The next day Steffan’s head felt much better, except for a tiny pain over his eye, but every muscle in his arms and legs was screaming for his full attention.
He got dressed slowly, with Lord Hazen’s personal servant telling him to make haste and get down to the kitchen to stoke the morning fire.
Steffan walked down the corridor, but the first step he took down the stairs made him gasp in pain. He grimaced with every step, and when he reached the next level, Magdalen was waiting for him.
“Where is your bandage? Is your head still hurting?” She spoke softly.
“What are you doing up so early?” he groused. She looked quite lovely in the torchlight, with her reddish-blonde hair glowing around her head and her eyes wide and anxious.
“I came to see how you were faring. Is your head still bleeding?” She stood on tiptoe to inspect his forehead.
“No.”
“It does not look so bad.” She glanced behind her down the corridor, then leaned close to his ear. “I can go to Lord Hazen’s rooms and search for your portrait.”
“No.” He drew back to look into her eyes. “If he thinks you suspect his scheme, you will quietly disappear and no one will ever discover what happened to you. You must stay away from his rooms.”
He gave her his most severe scowl, but she did not seem very intimidated.
“You cannot go searching if you are working all day in the kitchen. I do not think your getting a job working in the kitchen was a good idea, but if I can find what you need—”
“No. It is too dangerous. Do not do it.” To emphasize his point, he took hold of her arm.
“But I will wait until Lord Hazen is away from his chamber, until I know he won’t be back, and I can—”
“You cannot know when he will return.”
“But I have so much more time and freedom than you do. It will be easy. Besides, I am a house servant. It will not seem so suspicious if I am in his chamber cleaning.”
Forcefulness was not working. “Please, Magdalen. Do not do this.” He took her small, soft hand between his and peered into her eyes.
Perhaps that had not been the best idea either, because now she was gazing up at him, her pink lips parted, as if she was startled. What would she do if he kissed her?
He could not be thinking about her like that.
“Please wait.” He let go of her hand. “I shall come up with a plan. There is no need to rush into something. It will be better to be patient. Please, Magdalen. Trust me and wait.”
She bit her lip. “Very well. I shall try not to endanger myself or you.”
“Thank you.” He turned away.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
Her eyes were wide and her brows were drawn together. “Please be careful. I am praying for you.”
How long had it been since he’d felt someone truly cared for his welfare, enough to pray for him? Not since his grandmother died and he left for Prague. His sister, Gertrudt, married a prince a year ago and went to live in Burgundy, which was many days’ journey on the other side of the German regions. Most people only cared what Steffan could do for them. Since Jacob was gone now, too, Steffan was truly on his own.
He continued down the steps, biting back a groan. He did not wish her to know how much pain he was in. Not only were his ribs sore from getting punched by the guard but he was also in pain from carrying firewood and buckets of water.
Steffan had befriended Magdalen, had bought her food and paper and ink, but he had also deceived her by not intending to find a courier for her letters. And yet, she could still look at him with great concern in her eyes, had carefully bandaged his head, and rose early to check on him.
She deserved a husband who would cherish her. Was Steffan even capable of cherishing a woman? He’d seen the way his father loved his mother, so much that when she died he was a broken man. Anger welled up at his father for the kind of weakness that would cause him to leave Steffan and his sister with no one but his grandmother, servants, and a less-than-honorable uncle.
But perhaps what he was really feeling was fear, fear that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. He never wanted to feel that kind of devastation.
That old familiar emotion—fear or anger, they felt about the same—rose inside him. It was as if he’d fallen into another abandoned well—trapped, in danger, and helpless.
No. He was not helpless. He would defeat his uncle and cousin and would once more feel powerful, calm, and content.
Steffan just had to stay away from Magdalen until he could get back his rightful power and send her home. Perhaps he would even find her a husband among his peers.
He finally reached the kitchen where Magdalen went to fetch the food for Agnes and Alexander. Meanwhile, he carried in two loads of wood and then several buckets of water, as the cooks were already preparing the day’s food, beginning with several loaves of bread.
After picking up the second load of wood, he noticed an older man standing at the edge of the trees that bordered the bailey around the castle. The man’s face was familiar. Could it be? He looked very much like the horse groomer Ansel.
Steffan pretended not to stare at the man, but he was certain he was Ansel. His clothing was ragged and patched, and he looked much thinner than the last time Steffan had seen him.
His heart clenched. Poor Ansel. But Steffan had no choice but to ignore his old servant and go inside with his load of wood.
Soon the smell of warm bread filled the air. The cooks removed the loaves from the large brick oven, and Steffan stoked the fire with more wood.
He started out the door to get another load of wood. The bread loaves were sitting just inside the large window casing, and Ansel was there, staring at the cooling bread. The gray-haired man snatched a loaf and stuffed it inside his shirt. But as soon as he turned around to flee, a guard grabbed the back of his neck.
“Thief!”
Steffan hurried outside.
“That is the Duke of Wolfberg’s bread!” the guard yelled. “How dare you steal from the duke?” He raised the hilt of his sword to strike him.
“Wait!” Steffan leapt toward them, throwing his arm between Ansel and the guard.
“Get out of the way,” the guard growled through clenched teeth.
“Will you injure this poor old man over a loaf of bread?” Steffan’s blood was boiling up inside him, especially to think he would do this in the name of the duke—in Steffan’s own name.
“No one steals from Wolfberg Castle.” The guard, whose face was twisted in a menacing scowl, still held on to Ansel’s neck.
“Let him go. It was only bread.”
“Will you take his beating for him?” The guard tightened his grip on Ansel, the older man’s eyes widening. He looked so frail, as if the guard could easily break him in two.
“If you let him go, then yes, I will take his punishment.”
The guard looked hard at Steffan, but only for a moment. He let go of Ansel with a shove. Ansel stumbled and broke into a run.
Steffan barely had time to raise his arm to protect the wound on his forehead before the guard slammed the hilt of his sword into Steffan’s shoulder, then punched him in the mouth. The next blow was to Steffan’s chin. Stars exploded before his eyes.
He fell to the ground. Blood, salty and metallic, ran over his tongue. He braced himself for the next blow. A sharp pain exploded in his side as the guard kicked him once, then again.
Steffan lay still, waiting, finally opening his eye. The guard was gone.
Steffan lifted his head and spit a stream of red on the ground. His shoulder burned, his face ached, and his ribs throbbed. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth. He lay his head back down on the ground. Perhaps he could get a few moments’ rest before anyone came looking for him.
Steffan opened his eyes to three people standing over him and the sun shining brighter than it had when he’d closed them.
“He’s awake now. You can cease your fretting.” The head cook glanced at the person beside her, then looked back down at him and thrust a cloth at him. “Cover your mouth with this. You’re bleeding. Now go upstairs and get cleaned up. You can come back to your duties after the midday meal.”
Magdalen and Katrin were hovering beside the cook. They stretched their hands to him. “Let us help you up.”
They each took his elbow and pulled him into a sitting position while the cook went back inside the kitchen.
The world started spinning. His head and lip throbbed, and his shoulder still burned, but not quite as much as before. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the world had almost stopped spinning. He spit out the blood that had been collecting in his mouth, careful not to get it on the maidens’ shoes. He heaved himself up with the young ladies helping him.
“What happened?” Magdalen asked.
“What are you doing here?” He cringed at her coming to his rescue yet again. He wasn’t sure he could bear staring into her concerned face one more time.
“Katrin came and got me from the dining hall. She said you were badly injured.”
“I am not badly injured.” But his lip was so swollen that his words were slurred.
Katrin said, “I saw him defending an old man who was stealing a loaf of bread from the kitchen window. He offered to take the old man’s punishment if the guard would let the man go. It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.” Katrin’s voice cracked on the last two words and she burst into tears.
Magdalen stared up at him. “Oh, Steffan,” she breathed. She took the cloth the cook had given him from his hand and wiped his face. “Your wound from yesterday is bleeding again.”
“It’s nothing.” Katrin’s crying was making him so uncomfortable, he chuckled. “You two act as if I’m the first man to ever bleed or get a few blows from a man twice his size.”
“Katrin!” the cook yelled out the window. “Get back in here. I need you. That other maiden can take care of him.”
Katrin ran back into the kitchen.
“You heard her,” Magdalen said. “I can take care of you. So come.”
She steered him back toward the kitchen and walked him through, her arm around his back and his arm around her shoulders. Most of the servants were eating their breakfast, so no one was there to see his bloody face.
“Wait here.” Magdalen propped him against the wall. She ran off into the dining hall.
He’d been beaten by two different guards. He only hoped that someday he would see both those guards’ faces when they discovered the man they had wrongfully beaten was the Duke of Wolfberg.
Magdalen came hurrying back, her expression sober, as when she had walked back to the stables with her mute friend, Lenhart, intent on defending him from the men who were mistreating him.
Her fierceness made him stand up a bit straighter and pay closer attention.
“I got you some breakfast.” She held a bundle in her hand. “You can eat it after we clean up your face.”
Now that he was standing on his own, she seemed uncertain as to whether to put her arm around him and serve as his crutch. But she only hesitated a moment. She took him by the wrist, laid his arm across her shoulders, and started toward the stairs. He didn’t protest.
They walked slowly, his sides burning as if on fire every time he took a breath. He tested his jaw again. It was still a bit sore but felt much better than earlier. His lip was still bleeding as he held the cloth against it. He would at least be able to rest until the midday meal, a few hours.
A pang of guilt stabbed him as he thought about how kind she was being, how determined she was to help him. What spoiled, privileged nobleman’s daughter was so uncomplaining and willing to help someone who was dirty and bloody?
He thought of his own sister. He couldn’t imagine her even touching him in the state he was in. He could just see her wrinkle her nose and recoil from him, having never done an hour of actual work in her life.
“You don’t have to help me,” he said, even as his foot caught on the next step and he stumbled.
“I want to. Besides, I don’t have to assist my lady for a few more hours.”
Finally, they made it to the fourth level of the castle.
“Let me make sure no one is in the men’s bedchamber.” He removed his arm from around her shoulders and opened the door. “Anyone here?”