The Promise (32 page)

“God, you will not let them take him from me. I
chose love.
I repudiate all else. Neither curses nor death nor Satan himself can have him. He is
mine,
and I want him back.” She raised her eyes to the world around her and shook the fist gripping the reins. “Do you hear me, Miguel? You cannot have this one. He is
mine.”

Her heart pounded in her breast as the horse’s hooves thudded on the ground, throwing clods of dirt up behind it. In minutes, she reached the place where Günter’s men had last seen him. Her eyes scanned the park where the fog drifted in pockets, where the worst of the battle had been fought. Churned-up ground and blood-soaked fields were the only evidence of the battle that remained. The horse danced away from the smells, from the ghosts of the dead.

The peddlers, thieves, and pickpockets had been through by now. Bodies of the peasantry had been removed to common burial plots, while bodies of the nobility had been returned or sold to their servants and families. She would not find Günter here.

She rode on toward the Castello Visconti in Pavia, the new Imperialist headquarters, where rumor had it the French king was being held, and rode the horse through the wide gates.

“Halt! You there!” cried a guard. He rushed over to her, his sentry’s garb puffed and slashed, the white sash of his office thrown over his breastplate.

She reined the horse in, its hooves clattering against the cobblestones as the man approached.

“What’s your business here?” he demanded.

“I seek a man,” she stammered, unable to phrase her words properly in German, such was the turmoil of her mind.

The face of the sentry changed into a leering grin. “Well, if it is a man you seek, you have found one.”

Several other sentries behind him laughed and jeered at his joke as he stroked his codpiece and advanced toward her. She waited until he was close enough, then lifted Günter’s sword and held the point to his throat with both hands.

The man stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide, and raised his hands in abeyance. She knew not from whence the strength came to wield Günter’s blade, yet her hands did not tremble; the blade held steady. The sentries behind him quieted, all seriousness now.

“My husband.” She bit the words out, her voice as steady as the blade, and this too amazed her. “A
Landsknecht
sergeant, blond, tall, handsome. He carried this sword and fought bravely. He was at Francis’ capture. I would have him back.”

The sentry before her had the decency to look abashed. “Woman, if he has not come back to a wife such as you, then he is dead. We do not have him here.”

At her choked sound of despair, he flushed. “I am sorry, missus.” He moved one hand, gingerly pushing the blade aside. His comrades rested the points of their swords on the ground, understanding she was just another widow, just another female made hopeless by war.

She let him push the blade away, lowering it until it stood perpendicular to the ground, staring at it, desolation clogging her throat and preventing the howls of sorrow from clawing their way out.

“We can give you coin for your loss, if you like,” he offered, all sympathy now. “A widow’s portion. The commander is a generous man. Perhaps he can find another husband for you—”

Alonsa’s head snapped up. “There will be no more husbands.”

The man stepped back at her vehemence, eyeing the blade again. “Ah, as you wish.” He gestured to the counting house. “Go there if you change your mind. Someone will give you his last month’s pay.”

Alonsa ceased to listen, instead turning her horse back to the gate. She rode through it, the tip of Günter’s great sword dragging the ground.

Halfway back to camp, she saw Fritz running toward her, and Inés, skirts clasped high as she ran behind him. His hair wild, his skin sweating from his exertion, Fritz rushed to her.

“My lady!” he called. “Thank God you are safe. We did not know what to think.” He gasped the words out, trying to catch his breath.

She drew abreast of him, and handed down Günter’s blade. “Take it. He would want you to have it. Take his gear, too—everything he had is now yours.”

Fritz blinked and looked up at her. “I do not understand.”

The well of despair rose higher, beating at her, threatening to overflow. She would not let it. Günter would not have wanted it that way.

“You will be ready for the next muster, Fritz. You have the weapons you need, including this horse. He would—” Alonsa nearly choked on the words. “He would have wanted you to have them. He was proud of you. I am proud of you, too.”

Inés, breast heaving, steadied herself against Fritz as he took the blade reverently as though it was an article of his faith.

“Señora,”
Inés asked, “will you come home now? Back to the camp, I mean?”

Alonsa’s gaze encompassed them both, her only friends in this foreign land. She lifted her eyes to the horizon, but saw not the park, nor the fields, nor the hills beyond. Not the camp nor the land ripped by wars and devastation. She saw past them, to the land she had once called home so long ago, its verdant hills, its sunny clime. Before Günter. Before love.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I will go home.”

A
LONSA SAT NEXT TO THE BURBLING FOUNTAIN IN HER
father’s home, staring down at the golden fish frolicking within. She drew her scarf back to accept the warmth of the sun on her face. Her old
dueña
had gone to fetch a blanket for her legs, though the early May morning had already begun to warm. Try as she might, Alonsa could not convince her papa or the rest of the household that she was not some fragile piece of porcelain to be pampered and protected as in days of old.

Much had changed since then.
She
had changed.

She dipped her fingers into the fountain, smiling a little when the fish came and inspected the tips, hoping for a bit of food. She heard a footfall behind her, and thought for a moment it was her
dueña.
When she turned, she saw instead her father watching her with the worried look he wore when he believed her unaware.

He hid it now and strode to her. “Daughter … you are well?”

Alonsa sighed. “Yes, Papa, for the tenth time this morning, I am well. You needn’t watch me as though I will shatter like a glass goblet before your very eyes.”

She reached up and touched the weathered skin of his face. He’d grown so much older in the past few years; his hair was fully white, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced. Still, he was her papa, and he loved her dearly.

He took her hand, patted it between his. “Perhaps, if you would eat more, feed that grandson of mine growing inside you, I would worry less. You are too thin for a mother-to-be.”

She waved his concern away, turning to stare once more into the fountain. “My child will be healthy. He is God’s gift. How could he be anything but?”

Her hand strayed to the small mound beneath her dress, and she rubbed it absently. “True, I do not have much of an appetite, but I eat for the child’s sake. Besides,” she said, turning to him and feeling a little mischievous, “why are you so certain I am having a grandson? Perhaps it will be a girl, like me.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, my daughter. This is a son for you, and a grandson for me. It is time. We have, like Job, been patient throughout our trials. He is our reward.” He patted her hand again. “You will see.”

Alonsa hoped for his sake it was true. She wanted Günter’s son, a boy who would look like him, sing like him, and have his smile. God had given the child to her in answer to a prayer; surely that was part of the promise as well. Still, she would be equally happy if the child were a girl to pamper, delight, and set upon her grandfather’s knee at Christmastide.

The noise of voices raised in argument drifted to them over the protected garden walls of the courtyard. Her father frowned when one of his servants rushed toward them from the direction of the gate.

The servant clasped his hands together in agitation. “Forgive me, Don García, but there is a man at the gate who refuses to be turned away. He says he will remove the building brick by brick if he is not allowed entrance.”

Don García bristled with proud disdain. “Who dares to threaten the home of Don García de Aranjuez?”

The servant cast a hasty glance at Alonsa. “He claims to be your daughter’s husband. Of course, it is not possible, since he is dead. This man is a foreigner, dressed as mean as a peasant, dirty clothes and—
Señora!”

Alonsa felt the ground shift beneath her feet, the world around her stir, and the baby inside her leap. She gasped and might have fallen to the stones below if her father had not caught her around the waist.

“Alonsa, what is it?” Her father’s voice came as from a deep well, far away.

“What does he look like?” Her own voice sounded low and rough, not like her at all, and she pushed away from him.

The servant’s eyes grew wide at her tone. “I beg your pardon,
Señora?”

She spun on the man like a termagant, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “Are you deaf?
What does the man look like?”

The servant stammered in fear. “He is a giant, with hair like brass, and leans on a cane. He has the eyes of a wild man,
Señora.
He is not worthy of you.”

She slapped him.

Her father, shocked, pulled her away, holding her at her wrists. “Alonsa!”

She snarled at the servant. “Never speak of him that way again. If you have sent him away, you fool, I will have your heart for supper.” She picked up her skirts, and heedless of her father, her babe, or the houseful of servants between her and her beloved, she dashed through the gardens, through the courtyard, and to the gate beyond.

She heard the shouting even as she approached. Her father’s servants wrestled a man in dirty, torn clothing to the ground just inside the gate. She could not tell … it had been months. She stopped before him and held her breath, unable to glimpse his face.
Please, God, let it be him.
A simple prayer, but her heart was in it.

Please.

“Let him go. Let him go!” she cried.

They ignored her, and one of the men rammed a fist into the man’s midsection.

“Release him.”
The harsh command, uttered from behind her, startled her. She turned to see her father striding toward them, wielding his sword. The weight of age seemed to have lifted from his yet strong frame. “If he is who he claims to be, we would know it. If not, he will face my blade.”

Reluctantly, the men—some with bloodied noses and split lips—released him. Freed from their restraining embrace, the beaten man sank to his knees with a groan, where he stayed for a moment, panting, his hands grasping his middle where he’d been struck.

His dark blond hair glimmered in the sun.

“Günter?” His name, soft and hesitant, escaped her lips in a breath.

He stilled, raised his head slowly, and looked into her eyes. The brilliant green of his gaze captured hers. He smiled, and then grimaced in pain.

“Is this the way you welcome your husband home, woman?”

“Günter!”
She flew to him, sobbing with joy, throwing herself at him so they both sprawled on the ground at her father’s feet.

“Oh, dearest God above, you live! You live!” Happiness overflowed her, the surety of his being here in her arms making her delirious, ecstatic, crazed with delight. Her heart had known—it had never accepted his death—but her mind had been forced to believe the evidence before her.

Next time, if there was a next time, she would trust her heart.

He laughed and flung his arms about her. “It was a near thing, my sweet, but yes, I am alive.” And there, on the ground, before the entire household, he kissed her. Noisily, wetly, hotly, he kissed and kissed and kissed her, until they heard the bemused voice of her father standing above them.

“You had better be her husband, young man, or you will be dead before you rise.”

Alonsa broke the kiss with a startled yelp.

“Papa! It is he—my husband, Günter Behaim.” She struggled to rise, the small swell of her belly making it awkward to do so. Her father held out his hand while Günter stared at her body as though he recognized a difference, but could not place what it was. She had only begun to show, and in her loosely cut gown, he must not have detected her state.

“Günter, this is my father, Don Francisco García de Aranjuez.” She smiled shyly at her papa and nudged Günter with her knee.

Günter nodded at him from his position on the ground and reached for a cane nearby.

Alarm speared through her. “Oh, you are injured!”

Her father offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Günter took it and rose. “It is nothing. I’ll recover soon enough. The French, though terrible fighters, have fairly decent healers at their disposal.”

“The French? Is that where you were all this time? Is that why you did not come back to me?” She could not help the note of accusation that sounded in her voice, and she hated herself for it. Now, however, she could admit a small part of her—a very small part—feared he might have found someone more enjoyable than her and that is why he hadn’t returned before.

“I was injured on the battlefield by a round of cannon fire.” He reached out a hand, gently touching her hair, now revealed since her scarf lay on the ground. “Robert, who was with me at the time, stayed by my side. When a retreating band of French passed by, they picked us up and were prepared to end my life right then, but he convinced them to spare me. They took me hostage, and the only way they would release me is if he ransomed me himself, which he did.” He smiled again at the memory. “It seems the scales of payment between us are tipped once more in his favor.”

“Oh, Günter. I am so sorry. I did not know!” She clasped him about the waist to convince herself he truly
was
here, alive and warm and in her arms.

He returned her embrace, his emerald eyes glancing in her father’s direction.

“I was unconscious for much of the first few days, and the French were in such a hasty retreat, it was impossible to get word to you. By the time Robert was able to send a messenger, the company had gone.”