Knight of Love (16 page)

It wasn't how Wolf expected to die.

Locked in a dungeon, that holdover from the days of medieval barbarism and royal privilege that the revolutionaries were working so hard to abolish. The protesters dreamed of a future for Germany and the other European nations where all people had rights and shared in the governance of their country. Where democracy and peace ruled the land, instead of the arbitrary will of oft-despotic aristocrats bent on their own interests.

Such as now.

Through Wolf's one eye that wasn't swollen shut, he watched Kurt gloat. The prince paced Wolf's small prison cell, issuing directions for the beatings. The bastard's delight was almost comical as he watched Wolf slowly die.

When Count von Dremen's men had delivered Wolf to the gates of Schloss Rotenburg, the prince had welcomed him with irons and chains. They'd thrown him in the dungeon—more medieval torture drama—on meager rations for a few days. Visits from Kurt punctuated the gloom of the dank cell, as the prince brought in bright lamps and a daily beating from his henchmen.

Wolf knew his nemesis drew out the sweet pleasure of killing him. From Wolf's perspective, the game began to bore. When he became impatient with the beatings on the third day, he tried to provoke Kurt into a rage so that the man would get it over with and finish him off.

Yet no matter how Wolf goaded him, the prince wouldn't order anything more than an extra beating.

“She's mine now,
Prinz
. My wife, no matter what you do. She's out of your reach forever.”

Blow to the kidneys. Hard cross to the jaw.

Wolf spit out blood, aiming for Kurt. “She could be carrying my child even now.”

That
earned him a battery of hard punches to the stomach until he retched up the gruel they'd fed him that morning. But Kurt still couldn't be incited into giving the order to kill him.

It reminded Wolf of what Lenora had hinted at—how her former fiancé had toyed with her for weeks in casual sexual torture but insisted on saving her virginity for their wedding night. The bastard's pattern held for a long week in the dungeon. Wolf marked the days' passage by the alteration of full dark with the dim sun that filtered into his cell from a light shaft in the passageway.

He thought of Lenora: his princess. Beautiful, brave, more loving than he'd dared hope. More sensuous than she understood. After his death, would she find some worthy man to bring out that passion, to help her experience delight and not shame in it? He wanted happiness for her, although the image of her with another man punched to his gut with more agony than that of the prison guards' blows.

His one deep consolation was that Lenora was safe. He thanked God for it every day. With any luck, she might even be home in England by now—certainly she was out of Germany and awaiting passage in Amsterdam for the North Sea crossing. He regretted that fate had robbed them of the lifetime they might have had to explore each other and craft a life together, perhaps even to have children. But he did not lament for a moment the decision he'd made to trade his freedom for hers. Kurt wouldn't have killed her, but the life that twisted wastrel intended for her was a type of death nonetheless. He'd gladly give his own life to spare her that hell. He did bitterly regret that he'd not been able to stop Kurt. But the revolution would continue, with or without the Black Knight's help.

And one day—perhaps one day soon—the Prince Kurts of the world would rule no more.

The bruises bloomed over Wolf's body. He drifted in and out of consciousness. After one particularly brutal beating, he heard the prince's disgusted mutter: “Leave him alone for a couple of days. England has made his German blood weak. I don't want him dead yet.” They sent a doctor down to sew up his reopened shoulder wound and apply poultices to the worst of the bruises. They even improved his rations and spooned beef broth down his throat until he regained his strength.

It was then that they dragged him out of the dungeon. Guards shackled him into the stocks for a day and night of exposure in the Gruselstadt town square. Later the next morning Kurt emerged from the
Schloss
to supervise Wolf's lashing at the castle whipping post. It was the very post, Wolf registered dimly, where he'd first seen Lenora as she'd undergone the same abuse. A large crowd gathered for the event; the prince's men had roused the whole town, it seemed, to witness Wolf's punishment.

After a dozen or so preliminary lashes, Kurt mounted the raised dais surrounding the post to address the crowd. “This traitor before you is known among the people as
der Wolfram
, the Wolf-Raven, the Black Knight. His real name is Wolfram von Wolfsbach und Ravensworth, former free imperial knight of the House of Wolfsbach. And yet this traitor is no true heir to that ancient title. Instead of defending the people of Germany as the knights were charged to do, this man has dishonored the title with his treason! He is not even a full-blooded German, as his mother left our land long ago to sully her bloodline with an Englishman. This Wolf-Raven fights only for himself. He brings shame to his grandfather's noble house!”

Kurt was working himself into a rage. He paced the dais, his voice booming out ever louder, his arms gesticulating wildly. “Instead of defending the state, this fraudulent knight abuses his title to cause mayhem and destruction throughout the land of his maternal ancestors. He sides with those cowards and fools who seek to upset our centuries-old way of life with a ridiculous call for changes that would destroy the confederation! He's led rebellions responsible for many deaths. Commerce, industry, transportation—all the orderly conduct of German life grinds to a standstill because of men like him!”

The crowd shifted uneasily. Mutters of discontent rippled through it. Wolf squinted to focus an eye on two men whispering together and casting scornful glances at their prince. Kurt's popularity had dipped to an all-time low, even for that miserable despot. Rumors had reached Wolf in the dungeon that Kurt had ordered a school in a nearby hamlet burned to the ground on suspicion that the teacher held revolutionary sympathies. The teacher, a young man from the University of Berlin, had apparently collected signatures from local farmers and merchants for a petition demanding a legislative diet to meet regularly in Gruselstadt.

Christ, Rotenburg was ripe for revolt. That dolt of a prince had no clue how close he lay to a full revolution in his own territory. Wolf would laugh at the arrogance of the man if his face didn't hurt so much. The tyrant was blind to how thin ran the loyalty of his people now that the possibility of another way of life lay open to them. The prosperity and freedom in England and the revolutions elsewhere in Europe proved there was another way.

Kurt ranted on. From the prince's shouts and accusations, Wolf gathered that he'd been convicted of treason in a court tribunal where he hadn't even been invited to appear nor allowed to defend himself. Kurt's sentence proved that the nobles tolerated no threats to their power: forty lashes of the whip here at the post. Another day and night in the stocks. And then a hanging on the morrow. The more gruesome and bloody, the better, as example and deterrent to all.

Wolf cleared his throat. He would die here at Rotenburg; he'd accepted that back at Dremen when he'd made his bargain with the count in exchange for Lenora's freedom. But perhaps his death could still serve some purpose for the revolution and its fight for human rights. “Prinz Kurt, I request the right to address the crowd with my last words.”

“Silence, dog!” Kurt turned to him in affront. “You lost all such privileges long ago.”

But a wave of angry muttering crested through the crowd.

“Let the Black Knight speak!”

“It is his right under the law!”

The prince stepped back, startled and suddenly cautious. “This traitor has nothing to say save lies and deception. Do not be fooled. I will, however, by the mercy of the court, allow him his last words.” Kurt flourished Wolf a mocking bow.

Wolf straightened as much as he could, tied to the lashing post. He thought again of Lenora, lashed here also, commanding him not to let her fall. Thank God he hadn't let her fall. Thank God he'd got her home safe.

All else he could bear.

“Good people, my message is simple.” His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat again before drawing breath to continue. “You have a choice. You can live in the past as peasants to your overlords in a divided land. You can allow Germany to fall behind as other nations embrace the modern age. Or you, too, can embrace a better future for you and your children. We are all Germans. We should be united in one nation where there are decent working wages and freedom of speech. In a strong and unified Germany, we can all prosper together as free citizens. The world is changing quickly, with new discoveries in science and new technologies in industry. It is time for the German Confederation to change as well.”

A spasm of coughing kept him from saying more. It would have to be enough. Kurt wasn't about to permit him further liberties anyway.

But then, in the silence after his words, he heard it: a clap from the far back of the crowd. Faint, tentative, but then joined by another.

Cries of “Hear, hear!” and then, “
Der Wolfram!
”

“For the people!” shouted another voice, nearer the front of the throng.

And a loud cry of what had become the motto of the revolution:
Deutschlands Wiedergeburt!
Germany's rebirth!

“Silence!” yelled the prince, red-faced and incensed. “This man is a traitor to the people!”

But the crowd had found its voice. In the safety of their numbers, they joined together in a loud chant: “
Der Wolfram! Der Wolfram!
”

Finally, the crowd fell silent again, not at the infuriated shouts of their prince, but at the voice of a young farm boy who ran into the castle courtyard and up to the dais.

The words he called out stopped Wolfram's heart.

“Prince Kurt!” said the boy. “Prince Kurt! Dame Lenora has returned! She's come back, Excellency! She is here to be your bride!”

Riding back up to Schloss Rotenburg was the hardest thing Lenora had ever done. She'd thrown up her breakfast that morning. Her skin crawled, sweat soaked her linen, and her stomach churned at the thought of seeing Kurt again. The plan could fail so easily. Truth be told,
plan
was far too strong a word for the sketchy ideas they'd put in place.

She hadn't had much time, once she'd figured out the truth of the plot and convinced Herr Weisstagen to take her back. Locating Lord Becker, now leading Wolfram's militia band by himself, had consumed precious days, during which she knew Wolfram must be suffering torture in the dungeon. Or—God forbid—Kurt might have already grown tired of the game and executed his enemy. When she'd finally rendezvoused with Becker in a tavern meeting arranged by Weisstagen, it took her another precious day to wear down the protests of Wolfram's cousin.

So adamant at first was Becker against her intention to return to Rotenburg that she'd laid plans to quit the tavern in another solo midnight escape. But he'd intercepted her and, eyes grim, finally agreed to help her. He'd ridden off before dawn to see to his part.

Now, three days later, she was back at Rotenburg.

She had intended to reach the castle early yesterday morning. But here it was, the sun high, almost a day and a half later than she was supposed to arrive. Her horse had thrown a shoe crossing a river twenty miles north of Rotenburg. No farriers remained in the towns through which she'd ridden; all were off fighting in the protests, along with most of the other able-bodied men. She, who had never abused an animal in her life, pushed the poor creature until it came up lame. She'd left the beast in an abandoned pasture—her gift to the farmer family, should they return—and had walked and run the last few miles on foot.

She arrived filthy, exhausted, and terrified—both of facing Kurt again and of what he must have done to Wolfram.