The year 1365, Barony of Mallin, the Holy Roman Empire
Where do you think you are going looking like a beggar?” Mother asked.
Magdalen’s hand was on the door. “Just walking.”
“I’d think you would be ashamed to be seen in such clothing.” Mother narrowed her eyes at Magdalen.
Magdalen wanted to say, “Even Hegatha allowed me to go for a walk in my oldest dress,” but Mother did not like it when she spoke of the dead.
“Just don’t let anyone see you, and if you are not home before dark, I will send Hans with his dogs.”
Magdalen hurried out the door before her mother changed her mind.
The path led away from Mallin Park House across a gentle green hill. The village of Mallin was visible in the valley over her left shoulder. The farther she went, moving away from both her home and the village, the more grass grew on the once well-worn path.
Vegetable plots lay on either side. A middle-aged man stooped over a row of cabbages with his hoe. He looked up as Magdalen approached.
“Guten Morgen,” Magdalen greeted.
“Guten Morgen, Lady Magdalen.” He smiled and nodded. His frightfully skinny legs in baggy, thigh-length hose showed below his tattered woolen shirt that hung over his bony frame.
A pang of guilt twisted inside her, as it did every time she thought about her people being in need. If only the mines had not run out of copper. “God, please provide for them,” she whispered.
She kept her gaze on the path that led down one grass-covered hill and up another, looking for interesting rocks to add to her collection, such as the rock that hung around her neck on a gold chain. It was the last gift her father had given her—a necklace made from a red jasper stone found in the copper mines.
As she neared the first of the three abandoned mines, the trees became thicker and the hills rockier. She stepped up to the narrow entrance, barely wide enough to admit a broad-shouldered man but plenty wide enough for Magdalen. Two large tree limbs lay across the opening. Magdalen lifted her skirts to step over them.
“Magdalen!” Jonatha called out.
Magdalen stopped, dropping her skirts back over her ankles. “I am here,” she called out, catching sight of her sister’s bright-blonde hair and Lenhart’s tall, lanky frame through the trees.
“Mother wants you home right away. She sent Lenhart and me to fetch you back.”
Lenhart’s brown eyes widened as they did when he was excited or confused.
“Is something wrong?”
“A missive arrived just after you left.” Jonatha’s normally loud voice was slightly hushed. “Mother started screaming for you as soon as she read it.”
What could this mean?
Magdalen started back down the narrow path toward home with Jonatha skipping in front of her and Lenhart striding behind.
While Jonatha sang a song, Magdalen’s thoughts raced to that letter. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was from the Duke of Wolfberg.
She had danced with the duke at Thornbeck Castle two years ago. Her mother had hoped he might seek to marry her, but that was unlikely. She was only a baron’s daughter from a poor region.
She entered the house and could hear Mother’s strident voice giving orders to one of the servants.
“Magdalen, you must make haste and pack your trunk.” Her cheeks flushed, Mother motioned her forward. “The Duke of Wolfberg has sent for you. He wishes to marry you.”
Her stomach fluttered and sank at the same time. It took a moment before she could speak. “He does? But why?”
Mother shook her head. “He probably heard about your brother and knows you will be the heir to Mallin now. What does it matter? He is rich, he can do as he pleases, and he has chosen you.” Mother’s eyes lit as she clasped her hands in front of her.
Jonatha danced around in a circle, squealing. “Let me come for a visit!” Jonatha threw her arms around her. Her other sisters ran into the room and joined the commotion.
“Be quiet!” Mother shrieked. “You’ll make me go deaf.”
Magdalen absently patted her sister’s shoulder. “But I thought the duke studied in Prague at Karl University.”
“He has come home, then.” Mother held up a crisp parchment and shook it, making the ribbons dance from where they were sealed into the wax. “Because here is his seal and his colors on the letter. He wishes you to come to Wolfberg at once.”
Her duty to her family and to her people required that she marry the wealthiest man she could to save them from extreme poverty. Indeed, she had hoped the duke would want to marry her. He was young and handsome, unlike most of the wealthy unmarried men in the Holy Roman Empire. Two years had passed, however, since she had seen him, and marrying him had sunk into the realm of the impossible.
But the impossible was happening. She, Magdalen of Mallin, was to marry the Duke of Wolfberg.
She took the parchment from her mother’s hand and read it. It seemed to be in order, but the missive contained no reference to meeting her at Thornbeck, no expressions of eagerness to see her again, and no sentiment of any kind. Her heart sank. He barely knew her, but she’d hoped . . .
“He doesn’t say why he wants to marry me. He must know I have no fortune.”
“You will marry him, and do it quickly.” Mother shook her finger at Magdalen. “Don’t you dare tell him you are poor either. Lady Thornbeck, whose father was nobody, managed to get herself a margrave, and now you’ll have a duke.”
Mother’s lip curled in that way of hers that always made Magdalen’s insides squirm.
“And you had better not think of going to Wolfberg and being mousey and submissive. After he has made you his wife, you will demand he live up to his responsibilities to your family. Make him think there is still copper in our mines, but insist that he send money and livestock. He can well afford it. Everyone is depending on you.”
Mother jabbed her finger one last time in Magdalen’s face. “Now make haste and pack your things. You shall leave at dawn tomorrow.”
What if he’d heard false information about her fortune? She had been betrothed to an earl three years ago, but he had the betrothal annulled when he realized how poor she was. Her face still felt the sting of that humiliation.
Magdalen had hoped her mother would want her to be joyful in her marriage. A lump formed in her throat as she went to her room and began to collect her things.
Her desire was for true love, but perhaps that was selfish. And yet, the thought of having the same kind of marriage as her parents felt akin to a boulder sitting on her chest.
At least her marriage would save the people she loved from starving.
Steffan rode his horse between the two men his uncle had sent to escort him back to Wolfberg.
The road heading north from Prague was frequently shaded by large oak and birch trees in this verdant part of the Holy Roman Empire, but Steffan hardly noticed his surroundings. He had begun to doubt the honesty of these two guards. His suspicions had grown the farther down the road they traveled.
“Do you know Sir Burgen?” Steffan asked them just as a hawk took flight from the tree several feet in front of them.
“Oh yes, Your Grace,” said the tall, dark-haired guard. “He was well when we left Wolfberg a few days ago.”
“And Sir Ruger? He was in good health as well?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The stockier blond guard answered this time. “He sends his greetings to you.”
Steffan felt a twist in his gut as all his senses heightened. Breath rushed into his lungs and energy flowed through his limbs as he noted the sword on each man’s hip. What other weapons did they carry?
His own dagger was in his saddlebag. He had a smaller knife in the sheath on his belt, and his sword hung at his hip.
The dark-haired guard said, “Let us leave the road and enter the woods to find a place to sleep for the night.”
Darkness had not yet descended, and they had only been riding for a few hours. Steffan eyed the two men. “There is an inn a few miles ahead.”
The guards glanced at each other. “Very well, Your Grace.”
They approached a stone bridge over a swift-flowing river.
“I believe my horse needs a drink,” the dark one said. “And truth be known, I am thirsty myself.”
Steffan slowed his horse to let the two men move ahead. When they reached the river, the guards dismounted from their horses. Steffan approached the water’s edge. The men didn’t even look his way, so he let his horse drink. He dismounted, keeping his hand on his sword hilt.
The men stared and slowly started moving toward him and away from each other. They flanked him, preparing to attack from both sides.
Steffan took a step to the left and one back, to shift nearer to the short guard. “Who sent you?”
“We told you,” the tall one said. “Your uncle, Lord Hazen.” A devious smile stretched his thin face.
“You said Sir Burgen and Sir Ruger were well.” He continued to move to the left and back. “Sir Burgen died ten years ago, and Sir Ruger fifteen years ago.”
“Everyone must die sooner or later.” The tall one drew his sword with a metal-on-leather sound.
The short one followed suit, but Steffan beat him to the draw. He leapt at him and hit the man’s wrist with his sword blade. The short, blond guard dropped his sword with a screech.
Steffan crooked his arm around the man’s neck and jerked him around, holding the short one in front of him like a shield.
The tall one struck at his sword, but Steffan parried his strike. The tall one brought his blade down for another strike. Steffan shoved the short guard at him. The tall one struck his companion instead, slicing through his neck. The short guard made a gurgling sound as he fell face-first on the ground between them.
Steffan kept striking at the tall guard, beating him back several steps. He refused to look at the river just behind his opponent so as not to reveal its proximity.
Steffan gripped the sword hilt with both hands, wielding one overhand blow after another. He forced his enemy back one step at a time until he stood at the very edge of the bank. Only then did the man’s gaze dip to the river below.
His eyes went wide and he hesitated, giving Steffan one extra moment. Steffan struck the man’s raised sword and pushed him. The man threw his arms out wide as he fell.
He cried out just before he hit the water and went under.
Steffan watched and waited. The man bobbed to the surface several yards downriver, flailing his arms, then went under again.
Steffan walked back to where the first man lay in a puddle of blood. “Oh God in heaven,” he breathed, lifting his head and gazing downriver. The attack had hardly lasted five minutes, it happened so fast.
“I just killed two men. Forgive me.” He made the sign of the cross with his right hand. The two men had intended to kill him. He’d had no choice, but the thought made him so sick he sank to the ground.
Home. He would think of Wolfberg Castle. The chalky-white shore next to the sea behind the castle. The grassy-green pastures and the roar of the crashing waves.
Who had wanted him dead? Could his uncle have sent assassins? Even if Steffan were dead, Lord Hazen would not inherit his title. Since Steffan had no heir, the title would become extinct, and yet it was likely that King Karl would bequeath Wolfberg Castle and all of Steffan’s properties to his uncle, unless the king had another loyal subject on whom he’d rather bestow this favor.
Before she died, his grandmother had warned him about Lord Hazen’s greed and lack of feeling. Still, it was difficult to accept.
Steffan walked to his horse and sheathed his sword. His two would-be murderers’ horses had shied away, but Steffan was able to catch them. He tied them to his horse and started toward Wolfberg and home.
But what would he find when he arrived?