Gisela took her foot down from the bench and sat up straight. Valten stood too and sat down beside her on the bench.
He whispered, “Now you’ll get to meet my brother and Sophie.”
Gisela was too nervous to reply. She looked down at her dress. Roslind had washed her beautiful ball gown, but it still looked the worse for wear, reflecting the rough days and nights spent sleeping on the ground, in a cave, and hurrying through forests. Perhaps she could explain and Lady Sophie wouldn’t think too little of her. But she had heard that Valten’s former betrothed, though she was a duke’s daughter, had grown up with a cruel stepmother who made her work as a scullery maid — not so different from Gisela’s life. She was excited to meet her.
The front door opened and two people swept in. The man was tall, although not as tall as Valten, and smiled as he took the cloak from the lady’s shoulders. His hair was darker than Valten’s, but from his profile, she did see a slight resemblance between them. His lady greeted the seven men, clasping the hands of each one and bidding them to rise, as they had all fallen to one knee in front of her. Her voice was high but pleasant, and she laughed good-naturedly. She stood with her back to Valten and Gisela. Valten rose and walked toward them. Gisela stood and waited.
When Gabe caught sight of him, his smile grew wider. They embraced for a moment and clapped each other on the back. Valten politely took Sophie’s hand and bowed over it.
“We didn’t expect to see you here.” Sophie’s voice was warm and kind, but without the least bit of flirtation. Her head was turned now so that Gisela could see her face. She was beautiful, with hair as black as night, and delicate but perfectly proportioned features. “Oh, what happened to you?” She pointed to Valten’s splinted and bandaged hand.
“Just a minor tournament injury.”
“How was the tournament?” Gabe asked.
“I won.”
“Of course you did.” Gabe clapped him on the back again and laughed.
“I have someone I want you both to meet.” Valten turned and motioned Gisela forward with his hand.
She tried not to limp as she walked forward. Her cheeks heated as they all turned their attention to her. Sophie was elegant, beautifully dressed, so easy and graceful. Gisela felt like a servant in her presence. And since Sophie was the daughter of a duke, Gisela curtsied.
“This is Gisela Mueller, and she and I are to be married.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Sophie bent and clasped Gisela’s hand, drawing her up, then embracing her.
“I am so happy for you.” Sophie pressed her cheek to Gisela’s, then pulled away and looked her in the eye. “You will be so happy, I am sure. Valten is a wonderful man, and you must be very special to have won his heart.” Her sincerity fairly glowed from her eyes.
Gabe was congratulating Valten, saying something about how he didn’t need any help finding a beautiful wife. Then he turned to her and squeezed her hand. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thank you.” Those unwelcome tears still weren’t finished embarrassing her, as they stung her eyes again at the truly warm and sincere looks Valten’s brother and his wife were giving her. “I am very happy to meet you both.”
“And how wonderful that we have found you here!” Sophie was delightful in her enthusiasm. And Gisela now noticed that she also was looking a bit rounded in the middle; she was expecting a child. “Will you be able to accompany us to Hagenheim?”
Valten nodded. “If Gisela’s ankle is well enough.”
Sophie exclaimed over Gisela, and she had to explain that it wasn’t badly hurt, only a minor sprain. “Valten’s hand is much more seriously injured than my ankle.”
That led to questions about how he hurt his hand at the tournament. So while Gabe and Sophie sat down to eat some cold meat, cheese, and bread after their long journey, they begged Valten and Gisela to sit with them and tell them about the events of the last few days.
Had it only been a few days since Gisela was living at home with Evfemia, Irma, and Contzel, cleaning up after them and helping Wido tend to the horses? Valten was telling them about the jousts and battles, and of Gisela spying Ruexner’s squire putting poison hemlock in Sieger’s food.
“And then Valten saved me from Ruexner.”
Valten looked her in the eye, and she found she didn’t want to turn away.
“That is just as it should be,” Sophie said.
Valten winked at her, and Gisela blushed.
Valten continued the story, telling of the kidnapping, and Gisela was relieved he didn’t tell them of her stepmother locking her in her chamber and making a deal with Ruexner to force Gisela to marry him. A stab of shame went through her at the thought of this beautiful, elegant lady knowing that Gisela’s family could treat her so despicably.
“What happened then?” Sophie asked. “Did Valten go after you and rescue you?”
Gisela nodded. “He gave himself up to Ruexner and his men to save me.” She told the remainder of the story quickly.
Gabe stared at her, openmouthed, while she talked. When she had finished her tale, he looked at Valten and said, “I am impressed, as always, big brother.”
“Gisela must hear your story of rescuing Sophie from an evil duchess and her archer.”
“Oh yes,” Sophie said, her face lively, as she reached over and squeezed Gisela’s arm. “I shall tell you all about that, and you shall have to tell me more about your adventure with Valten.”
Valten placed his hand on Gisela’s back and stood. “But now I think the ladies need to get some sleep.”
“I agree.” Gabe looked at Sophie with such loving concern in his eyes that it made Gisela sigh.
Four weeks later, in Hagenheim Castle, Gisela stared into the looking glass Margaretha held up for her. The most blessed girl in the world, Gisela told her reflection. If her father and mother were here, would they be proud and happy for her? In her heart, she knew the answer was yes.
“You’re so beautiful,” Margaretha gushed. “Your hair is the prettiest shade of blonde, so full and bouncy. And your eyes shimmer like a moonlit lake. Valten is so blessed. You have the sweetest disposition, but you’re not afraid to make my brother pay attention and talk to you. He’s not much for talking, as I’m sure you know. He’s just stubborn. But you are good for him. He won’t get away with ignoring you, I have a feeling.” She grinned. “I’d never before seen that look he gets on his face when he looks at you.”
“He loves me.” The wonder of it was breathtaking.
“Yes.” Margaretha sighed dramatically. “Come. You mustn’t be late.” Margaretha gave her a little push to turn her toward the stairs. “They’ll blame me and say I was talking too much.”
Gisela hurried down the steps, her stomach quaking at facing all the people that had come to see the next duke of Hagenheim wed her, a little nobody with no claim to noble birth or wealth. What if everyone laughed at her? What if they were laughing at Valten even now, ridiculing him for not marrying at least a baron’s daughter?
By the time she reached the bottom of the steps, her knees were shaking and she could barely stand. But when she looked up, Valten was holding his hand out to her. The fierce look on his face softened to the look he wore for no one but her.
Her stomach settled to normal and her legs felt strong again as she placed her hand in his. Without a word, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and started out the door.
As they walked from the castle and through the town square and Marktplatz, down the street toward the cathedral, she caught glimpses of Evfemia. Her stepmother had Gisela to thank for her freedom, since Gisela had spoken to Duke Wilhelm and asked him to free her from the dungeon. But Rainhilda, Evfemia, Irma, and Contzel were formally reprimanded by Duke Wilhelm, in Gisela’s presence, for helping Ruexner to kidnap Gisela. The duke ordered them never to come near Gisela again without her expressed permission. Sir Edgar, Rainhilda’s father, was so angry with her, when he heard what she had done, that he sent her to live wit
h relatives in the north, the land of frozen lakes.
She had given her stepfamily permission to come to the wedding, but they were not allowed at the wedding feast afterward. Now as her stepsisters stood with the rest of the crowd, Irma scrunched her face into a sour grimace. Contzel poked out her tongue at her sister, then moved to the other side of her mother, away from Irma. Apparently, no one else wanted to be around Irma either, after what she and Evfemia had done to Gisela. It seemed wise to their former friends to distance themselves from the family that Duke Wilhelm had forbidden to go near the Earl of Hamlin’s beloved bride.
Valten’s parents, Duke Wilhelm and Lady Rose, in contrast, were smiling and looking content and happy. Valten’s siblings — Margaretha, Kirstyn, Steffan, Wolfhart, Gabe with his wife, Sophie, and Adela — all smiled and waved from a few feet away. Valten gave them a half smile, but Gisela waved back. Gabe nodded and Sophie sent Gisela a tiny wave, then Sophie covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes filled with tears. Ava was always more prone to tears when she was pregnant too.
Gisela took a deep breath and hugged Valten’s arm. He glanced down at her. She tilted her head up and he rewarded her with a brief kiss. He bent lower to whisper in her ear, “I love you, queen of beauty and love.”
He smiled and faced forward again.
For a man of action and few words, the ones he did say were quite lovely.
~ THE END ~
The Princess Spy
Prologue
April 1413, forty miles southwest of Hagenheim
Colin touched John’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Burning hot.”
John groaned and looked at him with unfocused, heavy-lidded eyes.
The sun was low in the sky and the air was getting colder. Colin swept off his red cape and placed it around John’s shoulders while they waited for the horses to finish drinking.
If only he could find someone who knew about healing herbs, a healer who could help bring down John’s fever.
After their short rest, John managed to mount his horse and they set out. They had passed Arnsberg almost a day ago, which meant they were yet at least two days from Hagenheim.
“If we come to a village,” Colin said, “we will find lodging and a healer to tend you.”
“No, no. I can ride. We should go on.”
“John, you cannot. You are too ill. We shall catch up to that murderer sooner or later, but you must get well first.”
John gave him a look but said nothing, his shoulders slumping even lower.
Colin’s heart twisted painfully inside his chest. John would be back home in England, comfortable and enjoying a warm fire. John had tried to talk him out of his wild scheme, reasoning that it was foolish for Colin to leave his family and his country to go running after the man who had murdered Philippa. But the heinous deed had filled Colin with outraged justice. Philippa had been Colin’s sister’s closest friend and had not deserved such a fate. Nor did his sister deserve to have her own sense of safety shattered in such a way.
John had pointed out the obvious: What could Colin do — only one man against an earl and all his knights and fighting men? Colin refused to be deterred, and loyal John had come with him. Perhaps he should have listened to John’s wise counsel.
“I’m sorry I dragged you here.” Colin looked askance at his friend.
“I came of my own accord.” John’s voice was weak and hoarse as he held the reins in his limp hands. “I’d hardly let you go on such a quest without me.”
Just then, they heard horses’ hooves pounding behind them, coming closer. Colin grabbed John’s reins and guided both horses toward the side of the road. He glanced over his shoulder. Perhaps ten men were driving hard toward them. They were quite close before Colin realized —
“Go!”
They both spurred their horses, but it was too late. The horsemen caught up with them in a matter of seconds. One of them knocked John off his horse, then another jumped from his saddle and caught Colin around the neck. They hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.
John. He wouldn’t stand a chance, as sick as he was.
“Kill the one in the red cloak!” one of the men shouted. “He’s the one we want.”
No. Colin rolled over onto his attacker and slammed his fist into his assailant’s nose. Then he grabbed him around the neck. Colin squeezed, pressing his thumbs into the man’s throat until he went limp.
Colin jumped up and ran, a roar vibrating his chest as it made its way through his clenched teeth.
Their attackers stood clustered around John, who was lying on the ground.
John’s eyes stared straight up, glassy and unmoving. He was already dead.
Colin cried out, drawing their attention to him. He rushed over to his horse, which had miraculously not run away, and yanked his sword from the sheath attached to his saddle bag. As he spun around, a blow connected with his head. He swung the blade in a wide arc, but he was suddenly pummeled from every side. He fought the darkness that was closing in. Then another wall of pain slammed his head and everything went black.
Colin awoke to his own groaning. He turned to avoid the sunlight as the pain above his right eye raced to the back of his head. He remembered John’s lifeless body lying on the ground, and he fought the urge to retch.
How many days had it been since John was murdered? Since he himself was beaten and left for dead? Two? Four? Ten? The passage of time blurred, hazy in his confused brain.
He had to get up. Had to start walking or he would surely die. And he couldn’t die. Justice must be exacted, and if he didn’t do it, Philippa’s killer — and now John’s — would go unpunished.
Struggling onto his hands and knees in the middle of the leaves by the roadside, he paused a moment to catch his breath. He sat back on his heels, waited for the throbbing to lessen, then managed to rise to his feet.
His head was spinning like a bug on its back. His stomach gnawed at him in a way that signified he had not eaten for days, and the pain in his throat was nearly unbearable. When was the last time he had drunk any water? He’d started following this road, trying to reach Hagenheim to find someone who could understand him and help him. How long had he been unconscious on the side of the road? He might have been lying there a few minutes, hours, or days; he didn’t know.
“God, how low can I sink?”
He knew the answer to that question. Death. And it was imminent. He could feel it hounding him, pushing him to keep moving.
“Forgive me, John.” No one was around to hear. His mouth was as dry as the dusty road, and his voice was so weak it angered him. John, dying in a foreign country where he didn’t even speak the language, while that fiend, that son of hell, was free to wreak more havoc.
God, let it not be so.
Colin never should have let John come with him. It was his fault John was dead.
Forgive me, God, for not keeping him safe.
His legs were as heavy as boulders, but he forced his feet to move forward. His temples pounded with every beat of his heart. He kept his eyes open a slit to try not to trip or veer off the road.
He was lying facedown on the ground. He didn’t remember falling. How long had he been unconscious? He didn’t have the strength to lift his head. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. How easy it would be to simply lie here and never wake up.
God, if you want me to live, I will live. If not . . . so be it. I surrender to you.
Peace washed over him. He closed his eyes. Just as he was drifting into unconsciousness, he heard the creaking of a cart drawing closer, and men’s voices. But he saw nothing but darkness.
Chapter
1
April, 1413, Hagenheim Castle
Margaretha sat in the Great Hall listening to her newest suitor, Rowland Fortescue, Earl of Claybrook, who had cornered her after the midday meal.
Perhaps it was unkind of her to use the word “cornered.” He was her suitor, after all, and she should be pleased that he wanted to talk
to her. Some of her other suitors had barely said two words to her, but this man seemed to enjoy talking to her — in very fluent German for an Englishman, but his mother was from the German regions of the Holy Roman Empire.
Everyone, especially her brothers, accused Margaretha of talking too much, but Lord Claybrook often left her speechless. Could that be a good thing?
This morning, Lord Claybrook had been telling her of his prowess as a hunter, both with his falcons and his oh-so-remarkable hounds, a subject so boring that it wasn’t her fault if she was distracted by his hat.
Truly, it was an astonishing hat. But then, all of his hats were astonishing. Every day since he had come to Hagenheim Castle, Margaretha had found herself staring at the man’s hat.
Today’s hat consisted of a gray fur band as wide as her hand and padded to make it twice as fat as his head, with a large jewel inset in the front, and folds of red cloth protruding from inside, draped over his right temple like the coxcomb of a rooster. A piece of matching cloth hung from the other side of the hat, reaching to his left knee.
While his hat’s liripipe was ridiculously long, his tunic was scandalously short. He wore only tight hose underneath, so she was careful not to let her eyes stray too low.
But she must make allowances for him. He was a foreigner, after all. Perhaps everyone in England dressed that way.
Lord Claybrook described his favorite hunting dog, explaining how the animal had tracked a deer for three days while he and his guests had followed close behind. As he paced the room, his tunic, trimmed in fur at the cuff s of his sleeves, shimmered, as it was embroidered all over with an elaborate design of curly leaves done in shiny gold thread. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to agree with her brothers — the man was overdressed even for an earl. Her oldest brother, Valten, was an earl, and he never dressed so elaborately. For that matter, her father was a duke and rarely wore velvet and silk except on special occasions.
But perhaps Lord Claybrook was only trying to make a good impression on her. After all, he had been very courteous to her, never complaining that she talked too much. Was he her perfect match?