The Promise (29 page)

With trembling hands, Günter reached for her.

“You came,” he whispered, no longer capable of full voice.

She cuffed him. “Of course, you ass.” She wiped her eyes across her sleeve and slid down beside him. “Did you doubt it?”

Astonished, he gazed at her and burst out laughing. “My God, Alonsa, if I had my strength and but an hour …”

She touched her fingers to his mouth, a sad smile curving her lips. “Shh. It is enough we are together now.” She blinked rapidly, trying to prevent the tears hovering in her eyes from overflowing. “Oh, Günter. I am so sorry.”

Günter patted her arm. “Alonsa, I have something to say. You must prepare yourself and be strong, for I
will
say it.”

Alonsa stiffened her spine and nodded. She allowed her head to rest against his shoulder. Her hands twisted in her lap. “I am ready.”

The air smelled crisp around them, the scent of wood smoke lingering above the gunpowder. A few flakes of snow fluttered to the ground, but did not have the energy to gather their forces for a full assault. Winter would wait one more day, Günter decided. One more day.

Air puffed white from her mouth when Günter placed his hand under Alonsa’s chin and lifted it. He had known for days what he would tell her, but now that she was here, the words seemed to have fled from his mind. He would speak with his heart, then.

Only with his heart.

“Before I begin, I must ask you to release me from my promise.”

She gazed at him, her brow furrowed.

“The morning after we lay together for the first time,” he reminded her, “I promised I would never say the words ‘I love you.’ You must release me from my promise.”

Her lips trembled, and she nodded. “Yes. I release you.”

He touched her full lips, traced them with his fingertips.

“My dearest Alonsa, I love you. Damn the curse, damn the consequences, I love you—now, forever, and with no regrets. If the price of the time we spent together is to be my life, then I give it gladly.” He stroked the silk of her hair back from her forehead. “An hour with you, even a moment, would have made all that came afterward worth it.”

Alonsa caught her breath on a sob, and the tears she had blinked away finally slipped out.

Günter shook his head. “You must not cry, or blame yourself. The decision was mine, and I do not repent of it. I love you. Forever.” He hesitated. “Will you … can you say the same to me? Just once, before I die?”

He gazed at her hopefully.

She raised her hands to his face, staring at him while she traced his features with her fingertips. “I will love you forever, my husband. Beyond forever. There will be no other, not because of the curse, but because I have found what I seek. A man to love me as I love him. You may leave me today, but I will never be alone again. I will carry your memory here,” she touched her breast,
“en mi corazón,
always. I will never forget the true meaning of love.”

She drew her fingers over his cheeks, and he saw they came away wet.

“And what is the true meaning of love?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss to her palm, hot emotion clogging his throat.

She smiled. “It is a blessing, not a curse. I will never forget it.”

Just then, Günter heard the sound of gravel crunching beneath booted feet behind him. At the same moment, he realized his hands were no longer on the gun. He looked over his shoulder into the regretful but determined face of the provost’s man.

“Forgive me, Sergeant, but by the articles of war, I must place you under arrest.”

Supreme Commander von Frundsberg paced back and forth in front of Günter, cursing, his cheeks florid. “One of my best sergeants. On the eve of battle! What possessed you to suddenly grow a conscience?” He coughed violently, then gripped his canteen and drank deeply.

The sides of the commander’s tent shuddered in the rising wind, the walls breathing in and out like the lungs of a great, thin-skinned beast.

He pounded a heavy fist into his hand. “Every man is needed. Every one! The Black Band is not to be toyed with. Are you listening?”

Günter watched him pace, saying nothing. What was left to say? He only wanted to hold the memory of his last moments with Alonsa close before they hanged him for his crime, but this blustering man kept intruding on his thoughts.

Was she well? She had been pale and drawn, the hours of hard riding taking their toll upon her. He’d managed to discover that Robert (bless him) had accompanied her through the French lines, but had wisely parted with her before they reached the Imperialist encampments. Even now, he likely sortied with the French gendarmes, taking up his position beside Francis I, the king of France, in preparation for the coming battle any idiot could scent was in the air.

Günter worried she might take ill. Would the ordnance master get word to Inés, as he’d promised? Alonsa had a tendency not to eat when she was unhappy. She was too thin already; it wouldn’t do for her to refuse food. She needed looking after, and Günter felt Inés would do it.

“Do you hear me, Sergeant?” Von Frundsberg pushed his flushed, craggy face into Günter’s. The rank smell of ill health emanated from him, but the man seemed to have a vitality that belied his physical condition.

Günter sighed and shook his head. Von Frundsberg wouldn’t leave him alone with his memories, not even in his last hour. “Your pardon, sir. What was it you said?”

The commander grabbed his own beard and tugged on it in frustration. “I am trying to explain your options! There is a military tribunal awaiting you out there. However, I still have some influence, and camp sentiment is on your side. If you will agree to lead the forlorn hope through the breach in the park wall, I can turn your judgment aside.” He coughed hard, his face turning redder, and slammed a fist to his chest as if to force breath into it. “The park wall is our best option for gaining access to the city of Pavia and ending this damned siege,” he rasped. “If this piss-poor weather holds, the French and Swiss troops will not hear us until it is too late. The mist and fog may cover our entry, and we will be on them like dogs on spoiled meat.”

Günter’s blood chilled. The forlorn hope was a contingent composed of the front line infantry’s advance into enemy territory. They were cannon fodder—conscripts, prisoners, and men trying to redeem themselves by taking their chances with fate, or by proving they had the courage required to join the ranks of the
Fähnlein.
To lead the forlorn hope might be as good as signing his own death warrant.

And yet, wasn’t he already dead?

Günter gazed quietly at von Frundsberg for a long moment. “I will not hang if I lead the forlorn hope?”

Von Frundsberg crossed his arms and shook his head. “Finally, he listens. No, son, if you do this for us, I will not only suspend your tribunal, all will be forgiven. I will restore you to your former position and rank. I have no one with your skill and experience I wish to lose this day. I do not wish to lose
you,
but there is no reason I cannot make the best of the situation.”

He clasped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously against the cold. “Yes, a night’s sleep, a meal, and then you will head a contingent under Mark Sittlich. Eight thousand men go to their destiny under his command at dawn tomorrow. He needs experienced soldiers he can rely on who will hold when they meet the Black Band in battle. You are such a man. Perhaps, as a result, a few more of our poor bastards will survive than otherwise might, eh? What do you say?”

A glimmer of hope sparked in Günter’s breast. He might yet live. He might have a chance to spend his life with Alonsa. He didn’t question the opportunity God had just handed him. He simply gave a short nod of his head, and the deed was done.

He would lead the forlorn hope to victory, or he would die in the attempt.

Hell had broken free of its bounds. Men screamed and died, their breath choked off by hail shot piercing their windpipes. Cannon fire from culverins slammed into ranks of pikemen, and their long staffs splintered and cracked. The acrid smell of black powder danced across burning flesh, the scent mixing with the putrid stench of death.

Günter ignored the screams around him, concentrating only on wielding his
Zweihänder
with deadly accuracy, despite the slick feel of blood mixed with gore on its hilt, despite his exhaustion. He lopped off pike points and heads alike. The opposing mercenaries toppled or fled before him, unable to withstand the onslaught of his single-minded determination to survive this battle.

He had a reason to live and to fight well.
Alonsa.
He would redeem himself. For her sake, he wouldn’t die this day.

With a burst of power, Günter swung his
Zweihänder
in a lethal arc, and another enemy soldier fell from his horse. Off balance, Günter slipped in the mud and went down hard, barely managing to roll to his side to avoid the downward arc of a pike aimed for his breast.

Even so, the pike caught him on the edge of his shoulder, pinning him to the ground through his breastplate. He grimaced with pain as he thrust up with his sword, ending the life of his adversary. He quickly examined the wound; it bled freely. The stabbing pain, intense and throbbing, took his breath away, yet he reached around with his
Zweihänder
and hacked at the pike enough to break away its length. With a grunt, he pulled the pike’s point free.

He scrambled away from the fighting, backward over the boggy terrain, gasping with each movement. He needed only a moment to bandage his wound, and then he could continue fighting.

The outcome of the battle between the
Landsknechts
companies was inevitable. The Black Band was outnumbered three to one in a fight to the finish. There would be no quarter given here, and none expected, between the
Landsknechts
who fought for the Imperialist Army and those who fought for the French. The hatred between the two companies drove the battle to the fiercest pitch of any Günter had ever engaged in, and somewhere deep inside a part of him reveled in it.

Günter found a depression in the ground and threw himself into it. With his
Katzbalger,
he cut a swatch of fabric from his sleeve, pressing it upon the entrance wound to slow the flow of blood then wrapping it, and tied it off with his teeth.

Günter saw von Frundsberg ride onto the field and gauge the status of the battle with an expression tinged with fierce pride. He spotted Günter, who stood immediately.

Von Frundsberg rode his horse up to him. “Where is your captain?”

Günter shook his head. He had lost sight of the captain long ago.

Von Frundsberg waved a dismissive hand. “You are promoted. The Spanish General Lannoy is calling for reinforcements on the west flank. The messenger says he’s got the French king and most of his nobles pinned down between the woods and the water.” He let out a bark of laughter, followed by a spate of coughing. “Those French idiots charged in front of their own artillery and got themselves cut off from their support!” He spit a bead of phlegm on the ground and jerked his thumb toward the western field with a wide grin. “Take a contingent. I will join you there in a moment.” He glanced at Günter’s shoulder, gesturing at it with his sword. “Will this delay you?”

“Only a pike in the head would do that, sir.” Günter grinned. “This is but a scratch.”

Von Frundsberg slapped his armor-clad thigh with glee, a broad grin on his face. “Ha! Go, then, before the Spaniards steal all the glory for capturing the king.” He wheeled his horse around and charged back into the melee, gathering up more men as he went.

Günter noted the
Fähnlein
standard floating nearby. He followed it to its base until he saw the stalwart drummer who stood beneath it next to the ensign who was ready to defend the banner with his life.

“Sound the drums,” Günter shouted. “A contingent here will join with the others and head west through the woods.”

The drummer nodded, and within moments, the drums echoed across the battlefield. The battle raged, heavy mist obscuring anything more than a hundred feet away. The contingent formed around him, distinguishable from the enemy by the white shirts thrown over their breastplates. With shouted orders, Günter charged with his men toward the sounds of fighting through the western woods.