Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1) (3 page)

She rose to the bait. “Someone has stolen your wits?”

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

LOYAL HEART CHAPTER ONE

One month later

Kristina twirled around the chamber in the elaborate satin wedding gown. The kneeling seamstress sank back to inspect the hem.

Perched on the edge of her bed, Sophia feigned a pout. “The blue of purity becomes you. I’m jealous.”

“Your turn will come soon,” her best friend said with a smile.

Sophia frowned. “You’ve been in love with my brother forever. I haven’t even met anyone I like.”

Kristina took both her hands. “It’s true I’ve loved Johann for years, but it took your meddling to get us together.”

Sophia grinned. “Everyone in this household has known for a long time you and Johann were meant for each other. You were both too much in love to see it!”

“Mayhap you’ll meet someone special at the wedding,” Kristina said, preening in front of the oval mirror.

Sophia shrugged, suddenly remembering recent unsettling news. “I wish Friedrich and Conrad Staufen weren’t coming.”

Arms raised, Kristina stood still while the seamstress unlaced the gown’s fastenings. “That’s my parents’ doing, I’m sure. They weren’t discrete about who they invited. My father claims the brothers have reconciled with the emperor.”

Sophia slid off the bed to help the servant and her apprentice lift the gown over Kristina’s head. “Perhaps they have,” she replied, “but it took a bloody war to bring that about. The Staufens can’t be happy about losing.

“Four bitter enemies intend to be at your wedding; on the one side the emperor and our Duke Heinrich of Saxony, on the other Friedrich and Conrad Staufen.”

Kristina sighed resignedly, donning a day gown over her chemise. “Look on the bright side. It’s not every girl who’s honored by the presence of three dukes and a Holy Roman Emperor at her wedding.”

Sophia tied the sash of her friend’s dress. “Emperor Lothair is obligated to come. He might not have won the throne without my father’s support.”

Kristina nodded as the seamstresses left with the heavy gown. “Johann is very proud of your father’s role in the victories at Welfesholz and Andernach, and you have a brother who was named for the emperor.”

As if mention of his imperial namesake conjured him, Lute poked his head around the door after tapping lightly. “All clear?” he asked with his usual grin.

Sophia flew at him. “You can’t come into my chamber, Luther Caedmon Von Wolfenberg.”

He caught hold of her wagging finger. “I came because I knew you’d want to hear the good news. I saw the seamstresses leave and assumed the fitting was finished.”

Pouting, Sophia yanked her finger out of his grip, but curiosity got the better of her. “News?”

Fiddling with the cuffs of his tunic, Lute strutted into the chamber and pecked a kiss on Kristina’s cheek. “Are you pleased with the gown, soon-to-be-sister?”

Kristina giggled her approval of the frock.

Sophia fisted her hands at her sides. “I’m aware you enjoy taunting me,
bruder
, but what is your important news?”

He sank down into the cushions of the settee, covered a yawn with the back of his hand, then announced, “Dukes Friedrich and Conrad aren’t coming after all.”

Sophia and Kristina flopped down on either side of him in a flurry of skirts. “That’s a relief,” Kristina exclaimed.

“We can’t breathe easy yet,” he replied with great seriousness. “They are sending an envoy to represent them, so Papa will still have to tread warily.”

Kristina pouted. “Johann will be distracted too, as the future count.”

He patted her hand. “Praise be to the saints I don’t have to worry about political games. Did I ever thank you for marrying my half-brother?”

Kristina elbowed him. “A thousand times.”

“Seriously,” he insisted. “Can you imagine me as a
count
? I’d be known far and wide as
Graf
Luther the Laughable!”

Sophia poked him. “I’m aware Johann threatened to cede the title to you because of his fears of passing on his mother’s madness, but Kristina soon convinced him she wasn’t concerned.”

“Exactly,” he replied with a wink. “Johann will become
graf
, our saintly brother Kon will enter the priesthood, you’ll marry. As for me…” He shrugged.

Sophia felt a pang of pity for her happy-go-lucky brother. “You’ll find your rightful place,” she said, linking arms with him. “Besides, the way things are, I’ll probably never marry. We’ll grow old together, two crotchety old crones.”

Lute extricated himself from the settee, grasped her hand and pulled her up. “Nonsense. You’ll see. At the wedding you’ll have many eligible men pursuing you. You’re the only daughter of an influential
graf
.”

“That’s what I told her,” Kristina said.

Sophia chewed her bottom lip. Young men she’d never met were
en route
to Wolfenberg for the wedding, but the notion of a pack of suitors made her nervous. However, if one of them swept her off her feet…

Then she chuckled. Such things only happened in the poetry of the Frankish troubadours.

FRUSTRATION

Estate of Count Gunther Rödermark,
 

Duchy of Franconia, Germany

One hand braced on the smoke-blackened mantel of the hearth in the parlor, Brandt Rödermark stared at the parchment in disbelief. “A wedding?”

“
Ja
,” his father replied, puffing out his chest. “A sennight from today. It’s a great honor to represent King Conrad and his illustrious brother.”

“Conrad isn’t a king, only our duke,” Brandt retorted.
 

Gunther Rödermark’s rare good humor disappeared. He thumped a meaty fist into his palm. “
Nein
! Our Duke of Franconia is the rightful King of Germany.”

Aware it was useless to argue when his father stubbornly refused to recognise reality, Brandt nevertheless insisted. “Conrad and Friedrich Staufen lost the war against the emperor. They’ve reconciled with him.”

“Bah!” his sire replied, struggling to his feet with the aid of a cane. “You’ll see,” he added gruffly, limping out of the parlor.

Brandt winced when the door banged shut. He and his father rarely saw eye to eye, but for the sake of his mother’s memory he usually fell back into the role of obedient son. For some reason beyond his understanding, Delfina Rödermark had loved her husband.
 

Shaking his head, he looked again at the ducal missive crumpled in his grip, tempted to toss it into the greedy flames of the hearty fire burning in the grate. Despite the sweltering heat of the summer, his father insisted on a fire and constantly complained of being cold.

He’d heard of
Graf
Dieter Von Wolfenberg, loyal vassal of Heinrich, Duke of Saxony. He was heralded as the hero of Andernach and Welfesholz, two decisive victories that had cemented Lothair’s claim to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire. Apparently the count’s son was to be married, and the Staufen brothers preferred Brandt attend in their stead.

In good times and bad his father had been a staunch ally of the Staufens in their quest for the throne of the Holy Roman Empire. Brandt had risked his life in various skirmishes during the war. As a reward they were sending him into the Wolf of Saxony’s lair. Lothair Süpplingenburg, Holy Roman Emperor and true King of Germany would doubtless be in attendance, as would Duke Heinrich.
 

He had no choice but to go. However, careful consideration needed to be given to the number of troops in any Rödermark escort. Too many would be considered a belligerent gesture; too few and Brandt might never see Franconia again.

The son of an obscure
graf
was hardly a suitable substitute for two dukes, and he suspected the insult to the Saxons was deliberate.

Wolfenberg was a risky four-day journey to the north, through uncertain lands. His father had apparently forgotten the betrothal ceremony arranged for three days hence that would forever bind him to Dorothea Rittenhuis. He conjured a vision of the spitfire’s fury when she arrived from Frankfurt and learned of the postponement.

It was of some satisfaction that
Graf
Rödermark would be the one left to deal with Dorothea’s angry parents.

MUT

Four days later Brandt signalled his men to a halt atop a rise. He’d pushed them hard, but there had been no complaints and no incidents. He once again thanked the saints for a horse with the heart of a lion.

Congratulating the snorting Löwe with a hearty pat on the shoulder, he scanned the wide valley below. An impressive timbered manor house occupied an elevated position on a high bank of the Elbe. Dozens of elaborate pavilions pitched in the surrounding fields attested to the large number of wedding guests and their social standing. Colorful pennants flapped in the warm breeze; men and women scurried hither and thither like ants, probably servants bringing food and supplies from the manor house.

They wouldn’t find a campsite near the house, but he didn’t mind being closer to the river. Muddy banks were unlikely given the early summer heat and a refreshing swim in the Elbe would revive his travel-worn body and agitated spirit. Pitching camp at a safe distance from everyone else was a good idea, given that he had no way to be certain who was friend and who foe. On the surface the contenders for the throne of the Holy Roman Empire had reconciled, but the undercurrents of intrigue that still went on could quickly drag down the unsuspecting.

His adjutant rode up beside him and surveyed the scene. As expected, Vidar soon grunted his selection of a suitable spot and Brandt urged Löwe to begin the gradual descent.
 

They were nearing the river when a group of about thirty riders galloped out of a heavily wooded area at the far end of the valley.

Brandt’s first impulse was to retreat, but it quickly became apparent this was no war party. Male laughter, the strident sounds of hunting horns, and the barking of dogs echoed across the meadow.

A tall, grey-haired man led the riders. Brandt assumed from his bearing that this was Count von Wolfenberg.

Directly behind him, flanked by bodyguards, rode two noblemen, probably the emperor and the duke. They made their way to the largest pavilions, but the count reined to a halt and looked back to the trees. Four or five stragglers emerged, two of them women riding sidesaddle.

Brandt had an eye for horses. The Wolfenbergs and their guests rode palfreys that ambled with the easy gait the breed was known for; but one stood out—a magnificent dappled grey, outshone only by the woman riding it. Few women of Brandt’s acquaintance could handle a horse with such confidence and grace.

Keeping an eye on the beast, Brandt led his men to the site Vidar had chosen. He dismounted and gave the reins over to his squire, confident Drogo would take good care of Löwe. Vidar’s men began unloading the donkeys. He had to reluctantly take his attention off the splendid horse and its rider in order to discuss with his adjutant the positioning of the three smaller tents and Duke Conrad’s pavilion.
 

He would have been content to share with the men, as he had throughout the journey, but he was the envoy for two dukes and obliged to use the pavilion they’d provided. He was confident Vidar would quickly fathom how to erect the larger shelter they’d picked up en route.

When the men had the task in hand, he again sought out the riders. The woman had dismounted and was leading her palfrey towards the stable, patting the horse’s neck and speaking to it. Brandt respected people who bonded with their horses.
 

When she eventually reached the main party, she exchanged a few words with the count. Given the familiarity between them, Brandt thought she was perhaps his daughter.

He dragged his attention away from her when a younger man about Brandt’s age rode up beside the second woman, stood in the stirrups, leaned over and kissed her.
 

It was a lover’s kiss and they seemed not to care that people watched. These two must be the betrothed couple. He tamped down a pang of jealousy. By rights he should be at home signing his own betrothal documents. Strangely, his annoyance had more to do with the tenderness of the kiss the couple exchanged. He’d never been kissed with such ardor.
 

Another youth dismounted and walked with the count’s daughter, both leading their horses toward the main stables. Brandt was aware the count had three sons and the young man and woman chatted with the ease of siblings.

A bothersome notion intruded into his thoughts. Anyone watching him and Dorothea together in similar circumstances might think they were brother and sister. He couldn’t recall ever touching the woman he was supposed to marry, except for a brief kiss on the knuckles. She’d probably fly into hysterics if he attempted a kiss on the lips. He chuckled when it occurred to him she never stopped talking long enough for him to kiss her.

He became frustrated when several pavilions obscured his view of the young woman’s progress, then gasped when he caught sight of her again. She’d removed her head-covering. Masses of blonde hair cascaded down her back almost to her bottom. A golden cloak.

In a moment of lunacy he was tempted to rush across the meadow and compliment her riding skills so he could get closer to the incredible tresses, mayhap sift his fingers…

But he closed his mouth and jolted back to reality quickly. He was an outsider. An enemy. Better not to attract attention. “Get the pavilion up quickly,” he commanded Vidar with more harshness than he’d intended. “And make sure my squire readies my uniform. I must pay my respects to our host.”