The Promise (8 page)

He felt the fire building in him at the memory, and he shook his head in frustration.

He rose and lifted the pitcher of water, now ice-cold, he kept beside the bedroll for washing—and up-ended it over his head with a yelp. Both desire and the need for further sleep quickly fled.

He disliked sleep, though he acknowledged its necessity. It made him too vulnerable. Shivering from the cold, Günter wondered if he had ever spoken Alonsa’s name aloud in his sleep. It might explain Martin’s certainty about Günter’s feelings for his intended.

Nay, he decided, drying himself off quickly. Likely not. Surely, Günter would have awoken with a blade at his throat if that had been the case, friendship or no.

Günter donned his clothes. It grew late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again tonight. He left his tent, and after waving to Rutger as he patrolled on sentry duty, Günter padded quietly over to the side of the camp where Alonsa slept. He stayed in the shadows, watching her tent, imagining what she must look like in her bed as she slumbered.

Did she sleep naked? With her hair unbound? Would all her rich, dark-brown hair flow like silk over his body while he loved her?

She would have to be on top for him to find out, of course. The second time. Her head thrown back as she rode him, the tips of her hair teasing his thighs. He would slide the strands forward with his fingers, cover, and then reveal her breasts with it. Or mayhap he could convince her to put her mouth upon him. Then her heavy curtain of hair would drape over him of its own accord, spreading like Saracen chocolate over his body as she slid her way down.

He held his breath at the image and then let it out with a shaky laugh.

Pathetic.

Someone approached in the dark, and Günter had his
Katzbalger
out and at the man’s throat before he recognized him. Blue eyes stared back at him, but this time they were not afraid—only surprised.

“Günter?”

Fritz.
Dammit, he had let Fritz creep up on him while he fantasized about Alonsa. What kind of mercenary was he? If he kept this up, he would soon be a dead one.

“What is it?” Günter snapped, angrier with himself than with the young man. He thrust his blade back into its scabbard and tried again. “Report.”

Fritz cleared his throat and ran a hand through his floppy hair before he came to attention.

“As you instructed, I have watched the tent for the past few hours. The
Señora
retired at nightfall, and there has been no unusual activity since then.”

Günter glared at him. “You have not fallen asleep at your post?”

Fritz’s cheeks flushed, but he shook his head.

“Nay, I have paced continuously, as you showed me, to stay awake. And drunk plenty of cider, though I care little for it, and pissed it all behind that tree.” His eyes flickered to a giant cypress nearby. “I think it will be withered by morn.”

Günter tried desperately to keep his lips from quivering.

“Good soldiers make sacrifices,” he finally managed. “She has not left her tent since nightfall? Nor packed up any of her belongings?”

“Nay,” Fritz confirmed.

“So, it will not be today, then,” Günter murmured, grateful for that at least. “Well done, young Fritz. I’ll relieve you now.”

Fritz looked taken aback.

“But … I still have several hours left. Have I done something wrong?”

Günter looked at the young man, so eager to serve, so anxious to do well. He might make a fine soldier after all. Pity he had no noble blood, or funds with which to buy weapons or horse.

“You’ve done well today, son. But I find I cannot sleep, and without employment I am restless. I’ll take over here for tonight. Come back at dawn, after a good night’s sleep.”

Fritz looked as though he might protest, but Günter held up a hand to silence him.

“First rule of soldiering … sleep when you can. You never know what the morrow may bring.”

Fritz nodded his head, absorbing this tidbit of knowledge with a serious expression. Günter half expected him to reach into the willow pack around his waist for something on which to scribble it down.

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Nay. Except—” he hesitated for a moment, for effect.

“Yes?” Fritz asked, eyes bright.

“Do not call me ‘sir,’“ Günter said, very slowly.

Fritz hung his head, and his shoulders slumped.

“I will never remember. My father taught me to respect my elders and those I admire. It is a hard thing to forget.”

Günter rested a hand upon his shoulder.

“Forget it you must. If we wound up in the wrong hands someday, it could mark me for torture as one of the company’s high-ranking officers. As a mere sergeant, I would resent that.”

Fritz blanched. “I will not forget again.”

Günter patted him gently on the shoulder.

“I know, son. Take your rest and start again at dawn.”

Fritz nodded, did a sharp about-face, and trotted away. Günter shook his head with a smile as he watched Fritz go.

Was I ever that young?

Nay, he decided. He turned back to Alonsa’s tent, took up his stance, and tried to keep from dreaming of more fantasies while he kept watch outside her tent.

“R
ANKS!
P
UT DOWN AND FILL
!”

Günter repeated the sergeant major’s barked command as several contingents ran through their training drills side by side.

The faces of his men glistened in the sharp morning sun. Hot breath steamed from their mouths into the cool air as the harquebusiers placed powder into the muzzle end of their
handgonnes,
the small arms artillery requiring much less training than archery or blade fighting. They lifted the long, heavy weapons to the ready and went through the motions without firing in order to conserve the powder.

Günter looked the ragtag group of soldiers over. Most of the men wore garments ranging from gaudy to gaudier. Amber and green doublets competed with the deep indigo and sunshine yellow of slashed stockings and multicolored trunk hose; decorated codpieces of near-frightening proportions pointed to the clouds above, their impressive size and direction supported not by nature, but by fabric batting. The double-pay soldiers sported war-battered helmets and breastplates, while the lower paid
schmutz
wore plumed hats and worn doublets scavenged post-battle from their less fortunate opponents.

Günter preferred a slightly more modest style of dress (he tended to stay with only two or three colors, and the proportions of his codpiece were entirely his own). However, most of the men took full advantage of the suspension of sumptuary laws by the previous Emperor Maximillian I—laws which prevented those not of noble birth from dressing extravagantly. As a result, they stood out like a riotous field of improbable flowers, and since they could expect life spans of about the same length, they took advantage of every opportunity to enjoy life to the fullest. They trained hard, fought harder, played hardest; they copulated freely, gambled and drank when not in battle, and died young almost without exception.

Given that, the
Landsknechts
agreed the Holy Roman Empire should at least let them dress as they willed.

The sergeant major pointed to one recruit slow in righting his weapon after ramming the ball and patch down into the barrel of the muzzle.

“You there! Make right!” Günter commanded, and the man immediately lifted his muzzle, fitting the stock to his shoulder.

The sergeant major nodded his approval and strode down the ranks, examining each weapon in turn. Imminent battle made it imperative the guns as well as the powder were kept dry, difficult to do with the mist and rain plaguing them the past few days. The sergeant major had therefore taken the opportunity of a dry morning to begin the drills for just such a reason.

Günter couldn’t complain; it kept him occupied while he waited for Alonsa to make a move out of camp. He had been waiting for three days now. She was an intelligent woman; he wagered she would try to leave during the siege lull they currently endured. To do so while the campaign raged would make the journey far too dangerous.

As Günter looked up from examining a harquebus whose barrel showed the beginnings of rust, he noted Fritz hovering nearby with an excited expression on his face. The moment the sergeant major halted the drill, Günter turned to his men.

“Fall out! To beer!” he called, and the soldiers scattered like chaffs on the wind.

Günter motioned to Fritz with a jerk of his head to accompany him as he walked. He lifted his cloak from the barrel of the culverin he had draped it on and swung it around his shoulders.

“What news of our bird?” he murmured when they had walked several paces. He fastened the heavy cloak around his neck.

Fritz’s clear blue eyes were alight with mischief. “She makes ready for flight. They have been taking down the tent all morning.”

Günter looked askance at him. “All morning?”

Fritz nodded. “Yes. The dismantling has gone unusually slow,” he said with a slight grin.

Günter raised one brow. “You have found some means to delay her?”

“Nay. I have not had to. Inés has been more of a hindrance than a help, I fear. I suspect Inés delays her departure for her own purpose, though I know not why.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.” Günter stroked a finger across his closely cropped beard. “Mayhap we have an ally inside the enemy’s walls. One who might just open the gates for us.”

Fritz looked startled. “Enemy?”

Günter glanced at him. “A figure of speech. Continue.”

“I have done as you said, and come to fetch you when the
Señora’s
desertion seemed most imminent.”

“Good. I’ll see to this desertion … personally.”

Günter turned back to Fritz and handed him the missive he had already penned to his commander. “Give this to von Frundsberg. He will know of its contents.”

Fritz eyed it, his brow furrowing. “You are not resigning, are you?” He shifted his feet. “That is, I had hoped you might be my sergeant when I muster in.”

Günter spared him a smile. “Do not fear, son. I’ll return when the time is ripe. The letter only confirms my promise to do so.” In exchange for keeping his pay for the month, Günter had sworn to return before the commencing of the mission to free Pavia from the French siege. His long service to the company had persuaded the commander to agree to such an unusual arrangement.

Günter shook his head. “For a man who has managed not to make any promises to anyone, I now find myself making them with alarming frequency. Besides, I signed a contract, like every mercenary here.”

“But everyone knows such contracts are only good for as long as the gold lasts … or until the company’s owner dies,” Fritz pointed out.

“And even a mercenary is only as good as his word,” Günter retorted. He pinned Fritz with his gaze. “Mark me, son, never give your word if you can help it. But
if
you give it, keep it unto death.” He clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Others may think of us as drinking, whoring, sons-of-the-damned—and they would be right—but a mercenary’s word to a comrade is better than the best blade money can buy.”

Fritz nodded slowly and slipped the letter inside the willow pack he always wore around his waist. “What if the pay runs out before the siege breaks, and the men leave?” His keen interest showed in his eyes.

Günter shrugged. “Then the captain will need me to muster in new recruits to replace the deserters.” He grinned. “You may get your chance yet, if you can secure some of their weapons.”

“But what if coin does not come and the commander promises them papal gold?” Fritz’s eager expression changed to one of unease.

Günter clenched his jaw and looked away for a moment.

“Then he will need me to maintain order and discipline,” he said.

Fritz’s grim expression communicated his understanding. Günter knew Fritz had followed the
Fähnlein
long enough to see what soldiers, aroused with bloodlust and greed, could do to innocent townspeople after a battle.

Everyone expected the looting and pillaging. However, an unrestrained mercenary army often added rape, burning, and full-scale destruction to its deeds, particularly when papal properties were involved, as they were here. The officers, hailing mostly from the gentry and minor nobility, had little command over the foot soldiers in such situations. Captains depended upon their sergeants to maintain control. Sometimes with the edge of a blade.

“Mayhap,” Fritz offered, “I could accompany you today.”

“There is no need.”

“But—”

“Off with you,” Günter said gently. “Get my gear and meet me at the
Señora’s
tent.”

Fritz hesitated, then nodded. He hastened off in the direction of von Frundsberg’s tent.

Günter strode off in the opposite direction, trying hard not to rub his hands together in gleeful anticipation of the upcoming skirmish with his future bride.

Alonsa gave one final tug on the ropes that held the various bundles inside her wide merchant’s cart. Absently patting the sturdy gray body of her
burro,
she gazed up at the morning sun climbing higher in the sky than she would have liked. The animal snuffled, and she patted it once more.