The Legacy (2 page)

A lone, fat taper on the altar sputtered out with a hiss, and a robed attendant hurried to relight it. It would not do for the groom to be unable to see his bride, should he care to look, which he had yet to do. In fact, Master Wolfgang Behaim had looked at everything but her—the baron’s armed attendants, the Reverend, the closed door behind her—anything but her.

He had clad himself for his wedding in a costume reminiscent of mourning, the somber doublet and hose eschewing the slash-and-puff patterns of the day. Still, the conservative suit did little to disguise the powerful body beneath. Though his clothes seemed of serviceable material, watching him was akin to watching a fully dressed lion on the prowl. One imagined him hampered by the seams and sleeves of convention when his own tawny skin would have befitted him better. Even naked, he would be formidable.

The blood rushed to Sabina’s cheeks when she realized she entertained such intimate thoughts about a man she’d just met.

The Reverend Bugenhagen pronounced them man and wife and began a lengthy blessing. Sabina’s new husband tapped his foot with barely concealed impatience. No fool he, the Reverend hastily completed the blessing and turned to Master Behaim with a kindly smile. “If it be your pleasure, you may bestow a kiss upon your bride.”

Master Behaim snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, and with that, turned from them both.

An elderly manservant, stoop-shouldered and yet managing to give the impression of erect servitude, came forward to receive his employer with a heavy cloak. Master Behaim flung it over his shoulders and made for the door, but stopped when the servant cleared his throat. Her new husband frowned, then looked about him as if he had forgotten something. His eyes alighted on her.

He pointed. “You. Come.”

He walked away as though he had every expectation she would follow. She stared after her bridegroom while his broad shoulders and long legs maneuvered through the wedding party. The baron had rousted his servants from their beds to witness the early morning wedding procession from the Castle von Ziegler to the Elector’s Castle Church in Wittenberg. At first intent on congratulations, the cowed servants now parted before Master Behaim like soft earth beneath a plow.

Sabina ground her teeth at the impudence of the man. He hadn’t even bothered to remove the bridal crown from her unbound hair in accordance with the wedding ritual. He had simply turned away and commanded her like a dog.

She would be damned if she gave it to him now.

She pulled off the ancient fertility symbol with trembling fingers and dropped it to the floor. Despite the Reverend’s shocked gaze, she barely resisted the urge to grind the thing beneath her heel.

She seethed. She was a Baronesse. The baron was the
Schenk
of Wittenberg, a cupbearer to the Emperor himself. The insolent Master Behaim was only a commoner. How dare he command her? She clenched her hand and caught a glimpse of the gold ring she wore upon her thumb. When the Reverend had asked for a token of their union, Master Behaim’s expression made it obvious the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Nevertheless, he had hesitated only a moment before he pulled off his own ring.

She took a deep breath, subduing her pride. The Scriptures said pride went before a fall, and how well she knew it. Her station no longer mattered, since she was now his wife. She sent up a silent prayer of repentance.

Though willing to obey, however, she doubted her ability. To ensure her continued cooperation, the baron still withheld her food, and she’d eaten nothing today. Her stomach felt hollow. Her head swam. She did not know if she had the strength to follow her new husband down the aisle.

Master Behaim reached for the door, and upon pulling it open, turned to address her. “We must—”

His dark brows snapped together when he became aware she lagged behind and he spoke to the empty air. The draft that blew past him into the church swept his dark chestnut hair across a broad forehead, burnished strands of copper mixed in with the brown.

He glared at her from across the gloomy chapel, then at his manservant as if to imply she was
his
responsibility. The manservant shrugged eloquently and stepped aside. Master Behaim sent a silent glance skyward and closed the door once more.

Sabina examined her new husband while he advanced on her, his measured steps charged with purpose. He stopped in front of her, his fists resting on lean hips tapering down to powerfully formed thighs. She noted how the jut of his jaw contrasted sharply with the sensual curve of his mouth. A long, not-quite-straight nose set off intensely green eyes. She imagined when he smiled (if he ever did, for he certainly was not smiling at the moment), his eyes turned down at the corners.

She stubbornly resisted the pull of attraction she felt tugging at her as a result of his blatant regard. She was immune to such men. She had been made thus the hard way, and must never forget it.

His jaw clenched a moment before he spoke. “Get your things. Say goodbye to your father.”

She refused to be intimidated. “I have no things to gather. As I was not expecting to wed so hastily, I have had little opportunity to prepare for the event.”

He gestured with his chin. “Where are your trunks? Where is your bride bundle?”

Glancing down at her gown, she said, “It is as you see it.”

Her pride would not allow her to say more.

With clear distaste, Master Behaim took in her gown, so inappropriate for winter’s bite. It was her petite stepmother’s hand-me-down, worn during a summer wedding nearly three years before to which Sabina had not been invited. In the hurry to be made ready (and in an effort to spare coin, no doubt) no underskirts had been procured for her. Only a thin, worn half-chemisette separated her skin from her outer garments. She felt the lack with every icy draft that crept through the cracks beneath the door.

His gaze skimmed over her, eyes narrowing. She returned his scornful look with a composure she did not feel. Though dazed by his sharp-eyed glower, she did not look away. After what seemed an eternity, he gave a slight nod and stepped back.

The baron approached and slid a hand around her upper arm in a display of fatherly affectation. His grip tightened for only a moment, but added to the bruises that already existed, it hurt enough to make her wince.

“Sabina,” he said, “I am certain Master Behaim has no interest in being bored to death by your petty problems.”

Wisely, she said nothing else.

Master Behaim contemplated them both without comment.

It was Wolf’s turn to lag behind while von Ziegler yanked open the chapel door and practically marched his daughter out into the biting cold.

Franz, his family’s old servant and one of the few he could still afford to retain, came quietly up alongside him.

“Master Behaim?”

Wolf gave him his attention.

“Regarding the young lady,” Franz said. “Does she look well to you?”

“How should I know?” Wolf growled. “I’ve only just met her.”

Nevertheless, Wolf glanced at her through the open doorway while the wind whipped her inky black hair into tangled streams around her face. Only then did he notice the dark shadows under her wide blue eyes, the too-prominent cheekbones in an otherwise unremarkable face—except for her mouth. A strand of hair caught at the corner of her full pink lips and it stuck there, but she seemed not to notice. He had to admit, the eyes and the mouth were interesting, but as for the rest of her … he sighed in dismay.

“She’s thin,” he grumbled.

“And unusually pale,” Franz offered.

Wolf sneered. “Probably too proud to tramp about the countryside in the fresh air with the rest of us unwashed masses.”

“I beg your pardon, Master Wolfgang, but I bathed only last night,” came Franz’s amused reply.

Wolf ignored him. She
was
thin, painfully so. Predictably, since Wolf enjoyed his women buxom. He liked them blond, too, not with hair blacker than night. Alas, why should any of his preferences be a consideration, since she wasn’t his choice of bride to begin with?

Franz stifled a yawn. “Shall I go on ahead, Master Wolfgang? Prepare the household for your arrival?”

Wolf shook his head. “In a moment. I need a witness to finish this … business before we ride home.”

He had the marriage settlement still to sign. He was to be dowered with a letter of exchange from her guardians for a thousand ducats, a fortune that would otherwise take a lifetime to earn. He had to deposit it then at the goldsmith’s within the week in her father’s name.

Extortion money. A bitter gall rose in his throat.

The irony settled over him. For his participation in this farce, he was to receive money he couldn’t spend, and a wife he could never touch. He glanced at the girl again. Perhaps that part wasn’t such a great loss; she was no beauty, after all. Still, there
was
something about that mouth …

The baron drew her outside and whispered into her ear. She grew paler, if possible. She seemed … afraid. Wolf resisted the instinctive urge to come to her aid. She had likely put the baron up to this scheme when she decided to return home and found she could not snare a husband on her own.

He shook his head. Forced to marry a noblewoman. And a nun! No matter the Reformers had practically taken over Wittenberg, despite his misgivings about the rampant corruption in the Church,
he
was still a faithful Catholic. Yet they expected him to soil a bride of Christ with his touch?

She was no innocent, but virgin or no, she had taken vows and belonged to God. After they completed this transaction, he would convince her to take up her vows once more—return to the convent where she belonged. He had no intention of risking excommunication by going against the Church’s strictures on clerical marriage. For the time being, however, he was caught as surely as a fox in a snare.

Christ’s wounds, how had this happened to him?

He
knew
how, and it was his own damned fault. Still, if it weren’t for Papa’s rash act, and his own …

He ground his teeth in impotent fury. Franz eyed him, probably watching the play of emotions shifting across Wolf’s face, try as he might to hide them.

“I do not mean to pry, Master Wolfgang,” Franz said, “but are you quite certain this is the match for you?”

Wolf gave him a wry glance. “Well, it’s a little late to change my mind, isn’t it?”

Franz nodded his head gravely. “Yes. Yes, it would be, at a certain point. But if you were coerced in some way, perhaps the Wittenberg marriage council could be convinced to dissolve the union, provided there was no,
ahem,
consummation, if I might say the word. A coerced marriage is not binding, either within the Church or outside of it.”

Wolf clenched his fists at his sides and held his tongue.

Franz inched closer and lowered his voice. “The lady’s reputation, Master Wolfgang. We did not have time to converse about it this morning. You were away in Nürnberg at the time the incidents occurred. Perhaps you were unaware—”

“I’m aware of her reputation. The entire city of Wittenberg is aware of her reputation.” He turned narrowed eyes on Franz. “We will speak no more of it from this point on. No gossip with the others. Understood?”

“Of course, Master Wolfgang. It shall be as you wish it,” Franz said, and withdrew.

Yes, Wolf knew all about her past. Franz might not remember, but he had been visiting from Nürnberg nine years before, where he had opened his first printing shop, when the gossips whispered the tale in the local taverns and sewing circles.

At sixteen, headstrong and full of vinegar, the young baronesse had defied her father and secretly married a poor young noble who turned out to be a fortune hunter. The shrewd lad probably decided the surest way to make a solid claim on her family’s fortunes was to get her with child, though as far as anyone knew, none had resulted. When Baron von Ziegler wouldn’t pay him a dowry, the lad promptly cast her off, claiming no accord of marriage had ever existed between them. Eventually von Ziegler relented, but by then she had refused to be lawfully wed to the schemer, swearing she would marry her father’s hunting hound first. “At least,” she had declared famously,
“he
is loyal and earns his own keep.”

No other suitor would consider her afterward. She had left town in disgrace, consigning herself to a convent until recently.

Wolf glanced back at the pair. He would finish this. He approached the baron, who thrust his daughter from him and took Wolf aside.

The baron glanced over his shoulder at his daughter and spoke in hushed tones. “Since I know you are a busy man, we will conclude our transaction here. No need to return to my castle. The documents I promised.” He handed several sheaves of vellum over to Wolf. “The marriage settlement, our agreement on the exchange and the properties.”

Wolf perused them, making certain everything was as they had agreed. After a moment, the baron cleared his throat.

“I am not unreasonable, you know. I will wait until the end of the week for the receipt,” he said. “Until then, your secret is safe with me. However, if I do not have the funds by then, my representatives will be at the doors of your properties the next day. With a lock and the magistrate. And there will be whispers. A man in your position would not want that.”

Wolf raised his gaze from the papers. He had the satisfaction of seeing von Ziegler take a step back. The noble nervously clenched his hands behind him, barely managing to stand his ground.

“I will sign these papers,” Wolf said, bristling with menace. “You will get your coin. But, if you hint at what you know, to anyone, you won’t live long enough to spend it. Do you understand?”

“Take care how you speak to your betters,
Master
Behaim,” von Ziegler said, his brave words belied by the quaver in his voice. “I would say you should consider this an investment. A man’s good name is a precious commodity. Worth its weight in gold, I would say. Would you not agree?”

Wolf said nothing. He turned from von Ziegler and motioned for Franz, who glided over to him. “Watch me,” he instructed.