The Promise (15 page)

Günter, uncertain of her intent, stayed his hand, peering at the trio from behind the camouflage.

“Well, what have we here?” Big Nose stared at Alonsa, his eyes filled with lascivious intent while she walked toward him.

Günter, full of impotent fury, decided
that
one would be the first to die, noble or not.

“No, Henri, she is mine,” Jean-Claude whined, and Günter considered whether he could kill them both with one stroke.

Alonsa fluttered one hand over her breast and circled away from where Günter still hid.

“Oh,
messieurs,
I am so grateful to meet someone in this dark place.” She stood before them now, so petite and fragile Günter’s heart ached.

Alonsa looked up at Henri, and Günter pictured her as a helpless gold and brown exotic flower quivering before a base brute.

Still speaking in French, she said, “I have become separated from my traveling companions, and need much help to find my way back. Could you assist me in this?”

She tilted her head coquettishly, and hid the hilt of the dagger in the folds of her skirt. “You would be handsomely rewarded by my husband. I am certain he searches for me most—how do you say—frantic.”

Henri looked her up and down, and then adjusted the sash at his waist with a smirk.

“Your husband? Now why would any man let a woman like you,” his beady eyes traveled over her gently curving figure, “out of his sight long enough to get lost?” He licked his lips. “Maybe you have no husband. Maybe you are out here all by yourself.”

Jean-Claude stood and faced her, regarding her with a drunken leer.

“I think you are right, Henri. I think she’s fair game to whatever man finds her.”

Both men had their attention fully focused on Alonsa, and Günter stepped toward them unseen.

Henri glared at Jean-Claude.

“I found her first,” he slurred, belligerence in every word.

Jean-Claude glared back, defiant.

“Did not. Knew she was out here before you came. Smelled her. You can have her when I’m done.”

With his greater height and stockier build, Jean-Claude looked like he could easily back up his claim. He took a step toward Alonsa, loosening the flap of his codpiece as he did.

Henri stopped him with the flat of his blade. “Me first, you stupid pig—”

Alonsa interrupted with a simper.

“Oh, but certainly I have a husband.” Her gaze shifted behind them. “Why, there he is now.”

Alarmed, both men turned toward Günter, but neither had a chance to raise their swords or cry out. After a flash of steel and the sickening sounds of metal crunching through bone, both men lay dead on the ground. Günter stood over them, jaw clenched, the black stones on the hilt of his blade glittering in the moonlight, his steel dripping with their blood. He hoped one of them would move so he could kill him again.

Alonsa stared down at them and swallowed hard. One eyebrow arched as she gazed at the looks of surprise forever frozen on the bandits’ faces. “It appears my husband is a jealous man.”

“Very.” Günter lowered his
Zweihänder
and took her arm. “And if you ever frighten me like that again, I’ll tan your lovely hide over my knees, understand?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “What else could I have done? They knew someone was here. If I had waited, they would have discovered us both, and there was no room to fight where we hid. I thought only to distract them long enough for you to—to do what you must.”

She shuddered only once. She had certainly seen dead men before in her time with the company, so her stoic reaction did not surprise Günter. Though they had not touched her, he ran a hand over her to assure himself she was well.

“Clever. But next time, let me do the thinking. It will do less damage to my heart.”

She looked as though she might protest, but when he bent down and hastily patted the bodies for valuables, she grimaced.

“Must you?”

Günter shrugged. “It is the way, Alonsa. You know it by now. If I don’t do it, whoever comes upon them next will.” He glanced up at her. “They were bandits and would have gladly harmed you. It is no less than they deserve.”

In his quick search, Günter found little of worth: a small purse on the man called Henri, an even smaller one on the other. He pulled the jeweled ring off Henri’s finger and examined it closely. The red stones glowed dully in the moonlight.

“It is a crest. Two crossed swords on a field of carbuncles.” He glanced down at the dead man. “It is very likely he stole it off the hand of the man who once wore those clothes.”

He pocketed the ring and the coins.

“If the man still lives, mayhap I can return it to him. If not, it will come in handy for barter or trade, should we need it.” He rolled both bodies into the undergrowth, so they wouldn’t be discovered too soon.

Taking Alonsa’s arm, he hastened her away from the grisly scene. “Come. We must make certain the others have not discovered our companions.”

She nodded her head and picked up her pace.

Inés cried out. One of the four men who had thrown her to the ground, the black-haired one, struck her again when she struggled to get away. Stars exploded in her head when it bounced against the ground, and she whimpered in pain. The man glanced up at one of the other two who held her arms and legs.

He swore at him in livid French. “I said hold her still!”

The chastised man wiped his florid, runny nose on his sleeve and gripped her arm tighter. His ruddy face turned even redder.

“Sorry.” His French was tinged with an Italian slur. “Hurry it up. She’s stronger than she looks.”

A thin man with a bow and quiver over his shoulder came into view behind him and stared avidly down at her even as he spooned the soup she had made for her companions into his mouth.

“Don’t kill her,” he said, waving the spoon about so drops of the broth inadvertently fell on his comrade’s sleeve. The black-haired man glared at him, but the archer was too drunk to take heed.

“Soup’s good. After we are done with her, we can take her with us.” The archer looked at the florid-faced man. “That Sicilian dung you cook is not worth spit.”

Panic speared through Inés at the thought of being their permanent captive.

“No,” she pleaded.

The black-haired man rose over her again as she wept, forcing his face into hers. The pockmarks across his cheeks and his bulbous nose spoke of too many years of whoring and drinking.

“Quiet!” he snarled. He grasped a handful of her skirt and pulled, rending the fabric from her bodice.

She sobbed in fear. Where was Günter? Where was Fritz? Were they already dead? Would no one come to her aid?

The large man stared down at her exposed lower half and then ran a hairy-knuckled hand over her. She nearly retched in revulsion.

“Not bad.” He leered, and his teeth gleamed yellow by the light of the campfire. “But I like a different view myself.”

He glanced up at the two men. “Turn her over.”

She screamed and struggled even more. He raised his fist and slammed it into her stomach. A pain worse than any she had ever felt bloomed across it, and for a moment she could not breathe. The men rolled her over easily, and she felt the one behind her clutch at her buttocks. Someone put his foot over her neck, forcing one side of her face into the damp earth. She tried to spit out the clods of wet dirt shifting into her mouth.

The black-haired man fondled her and breathed heavily.

“Yes … that’s what I want.” He straddled her, leaned over, and licked her face.

The sour fumes of ale washed over her, making her gag. She cried out as he pressed his hard length against her buttocks with a scornful laugh.

“I like a tight sheath for my blade,” he whispered into her ear.

More dirt slipped into her mouth. She did not spit it out this time. Perhaps it would suffocate her before he invaded her body. She closed her eyes and prayed for a quick death.

“Nay!” Fritz’s voice rang out, fury reverberating in that single word.

Her eyes sprang open as he raced to them. He threw down the load of firewood in his arms and reached for the blade in his scabbard.

The black-haired man jerked his head up in surprise.

“What the—”

Hope sprang up in her heart, followed immediately by despair. Fritz would never be able to defeat them alone. He would die, too.

“No, Fritz! Run … run! Find Günter!”

He did not heed her warning. “Release her!” he shouted. He held his sword up, rushing at them. From nowhere, an arrow winged lopsided through the air and struck him in the shoulder. Fritz screamed and the blade dropped from his hand. He tripped over the wood and fell to the ground, his head striking a large stone. He groaned once and lay still.

The black-haired man laughed and looked up at his friends in amusement. They all chortled. He looked back at Inés.

“Is that the best you can do? Good thing I found you. You’re going to enjoy this, I warrant. Time you found out what a grown man feels like, not some boy.” He prodded her with his staff.

Inés could not prevent the wail of desolation that escaped her.

The archer stumbled toward them.

“Wait. Who is this ‘Günter’ she shouted for?” A moment of silence reigned as the men tried to reason with their drunken wits.

Inés’ eyes watered when the black-haired man suddenly pulled at her hair, forcing her head back.

“Is there someone else here?”

She did not reply.

He yanked harder. “Answer me!”

She heard a dagger slide from its sheath and felt the point between her shoulder blades.

“Yes,” she gasped. “And he is a
Landsknecht.
He will kill you all if you do not go now!”

The black-haired man swore. He glared up at the florid-faced man who still had his foot pressed against her neck and gestured with his dagger toward the woods.

“You. Go take Loys and see.”

“Why me?” the man whined, wiping his nose on his sleeve once more.

“Because,” the black-haired man said, the threat in his voice palpable, “I am busy.”

“Yes, yes, we will go.” The florid-faced man shrugged, released her, and motioned to the archer. “Come on.”

The two men trudged into the woods while the others waited, silent and watchful.

They heard the branches rustle while the men moved through the trees, and suddenly a sound like a groan. Then nothing.

The black-haired man rose slowly.

“Loys? Mattio?”

No reply came forth. Inés held her breath, looking desperately over at Fritz. His chest moved. He was still alive, thank the heavens, but for how long?

“Mattio?” the black-haired man repeated, the worry in his voice more apparent. He exchanged glances with the helmet-clad man still holding her other arm. A twig snapped. They jerked their heads toward the sound. A moment later, a pebble rolled toward them, several paces away from the first sound.

The helmet-clad man released her and pulled out his dagger. The men slowly circled, turning to face the sound, their swords at the ready. The air thickened with tension. Neither man spoke a word.

Suddenly, a berserker cry rent the night, and Günter rushed them from behind, swinging his blade in a vicious arc with both hands. The helmeted man went down first. The black-haired man raised his sword in a futile attempt to protect himself. Günter rendered his head from his body with the return arc of his blade.

He swung around and stood over Inés in a protective stance.

“Are there any others?” he asked her, his words clipped and precise.

Too shocked by her sudden salvation to respond, she merely stared up at him.

“Inés,” he repeated, his hard gaze sweeping the circle around them, “are there any others?”

“The—there were two,” she stammered. “They went into the woods a few moments ago.”

“They’re dead. Any others?”

She shook her head.

He nodded and lowered his blade. “Alonsa, you can come out now.”

Alonsa appeared from the edge of the woods where the pebble had been thrown and hurried to Inés’ side. She took one look at Inés’ face and murmured,
“Madre de Dios.”

An icy cold possessed her body. Günter removed his cloak. Kneeling, he spread it gently over Inés and looked at her with concern.

“Fritz.” Inés could not say more. She could not make her lips function well enough, her teeth chattered so uncontrollably.

“I’ll see to him.” He rose and went to Fritz’s side.

Alonsa ran to the water’s edge, cut a swatch of linen from the hem of her chemise with Günter’s
Katzbalger,
dipped it in the water, and ran back. After helping Inés sit up, she pressed the cooling cloth to her face. It came away stained with red.

“Madre de Dios,”
Alonsa whispered again, and pulled Inés close.

Inés trembled and stared over Alonsa’s shoulder. “Fritz?”

Alonsa looked at Günter in wordless query.

He laid his ear over Fritz’s heart.

“It beats strong,” he said, the relief in those three words evident.

Inés closed her eyes.

We are safe, and Fritz lives. Nothing else matters. Nothing else.