She saw in their teasing their affection for their leader. The title of
Freiherr
by which they called him translated as “free lord.” Trained to Kurt's exacting standards in the intricacies of German nobility, she knew it to be the title of the
Reichsritter
, the free imperial knights of Germany. The knights were an ancient hereditary order created by the Holy Roman emperors. But this man was half-English as well? A fellow countryman to her, then, at least of a sort; she filed away the fact for later use. A tight camaraderie appeared to bind these men together. Their mutual allegiance would make it difficult to pit one against the other in a bid to help her escape. She sensed she'd have to convince this Wolfram to let her go. He ruled here, not with Kurt's iron fist, but with loyalty and love.