The Promise (3 page)

Yes, he frightened her. Günter had raised an unnamed apprehension for her the first time Martin had introduced them. He had stared at her with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, his green gaze flicking over her. Something hot, possessive, speculative gleamed in that look. Then his gaze had shifted to Martin, and back again, and his face had gone blank as a slate, as though that look had never been.

He’d been unfailingly polite ever since, but she had never forgotten it. She would never have chosen
him,
of course, after her husband’s murder; Günter was so loyal to Martin she doubted he would have shown any interest in her once he knew of Martin’s suit in any case.

Still, she glanced up at Günter now, unable to prevent herself.

She shamed herself. She owed poor Martin all of her attention. When she should have eyes only for him, when she should be attending to his needs alone, yet she stared at Günter’s impassive profile, her gaze drawn to him like iron to a lodestone.

It terrified her. It cursed him. It betrayed Martin.

God help them all.

His eyes lingered on his friend, and in them she saw bleak despondency.

“Can you care for him?” Günter finally asked. “I must ride with my contingent to retake our position. It’s necessary, or I wouldn’t go.”

“I will,” she promised. “He will lack for nothing, if it is within my power to provide it.”

Günter looked at her. A curious series of expressions passed over his face. Longing? Denial? Resolve?

“I knew you wouldn’t leave his side,” he murmured, his brief smile bittersweet. He turned away from her. His back straight, his reins in hand, he wheeled the horse around without a backward glance.

The cart jolted again. Martin groaned.

“Inés, take care!” Alonsa snapped.

Inés’ hands tightened on the reins, and she gave a sharp glance backward. “I am sorry,
Señora,
but it seems these people have neglected to level their back roads. It makes for an inconvenient escape.”

Alonsa sighed. The market woman did the best she could under such conditions. “Forgive me. It is just…” She looked helplessly at Martin and then back at Inés.

Sympathy flooded Inés’ beautiful but jaded features. She sighed. “I know, I know. I will try to avoid the worst places.”

Although two years younger than Alonsa, Maria Inés Villanueva Haraña had served so long in the service to one man or another in the mercenary company called the
Fähnlein
that Alonsa often felt clumsy and inexperienced beside her. Though they had established a friendship of sorts, outwardly they were very different women.

Where Inés was tall with thick auburn hair, Alonsa was tiny, her hair a silky earth-brown. The tanned hue of Inés’ skin reflected the many hours she had spent laboring out of doors, marketing, washing her soldiers’ laundry, and cooking their meals. Alonsa was paler, but she remained certain this day that every year of their unforgiving lives showed on both their faces.

Inés gazed down the long column of the baggage train where Günter had just ridden away.

“At least the other one is safe,” she murmured, “for now.”

Alonsa did not follow Inés’ gaze. Instead, she rinsed and reapplied the bandages to Martin’s side wound, examining it for infection.

He had been injured in the raid protecting Günter. Günter had carried Martin from the battle and brought him to her. She had some expertise in healing, but she was no physician. Still, she knew the hail shot in his body could not stay. It would have to be removed, the wound cauterized with boiling oil. Otherwise, putrid air could infect it and kill him. Nevertheless, to remove the shot might kill him even quicker. The matter came down to a choice of deaths. Which would Martin prefer?

While the cart bounced toward the low, whitewashed buildings of San Angelo, she came to a resolve. If Martin grew worse, she would choose for him. She would not have him suffer any more than he did now. She would not have a mongrel cur suffer in such a way, let alone the man to whom she owed her life and loyalty, if not her love. The sin of such a choice could not make her soul any blacker than it already was. Even so, she hoped the decision would not need to be made before Günter returned.

Because she doubted if God still heard her prayers, Alonsa bent her head over Martin’s motionless form and began to entreat the Holy Virgin instead.

Muted fingers of light stretched across the dawn sky as hours later Günter, intent on finding Martin, entered the temporary encampment outside San Angelo. He gave the proper hand signal to the guards posted on duty, and they let him pass. As he did, he spied Fritz Vorbeck a few paces behind the others. Günter stopped, his glance measuring the young man in one sweep.

Fritz slept standing up, his mouth open, his red knuckles gripped hard around a halberd he leaned upon for precarious support. His worn, broad-brimmed hat perched dangerously atop flaxen hair flopping down over one closed eye.

Günter sighed and unsheathed his
Katzbalger
blade, then held it at an angle against the young man’s throat. He put his mouth near Fritz’s ear. “This is no way to practice for the muster, Fritz.”

Fritz jerked awake, his eyes wide as he felt the blade at his throat.

Günter shook his head. “If there ever came a day when you could afford your own weapons and join the company, I’d have to gut you for sleeping on watch.”

Günter lowered and sheathed his blade, and then pointed to the real sentries who stood behind them, watching the scene with sly amusement.

“There are four hundred men of our own
Fähnlein,
not to mention their women and children, depending on these sentries to warn them of approaching danger. If you ever wish to be one of them, you will find a way to stay awake.”

Fritz blinked, and a band of color appeared high upon his fair cheeks. “I—I … that is—”

When the other men chortled, Günter slanted them a speaking glance. They coughed, hemmed, and returned their attention to their posts. Deciding he had made his point, he turned away.

The campsite spread out in a circle much like the spokes of a wheel, a giant beer barrel at its center, the tree line serving as its boundary. Several of the women had set up kettles and kegs for their men sometime in the night. The smell of wood smoke and frying bacon drifted toward him.

Günter looked about for Alonsa, for he knew there he would find Martin. Fritz seemed to know his mind.

“Over there,” Fritz whispered.

The younger man pointed to the two figures lying intertwined beneath several blankets near a campfire. The sounds of murmuring voices, coughs, and a woman crying reached him from other fires, other camps, but Günter forgot all else and moved to Martin’s side.

He slept fitfully, shivering in the cool morning mist. Skin ashen with pain marred his face. Still, he looked no worse than he had before, though no better, either. Günter didn’t know whether to feel relief or dismay.

Alonsa, fully dressed except for her ever-present black shawl, lay close against Martin with her arms about his shoulders, her hands fisted in the blankets. Even in sleep, exhaustion made her features taut. Her strong jaw clenched, and her plump lips seemed thinner. Heat flushed her skin; she must be sweltering beneath the layers of wool. Günter resisted the urge to brush his fingers across her damp forehead, to trace the dark pattern of brows over wide-set, equally dark eyes.

She wasn’t his to worry about.

When he stepped down, his foot disturbed fallen leaves. Alonsa jarred awake, her gaze focusing slowly.

“Günter,” she breathed, and he could not mistake her obvious relief at the sight of him. “You have returned?”

“Yes,” he answered. “It took most of the night, or I would have done so sooner. Did you find the camp surgeon?”

She nodded. “He dressed the wound. There was not much else he could do.” Her gaze skittered away, the despair left unsaid.

Günter leaned forward and drew back Martin’s blanket just enough to check his bandages. Satisfied, he sat on the ground beside them, his legs crossed. His gaze swept over their entwined bodies.

Alonsa colored, and her eyes sparked with defiance. “He could not be warmed. We tried everything, but only this succeeded. He was far too ill for it to be anything but a mercy to him.”

Günter held up his hand in peace. “You have done well,” he said quietly.

Alonsa blinked at his simple praise. “Oh.”

She sat up, disentangling herself from Martin, and tucked the blankets around him once more. Then she looked over her shoulder at Günter. Behind her liquid gaze shifted oceans of emotion, carefully controlled.

Günter clenched his jaw and looked away, reaching for indifference. What was it to him where her thoughts flowed?

“You do not inquire how he fares,” she ventured.

He looked back. “I can see for myself.”

She frowned. “He asks for you. There is something of great import that he wishes to say, but he will not tell it to me. Perhaps when he awakens …”

Her voice trailed off as she returned her gaze to Martin.

If he awakens,
Günter heard in that silence. He felt the bonds of debt—yes, and of friendship—draw tighter. He had tried to free himself from them, but Martin had a way of making a man want friends again.

His eyes burned. Surprised, he blinked the sensation away.

“I won’t leave him,” he decided aloud.
“When
he awakes, I’ll be here.”

Alonsa glanced up, a shadow of surprise in her eyes.

An hour passed, and though the sun rose, its face remained cold. Alonsa huddled beside him, shivering. Absently, Günter put his arm around her and drew her into the circle of his warmth.

She stiffened. So did he. He had not meant to do it. He had not thought. He held his breath, but did not release her. Under the circumstances, putting a comforting arm around her would be natural. Snatching it away would be far more telling.

When he made no other movement, she softened her posture. Her body slumped against his as though she would have held herself apart but could not discipline her exhaustion enough to sit upright. The silk of her sun-kissed skin and the smell of the morning in her hair crowded in on him. Though he had no right to enjoy it, no right to entertain thoughts disloyal to Martin, the press of her body against his brought a warmth to his frozen spirit he could not deny.

He felt something inside him crack, like fine shards along an icy lake, and he struggled to contain the flood. Slowly, he gained the upper hand. He removed his arm and Alonsa inched away.

Her dark eyes filled with intensity. “He will awake. He
will.”

He heard the litany of desperation in her voice.

“And if he doesn’t?”

Her jaw firmed in anger. “How can you say such a thing?”

He frowned at her. “You must prepare yourself for the worst,
Señora.”

“I will do no such thing. I will fight for him, even if you will not.” She stood and turned, her sweeping skirts brushing his knee.

“Señora.”

She stopped at his implicit command, her hands still gripping her skirts, her dark braid trailing down her back, only her profile visible as though she refused to look him in the face again.

He chose his words carefully. “I did fight for him, as he fought for me. But what will be, will be.” He hesitated, pressed on. “This is the life we lead. Prepare yourself.”

She remained where she stood, stiff, trembling, her fingers clenching and unclenching in the dark gray fabric of her skirts. She lifted her gaze, finally, and their eyes met; he saw hope flash like a dying ember amidst the cooling ashes of despair. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered her head.

“Even so, I can pray.” Her voice sounded muffled.

Günter nodded. “You can always pray.”

She turned and walked away without another word. Günter stared after her.

“Just don’t fear the answer,” he whispered, when he knew she could not hear, “if it is
nay.”