A Royal Marriage
Rachelle McCalla
Wedding Awaits Despite her protests, Princess Gisela, headstrong daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne, must enter into a diplomatic marriage. Yet en route to her wedding, her ship is attacked and she’s gravely injured. Rescued by a renowned healer, King John of Lydia, Gisela recuperates at his Mediterranean castle.The handsome, widowed ruler soon has her reevaluating her beliefs on love and marriage…but only if King John could be her groom. Their love is forbidden, and duty requires him to deliver her to her betrothed. Unless they can find a way to join their hearts—and kingdoms—with love, faith and honor. Protecting the Crown: The royal family fights for love and country
A Wedding Awaits
Despite her protests, Princess Gisela, headstrong daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne, must enter into a diplomatic marriage. Yet en route to her wedding, her ship is attacked and she’s gravely injured. Rescued by a renowned healer, King John of Lydia, Gisela recuperates at his Mediterranean castle. The handsome, widowed ruler soon has her reevaluating her beliefs on love and marriage...but only if King John could be her groom. Their love is forbidden, and duty requires him to deliver her to her betrothed. Unless they can find a way to join their hearts—and kingdoms—with love, faith and honor.
Gisela got the sense that King John still mourned some great loss.
Her injury throbbed, distorting her thoughts with feverish confusion. Was it the king’s pain or her own that filled her heart with sorrow?
Already strained by the gash on her head, Gisela whimpered softly as tears formed.
“Whoa.” The king pulled his mount to a halt. He shifted, and a moment later Gisela felt his hand on her face. “Are you getting worse?”
The touch of his hand imparted comfort, and when he drew it away, she missed it.
“Rest if you can,” he murmured, slowly urging the horse up to speed. “We have a long way to travel yet.”
The king’s words were a reminder she sorely needed. Yes. She had a mission to fulfill. She couldn’t die.
The people they’d left back at the dock were depending on her. If she didn’t make it, there would likely be war, not only for her father’s people, but for King John’s, too. She owed it to them to survive.
More than that, she owed it to King John himself.
RACHELLE McCALLA
is a mild-mannered housewife, and the toughest she ever has to get is when she’s trying to keep her four kids quiet in church. Though she often gets in over her head, as her characters do, and has to find a way out, her adventures have more to do with sorting out the carpool and providing food for the potluck. She’s never been arrested, gotten in a fistfight or been shot at. And she’d like to keep it that way! For recipes, fun background notes on the places and characters in this book and more information on forthcoming titles, visit www.rachellemccalla.com (http://www.rachellemccalla.com).
A Royal Marriage
Rachelle McCalla
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven… A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
—Ecclesiastes 3:1, 8
To Gisela, daughter of Charlemagne, and all her sisters throughout history whose stories have been lost to us. While we don’t know precisely how you spent your days, this book shows how I imagine you to be based on those few details we do know. Most importantly, we know you were a woman of faith. I hope my words have been faithful, if not to the facts long lost to time, then at least to your spirit.
Contents
Chapter One (#ucfa1da67-1717-503b-8c2f-aabb41c95ee8)
Chapter Two (#u77026893-48a5-57df-8463-418424e180eb)
Chapter Three (#ua1396284-0258-5ed0-a976-e515ad8ea420)
Chapter Four (#uce14d652-00e2-578a-99e6-2aff0d4acaf3)
Chapter Five (#u4bc572c8-b535-5fe4-aacf-a0e5672768c7)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Castlehead, Lydia, A.D. 801
“A ship approaches, Your Majesty. Her sail is spread with the Carolingian cross.” Renwick, chief messenger among the Lydian guard, bowed low before the king.
“Charlemagne.” His Royal Highness, King John of Lydia, lowered the sword with which he’d been sparring with his younger brother, Prince Luke. Why would the Holy Roman Emperor send a ship to Lydia unannounced? Charlemagne’s realm had expanded vastly under his leadership, but John had assumed the renowned ruler would have no interest in the tiny kingdom of Lydia. Was he wrong?
King John turned to face the messenger. “She approaches directly?”
“Making for the wharf at high speed, sire,” Renwick panted as though he, too, had run to reach the king quickly.
“Then we shall make haste, as well.” Sheathing his sword, John headed for the courtyard gate, the fastest route to the Mediterranean shore.
“To the lookout tower, Your Majesty?” Renwick appeared confused by the king’s choice of direction.
“No, Renwick.” John led the way. “To the wharf.”
Prince Luke ran beside him. “Why would Charlemagne visit Lydia? We are not his vassals.”
“I doubt it is Charlemagne himself,” King John acknowledged. “The emperor regularly sends emissaries throughout his empire to report back to him.” He prayed that was true this time, irregular though it might seem.
“But Lydia is not part of his empire.” Luke chafed visibly at the idea.
“We are part of Christendom. As such, we ought to ally ourselves closely with the Holy Roman Empire. Such a position could prove to be advantageous.” John reached the end of the wharf and shielded his eyes from the sun, examining the quickly approaching vessel, her sails emblazoned with the distinctive Carolingian cross, four triquetras joined at the center to form the distinctive symbol of Emperor Charlemagne’s reign.
“Three masts!” The sight filled John with awe. Lydia had no ship to match it. And yet, “She looks to be wounded.”
“Aye, brother.” Luke clapped one hand on John’s shoulder and pointed with the other. “Her foresail has been rent and hastily mended. Do you think she has weathered a storm?”
“Or an attack.” John met his brother’s eyes.
“Saracens?” Prince Luke spoke the word softly, as though saying it aloud might draw the vicious pirates closer.
“They raid the Mediterranean waters regularly.”
“Never so close to Lydia.”
“We don’t know how far this ship has come,” King John acknowledged. “Or whether the Saracens may have taken her.”
“Taken her?” Fear sparked in his brother’s blue eyes as he looked out to the ship and back at the ramparts of their castle. If the pirates had taken the ship, they could approach under Charlemagne’s cross and dock before the Lydians realized trouble had reached their shores. The castle’s defenses might be breached before they could even prepare for battle. “Why would Saracens approach so boldly?”
“For no good reason.” John shook his head. He didn’t want to believe that Saracen pirates had taken the emperor’s ship, but given her condition, it was a distinct possibility. “Let us pray for Lydia’s safety.”
While the brothers murmured hasty yet heartfelt prayers, King John heard the rumble of boot steps on the wharf. He turned to find Eliab and Urias, two courtiers who’d been his father’s close advisors, panting as they trotted down the wharf.
“Your Majesty,” Urias called out. “You should not be out here!”
“This does not look good.” Eliab gestured to the ship as he bent to catch his breath.
“His Majesty should hide until we’ve determined the motives of the approaching vessel.”
John dismissed their concerns. The pair often treated him as though he was still a child, though he’d weathered twenty-eight winters and had ruled Lydia capably since his father’s death four years before. “I may determine their motives much faster if I stay here.”
“They’ve put down a boat!” Renwick had hardly taken his eyes from the ship.
“They’re worthy seamen, then.” John approved of the ship’s rapid loss of speed. They’d obviously put down an anchor. It was wise. He’d never docked such a large vessel alongside the wharf, and though he couldn’t be sure the depth of the ship’s rudder, he doubted they’d have made it to the dock without scraping against the submerged rocks that hid not so far below the water at low tide.
“What are they loading?” Luke studied the men as they carried a large fabric-draped bundle onto the boat. From the care they took in handling it, the cargo must have been delicate. The dark green cloth glistened in the sunlight like silk. Whatever was wrapped inside must be quite valuable.
A plump, wimpled figure was loaded next, with no shortage of howling admonitions. Then six burly men boarded and took to the oars with vigor, slicing through the water as though Charlemagne himself was watching.
“I believe that bundle is a person.” John observed the way they’d propped the bundle in the stern with the wimpled woman fussing over it. “A slender figure, perhaps a youth or a child.”
“Or a woman,” Prince Luke offered.
“On a ship?” Urias scoffed.
“It is possible,” Luke pointed out as the boat drew nearer and its contents easier to see. “The cut of the silk clothing is certainly suggestive of a female. And it would explain the lady in waiting.”
“Bah. A nurse to the child,” Urias insisted.
“Whatever it is, I hardly think myself to be in immediate danger from it.” John felt glad that he hadn’t run and hidden as his father’s advisors had suggested. Granted, he had an obligation to protect the throne. Urias and Eliab were understandably skittish about the issue of safety, having been with his father, King Theodoric, when he’d died defending one of Lydia’s villages on the Illyrian border.
But King John had two younger brothers and a much younger sister, as well. Prince Luke was a worthy leader, and Prince Mark would be, too, if he ever returned from his long journey by sea. God would provide a leader for Lydia. When his wife had died in childbirth three years before, John had resolved that his line would end with his death. He would not ask another woman to risk her life trying to bear an heir for him.
“You don’t suppose it’s a ruse?” Eliab watched the fast-approaching boat with skepticism. “To lull us into thinking we’ve nothing to fear and take us while our guard is down.”
“Eliab, you are far too suspicious,” John chided him. As the boat moved closer, the shrieks and groans of the white-faced woman in the wimple grew louder. If she was part of a ruse, she was overplaying her role. Rather than pay the woman much heed, John examined the faces of the other men in the boat. To his relief, none of them had the stature or features of Charlemagne.
John had met the emperor once, before Charlemagne had been crowned Holy Roman Emperor of all Europe. Then King of the Franks, Charlemagne was an impressive bull of a man who ruled with an iron fist. Despite the power and gusto with which he governed, the man was also an intellectual and a devout Christian of renowned faith. John not only respected and admired him, he also feared him.
And he feared, too, the reason for this unannounced visit under Charlemagne’s sails. Protocol would have had them send greetings well in advance of their visit so that John would have an opportunity to make preparations to host them. Obviously, there had to be some reason the men hadn’t wanted him to meet them well prepared.
The wimpled woman howled. She swayed on her feet but refused to sit. Her cries carried ahead of the rowboat through the warm August air. “Must you lurch so? Oh, I fear I shall faint before we make it to the shore!”
The rowing men grimaced, and John suspected they’d have liked for the woman to faint, if only to still her cries. As the boat drew nearer, the man closest to the prow, the only man without an oar in his hand, called out, “Greetings in the name of Charlemagne, Emperor of all Rome.” The man spoke in impeccable Latin. “What lands are these?”
John could only hope his own linguistic training was up to the imperial standard. “Friends, this is the Christian Kingdom of Lydia.”
A relieved smile spread across the man’s face, and John realized his expression had been quite anxious up to that moment. The man tossed a rope. “We seek King John, the healer.”
“You have found him.” The symbol of cross and crown that decorated John’s habergeon signified his position. He caught the rope and pulled the boat toward the dock with a mighty heave. Behind him, Luke and Renwick grabbed the line, while Eliab and Urias stumbled over themselves.
The man’s smile grew broader. “Then God has surely been with us. I am sorry to arrive unannounced, but we had no alternative.” As the boat was pulled alongside the length of the dock, the man bounded onto the wharf and bowed low. “I am Boden, a servant of Charlemagne and acting captain of the emperor’s ship.”
“Acting captain?” John looked the man over. Clearly the youth was a strong and strapping lad, but he hardly seemed old enough to be a captain. Indeed, he was certainly younger than John or Luke.
“Alas, my beloved father was commissioned captain by Charlemagne himself and vested with a mission of the utmost importance—to carry the emperor’s most precious cargo. But we were attacked at sea by Saracens, and my father died defending his ship.” Boden’s face blanched as he spoke.
“You have done well to continue on his mission.” John hoped his words would provide some comfort to the youth.
But Boden only shook his head. “I implore thee, Your Majesty John the healer. You are our only remaining hope that this mission might succeed.” He raised his hand toward the boat.
The wimpled woman had quit her moaning and now peeled back the silk veil that covered the face of the bundled figure the men had so carefully loaded onto the boat.
John saw a flushed jawline and rosy lips that could only belong to a woman. So Luke had been right. This was no boy but a female of about twenty years of age. In fact, whoever she was, her features were beautiful, her complexion pale, save for a flush John recognized all too well.
Fever.
Her drawn lips confirmed it. The woman was suffering. No wonder Boden had twice referred to him as John, the healer. It was a title he was loath to use, but one which desperate men rushed to give him, especially when they had need of a man to stand between their loved ones and the advancing scythe of death. Yes, he’d been trained by his mother as a healer—a practice her family had observed for generations. When he’d taken to his studies with far greater success than his brothers, some had said he had a gift.
Now he considered it a curse. He hardly considered himself worthy of the title healer. Not when he’d failed to save his own wife or the mother who’d trained him.
Boden nodded to the lady in waiting, who peeled back more of the cloth.
“Ah!” Urias and Eliab recoiled at the sight of the infected gash above the woman’s right eye, which followed the curve of her eyebrow. The angry wound had swollen her eyelid shut, festering across her face in fever-reddened waves.
John understood immediately. He’d seen injuries that had deteriorated to a similar state before. Rarely had the sufferer survived. Rather than ask the men to lift the young woman, John lowered himself into the boat and approached her. He could smell the rancid scent of the infection and recognized with dismay the golden yellow crust that seeped from the gash.
The sight and smell carried as clear a message as any tolling death bell.
The lovely woman had less than a day to live.
And the herb that could save her grew half a day’s journey into the mountains, in the borderlands Lydia shared with the Illyrians. John’s father, King Theodoric, had died defending those borderlands. And yet, as John observed the woman’s fever-flushed features, he realized she’d have to have crushed hare’s tongue leaves applied to her injury by nightfall. Even then, it might be too late to save her.
He turned to Boden. “Was she injured two or three days ago?”
“Three days,” Boden answered. “How did you know?”
Relieved that the Saracens hadn’t attacked closer to the Lydian coast, John nonetheless felt the weight of the young woman’s grim prognosis. She’d already gone too long without treatment. “Infections of this nature always run the same course. Once the secretions turn yellow, the sufferer has less than a day to live.”
Boden’s face blanched, and his men at the oars hung their heads.
John didn’t doubt the sailors had been at the oars to bring the ship to Lydia—with her sails rent and patched, they’d have rowed in desperate hope of saving the woman’s life. Obviously the woman must have meant a great deal to them for the men to take on such a strenuous task. John wished he could tell them their efforts hadn’t been in vain. “You mentioned the emperor’s precious cargo.” He began the question slowly and found his throat had gone dry.
As he’d feared, Boden pointed to the woman. “She is the precious cargo—Princess Gisela, one of Charlemagne’s daughters. She has been pledged to marry an Illyrian prince. We were to have her delivered by Christmastide.”
“You were running ahead of schedule.”
“That we were,” Boden acknowledged with a bittersweet smile, “until the Saracens found us. If she dies, there will likely be war.”
“War!” Urias exclaimed.
“And you’ve gotten us involved in it?” Eliab added.
John raised a hand to quiet the courtiers. “Boden made the right choice.” He looked at the flushed face of the princess and felt sorrow rise inside him. Such a beautiful young woman. It would be tragic for her to die so young. His heart beat out a desperate prayer that somehow, in spite of his failures as a healer, God would see fit to spare the princess from death.
* * *
Princess Gisela felt the boat rock as someone stepped out from it. The sun burned hot against her face, even hotter than when the stifling veil of silk had covered her. Or perhaps her fever had grown that much worse.
“Can you save her?” Hope sprang to Boden’s voice.
“I could.” The voice of King John, the healer, followed him as he climbed back onto the dock. “Hare’s tongue leaves have proven an effective cure against this type of yellow secretion. But the leaves must be freshly picked, and the nearest plants grow in the mountains on the Illyrian borderlands. A swift rider could reach them by nightfall.”
“Then send your swiftest rider,” Boden insisted. “We will pay the expense—”
“It is not the expense that worries me. The rider must know what he is looking for.” King John’s tone grew pessimistic. “And have daylight enough to find it. Besides that, if the hare’s tongue leaves are not applied today, there won’t be time to stop the spreading infection. She’ll be dead by morning.”
“She is a vigorous one,” Boden insisted. “There is fight in her.”
“I can see that. Otherwise she would be dead already.”
“Oh!” Hilda, her maid, who’d been simpering through the conversation, sounded as though she might faint.
Another voice, similar to the king’s, spoke with challenge. “You could find it, John.”
Gisela noted that the man hadn’t addressed the king with his title. A peer of some sort? Perhaps a brother or uncle.
The king didn’t chastise the man for his familiarity but answered his question. “If God is with me, yes, I could likely find the hare’s tongue by nightfall. There is, however, the matter of bringing it back in time to save the emperor’s daughter.”
“It would be dark out by then, Your Majesty,” one of the earlier naysayers cautioned. “A dangerous time to ride through the mountains.”
“And it would be too late,” another naysayer noted. “You said she has to have the hare’s tongue by nightfall. You’d have to ride through the night to bring it back by dawn.”
Princess Gisela thought quickly. She hadn’t faced a long journey and Saracen pirates just to be defeated by a horse ride. If she could have opened her eyes, she’d have taken a good look at the naysayers and had them chastised after she recovered. She had no intention of dying—not this day, nor any other soon to come.
How could she make them understand she would do whatever was necessary? Already the hot fingers of fever clawed their way across her face. If the king’s herb could stop the pain, she’d make the journey herself. As for the expense, her father was a generous man. The Emperor Charlemagne would see that King John was handsomely rewarded.
Princess Gisela licked her lips and tried to find her voice.
Young Boden spoke first and sounded as though he might cry. “Then it has all been for nothing. My father has died, and we will lose the princess, too.”
“You shall not lose me.” Gisela resented the weakness in her voice. She cleared her throat to muster enough volume to be heard. “I shall ride with the king. If I am with him, the hare’s tongue may be applied as soon as it is located—before dark, in time to stop the infection.”
* * *
John studied the face of the princess who spoke with apt appreciation of the situation. Her eyes were still closed—the one being swelled certainly shut, the other swollen as well and lidded out of sympathy. Even slumped in a bundle, Princess Gisela had an air of dignity and the shrewd intellect of her father.
He found himself wanting to save her—not just for Boden’s sake, or her sake, or even to prevent war with the Illyrians, but to save this sensible, strong-willed woman. He wanted to heal her.
But he’d felt that impulse before and still failed. He’d buried his skills since then. What was the use of trying to help someone, of offering them hope, only to have them linger a bit longer and die in pain?
To his relief, the wimpled woman began discounting the idea immediately. “Your Highness, you can’t even open your eyes. How could you ride?”
“It would be a grueling journey,” Urias added. “Surely in your present condition—”
“She is a capable rider,” Boden offered. “But given her injuries...”
Gisela raised her chin with a stubborn tilt. “I could share the king’s horse.”
Her assertion brought a roar of disapproval from the courtiers, and even Boden’s men, who’d silently manned their oars all this time, appeared to have some difficulty maintaining their impassive expressions.
Boden, especially, looked vexed. As Charlemagne’s acting captain, no doubt the man was expected to grant any request Gisela made. As the emperor’s daughter, she was of higher rank than anyone there, except for John himself, and that was only because they were in Lydia and not her father’s holdings. Had they been standing on the soil of the Roman Empire, he’d have bowed to her.
Boden brushed the sweat from his brow. “Perhaps, Your Highness, you could be carried in a litter after the king. Your maid could accompany you.”
“Litters travel slowly. There isn’t time. My maid can follow on another horse.” Princess Gisela spoke in a commanding voice and clearly expected her father’s servants to obey. “Now help me up. We must make haste. Already the day grows long.”
The men laid down their oars and helped the maid from the boat first. Then they gingerly hoisted the princess toward the dock. She stood, half leaning on her maid, her injuries once again covered by the veil.
John felt a sense of relief that the woman was able to stand. Perhaps she could stay on a horse. A litter, as she’d aptly noted, would be much too slow. Nor could he afford to have her ride another horse behind his. If he became separated from her party, especially as darkness fell, they would waste precious time finding one another again in the thick woods.
And one horse had a greater chance of slipping unseen through the Illyrian borderlands. The larger their party, the greater the risk of being spotted. Relations with the Illyrians were fragile enough. He had no desire to strain them further.
“What do you think?” Luke leaned close and spoke in a hushed tone. “She might be able to make the ride. Will you be able to find the herb?”
“The summer draws to a close. Hare’s tongue isn’t so abundant now, but yes, I should be able to find some.”
“Is there any chance you could bring it back in time to save her if she stayed at the castle?”
“None.” John wished he could tell his brother otherwise. It was foolish enough to get involved in the emperor’s dealings, situated as they were between the Roman Empire to the west, and the Illyrian holdings of the Byzantine Empire to the east. If the Illyrians and the Romans decided to play tug of war with Lydia, his tiny nation would never know peace.
But if he let the emperor’s daughter die without even trying to help, the empires would obliterate Lydia for revenge.
He didn’t like it—not at all. But neither did he see any way around it. And there wasn’t time to waste fretting. There was more than one woman’s life at stake—there was the safety of all Lydia. If the Illyrians went to war with the Roman Empire, Lydia would be trampled between them—especially if Lydia was blamed for bringing war upon them.
King John raised his voice and addressed those gathered on the dock—including half a dozen soldiers who’d been dispatched from the castle and now stood at attention near the head of the wharf. “Ready my horse and falcon and prepare a horse and party for the maid.” He looked to the wimpled woman. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been told your name.”
“Hilda, Your Highness.”
“Prepare a litter for Hilda.” He lowered his voice and explained to those standing nearby, “The retinue can follow as best they can.”
“But, Your Majesty,” Urias sputtered, “you’re not really thinking of taking a riding party to the Illyrian border?”
“Certainly not,” John assured the courtier. “The riding party won’t be able to travel nearly as quickly as my horse. Once I’ve applied the hare’s tongue to her injury, the princess and I will double back and meet up with her maid. If we must encamp on the road, she’ll have a proper attendant.”
“Your Majesty,” Eliab simpered, “who will be in charge of the castle while you’re away?”
Only respect for his father and the trust he’d placed in the courtiers kept John from uttering a prickly retort. But even the trust of his late father wouldn’t earn either man a custodial role in his absence. “Prince Luke is more than capable of overseeing matters while I’m away. With your prayers for my safe passage, I should be back by sundown tomorrow.”
“And if you’re not, what then?” Eliab pressed. “Shall we send a regiment to look for you?”
“No.” John gave them a hard look and made sure Luke heard him clearly. “If I am delayed beyond next evening, it may be a sign of trouble with the Illyrians. Dispatching soldiers would be the worst possible response. I’ll have my falcon. If Fledge returns without me, then you may be concerned. Whatever happens, you must trust Luke’s judgment. He is a prudent and capable leader.”
Luke gave him a firm smile in return for his compliment. “God be with you, brother.”
John met his brother’s eyes and was glad to see that Luke understood. They hadn’t asked for this, but it wasn’t a challenge they could walk away from. As rulers of Lydia, they had an obligation to protect their people—as their father had done—and to die protecting their people, if the situation called for it. Despite the political entanglements, this mission was no more difficult than others they had undertaken in the past. But there was a great deal more riding on the outcome.
Chapter Two
Gisela leaned on Hilda and tried to catch her breath. Really, standing upright should not require such exertion.
Nor should thinking.
But the blearying effects of the throbbing wound above her right eye made her head swim as though their ship hadn’t escaped the Saracens at all. If they’d been sunk in the Mediterranean, surely even then her thoughts would not swim so. The constant roar of the sea echoed through her head as though she held a great seashell to her ears to listen.
But there was no seashell, only these unending waves of fever that gripped her with their relentless thrashing.
She could hear the rattle and clank of gear and smell the scent of a horse over the brine of the sea, which lapped gently at the wharf beneath them. At least King John had been sensible enough to accept her plan. There really wasn’t any way around it. If she’d had use of her eyes and known what she was looking for, she’d have gone after the hare’s tongue herself.
“Your Highness, the ride will be difficult.” That was King John’s voice, much nearer to her now. If she reached out, she could touch him.
She remained still. “I’m quite sure the alternative is worse.” She wished she could open her eyes and look at the man, but even her left eye, though uninjured, was swollen shut by the spreading infection. Every time she’d tried to raise the lid, she’d felt such a horrific spasm of pain that she’d stopped trying.
“I thought I should extend a word of caution. I’ll do my best to make the trip a smooth one, but we’ll be riding over uneven ground—”
“Your attention should be on the terrain, not on me.” She quieted his apologies. “And I expect you’ll need to be looking for this hare’s tongue. Don’t let my presence distract you, King John.”
“We should be going then, Your Highness. The sun reverses its course for no one, not even kings and emperors’ daughters.” His voice betrayed a melancholy sadness. Gisela couldn’t help wondering what had caused it. At the very least, she hoped he didn’t terribly mind the inconvenience she’d caused him—or if he did mind, he could blame the Saracens, since they’d started the trouble.
For her own part, though her injury concerned her, Gisela felt a mixture of dread and relief that her trip to Illyria had been interrupted. Thrilled as she’d been to get out from under her father’s overprotective hand to see the world, she hadn’t been particularly looking forward to being tied down by marriage, least of all to an Illyrian prince. Like a diver holding his breath for just a few minutes before coming up for air, Gisela felt the pressures of her impending marriage and the loss of freedom that would accompany it. This was an opportunity, however brief, for her to gasp a breath before going down again.
Her marriage was politically necessary and couldn’t be avoided. All too soon, she’d become the bride of a prince she’d met only twice before. She didn’t welcome her injury any more than she’d welcomed the Saracens’ attack on their ship. But she couldn’t be unhappy for the excuse it gave her to extend her freedom, if only by another day or two. Perhaps she could see a bit of Lydia—assuming she survived and retained her vision. She’d heard of the tiny Christian kingdom and always been curious about the place.
Rather than allow herself to be consumed by worry, she tried to find the good in the midst of her dire situation. King John was willing to help her and did not seem to be overly upset about being suddenly burdened. And they’d be leaving Hilda’s anxious fawning behind.
That alone would be worth the rigors of the journey.
“Are there any preparations you need to make before we leave? Do you have everything you need?” King John sounded as though he was ready to be off.
“I’ll need my sword.”
“Oh, my lady, no,” Hilda protested.
“We brought it with us from the ship.” Gisela turned back as though she might fetch it herself. “I never ride without it.”
“You should have no need of a sword.” King John’s voice sounded close, indicating he was nearby. “I’ll have mine.” A protective note sounded through his words.
“You mentioned possible trouble with the Illyrians. I won’t allow myself to knowingly enter a potentially dangerous situation without the means of protecting myself.”
“You can’t even see, Your Highness,” King John protested.
“Then stay back from me if I have to use it, Your Majesty.”
Thankfully, Boden spoke up in her defense. “She is quite skilled with the sword, King John. She saved our ship. Had she stayed below, as instructed, the Saracens would have taken us. As it was, she surprised them and tipped the battle back in our favor.”
As he spoke, Gisela felt the familiar weight of her sword belt pressed into her hands. She quickly linked the scabbard around her waist. “I’m ready. Shall we depart, Your Majesty?” Not only was she eager to begin the journey, but she feared she wouldn’t be able to stand upright much longer, and she didn’t want to do anything that might give away how very weak she felt. King John might realize she wasn’t up to the journey after all. He might change his mind.
She couldn’t risk that.
With a fair amount of shuffling and no shortage of exclamations from Hilda, Gisela was lifted onto the horse. She found they’d situated her in front of King John, who wrapped his arms around her to hold her steady while he guided his mount.
The gentleness of his touch surprised her. She could tell from his stature that he was of good size, possibly even as tall as her father, who stood taller than nearly every man in his empire. Yet King John’s arms wrapped around her as though she was some precious, delicate thing and he was afraid she might break.
His consideration penetrated her haze of fever, and she took note. Yes, she’d have to be certain her father compensated the king generously. “Hilda?” She pulled the lady in waiting to her side the moment the woman offered her hand. “Whatever happens,” Gisela whispered, “make sure my father knows that King John is to be rewarded for his efforts.”
“Oh, Your Highness.” Hilda started sobbing again, as though the very likelihood of Gisela not living to deliver the message herself was more than the servant could bear.
Gisela feared King John would notice the maid’s blubbering, but his attentions seemed to be on his men. The king gave instructions to those who’d be traveling with Hilda. As long as they kept to their intended path, they’d meet back up with Hilda’s party shortly after nightfall, and could stay together at the wayside inn he appointed as a rendezvous point.
Assuming everything went according to plan.
“And if you don’t arrive?” Hilda recovered from her crying enough to anxiously ask.
“Then wait.”
The prancing horse moved forward, and Gisela felt King John nudge the animal on.
“You have our prayers!” a voice called out from behind them, followed by a chorus of voices assuring them
of the same thing and giving their blessing on their journey.
Gisela tried to sit upright, but the motion of horse beneath her taxed her reserves of strength. The spinning sensation in her head had picked up considerably when they’d placed her on the horse, and instead of easing now that she sat, it grew steadily worse.
The sun felt hot on her face in spite of the veil that covered her. Or did the heat radiate from inside her? Whether it came from the sky or the wound on her forehead, the searing fire grew uncomfortably warm. She wished she could crawl away from it. But if it originated from her injury, there would be no crawling away, only increasing discomfort from this wilting heat that made her feel as though she was about to shrivel up and blow away with the slightest breeze.
An exhausted moan escaped her lips.
“Are you well?” King John’s voice held concern, though he did nothing to slow his horse.
“I’m as well—” she pinched back another moan and tried to straighten her back “—as the circumstances— Oh!” The horse beneath her lurched back as it leaped over something, and she found herself falling, against her will, back toward the king.
“Rest now. Rest as much as you can.” King John’s gloved hand brushed her shoulder, steadying her against his chest. “You can lean on me.”
“It doesn’t seem proper.” She realized her protest was simply an excuse. She’d shared horses dozens of times with members of her father’s household—relatives and servants alike. Rather, she didn’t like giving up any measure of her independence, including her ability to sit up on her own. And she’d heard the warm tone in Hilda’s voice when King John had addressed her. Gisela knew her maid well enough to recognize that Hilda had blushed at the king’s attention.
Why? Because he was royalty? No, Hilda regularly interacted with Gisela’s father and brothers without that note entering her voice. The maid only spoke with such resonance when she interacted with a man she found particularly handsome.
So, King John must be comely, then. If Gisela could have mustered the strength, she might have been curious to see him. In spite of his gentleness, the muscles that supported her felt strong. Gisela tried to recall if she’d ever heard anything about the distant Mediterranean ruler, but precious little news from Lydia traveled as far as her home in Aachen.
With no prior knowledge of him, without even the use of her eyes, Gisela couldn’t explain precisely why the man made her feel protected—cherished, even. Perhaps the sensation arose from the disorienting influence of her fever. She tried again to force her left eye open, hoping to get a glimpse of him. Her efforts were rewarded with a shot of pain that lanced through her with alarming speed and ferocity.
“Careful,” King John soothed, having obviously felt her fighting the pain. “You won’t make it unless you rest. It’s a long ride to the borderlands, and your condition will only be getting worse. Shall we turn back now and tell them it’s no use?”
The horse slowed slightly, as if anticipating instructions to reverse course.
Gisela relaxed backward and let herself droop into a slightly reclined position, resting more of her weight against him, comforted by the feel of his strong arms that held her so securely, yet at the same time, so tenderly. She exhaled a painful breath. The darkness over her eyes grew heavier, and the roar in her ears clamored in counterpoint with the horse’s stride and the unruly beat of her heart.
The dizziness that had threatened to topple her on the wharf now returned with stomach-lurching spite. The site of her injury throbbed, producing flashes of colorful light that swooped and swirled across her field of vision. And through it all, the relentless fever threatened to bake her like grapes laid out to dry in the sun. She heard a plaintive moaning sound and realized it came from her own throat.
“Don’t worry about staying on the horse. I won’t let you fall.”
Gisela clung to the promise in his words. King John’s voice was pleasantly deep, his accent alluring but not so foreign that she couldn’t readily understand his words. Indeed, she found the sound of his voice soothing. Gisela wanted something to think about that would distract her from her pain—preferably something more intellectually engaging than mere curiosity about the handsomeness of her benefactor.
Was he young or old? Married? Betrothed? It shouldn’t matter, but as she drank in his masculine scent, she couldn’t help wondering. If she could learn more about the king who’d set aside his plans on a moment’s notice to help her, perhaps he would distract her from her pain. She found her voice. “Your reputation as a healer must be widely known. Have you been practicing for many years?”
The king seemed to appreciate her need to talk, and answered readily, as though hoping to distract her from her ailment. “My mother began teaching me about herbs and injuries when I was young. Her family has had a gift for healing for many generations.”
“I wondered—” Gisela had to struggle to speak past the pain “—why a king would also be a healer. Most men settle on one or the other.”
“Actually, the healing lessons were originally intended for my brother Luke. My mother named us after the New Testament gospels, and she hoped my brother would become a great healer like the physician, Luke.”
“Didn’t he?” Gisela would have finished the question, but the aching in her head caught up to her, and the bone-rattling pace of the horse didn’t help.
John answered quickly, as if he didn’t want her to strain herself by trying to speak. “Luke tried to learn. So did my youngest brother, Mark. But for whatever reason, I’m the only one who ever caught on. The other two had no success or interest and quickly gave up trying.”
“You have to have a gift for it,” Gisela agreed, understanding. “I wanted to play the lyre, but no amount of practicing would make me half as good as my sister, and she didn’t even care for the instrument.”
“That’s precisely how it was. I took to it readily. For many years, I thought I had a gift.” A melancholy note infused his words.
“Had?” Gisela repeated.
She felt the man behind her tense. Was there something that had caught his attention, which she couldn’t see due to her injured eye? Or was his sudden change in demeanor due to her question?
Finally, the king murmured. “The results of my efforts haven’t always been successful in recent years.”
A melancholy silence followed his statement. Gisela got the sense that he still mourned some great loss. Was it the loss of his gift? But then, surely his knowledge of herbs and how to use them had not been taken from him. He wouldn’t have tried to help her if his skills for healing were completely gone.
She couldn’t sort it out. The more she tried to think, the more her injury throbbed, distorting her thoughts with feverish confusion. Was it the king’s pain or her own that filled her heart with sorrow? It couldn’t be her own—she’d earned it honorably defending the ship from Saracens. If she hadn’t been injured she’d have likely been killed.
So then, it must have been King John’s past hurts that prodded her heart to the verge of mourning. Already strained by the gash on her head, Gisela whimpered softly as tears formed under her eyelids, adding pressure to her already-swollen eyes.
“Whoa.” The king pulled his mount to a halt. He shifted, and a moment later Gisela felt his hand on her face. “Are you getting worse?”
His touch imparted comfort, and when he drew his hand away, she missed it.
“Are you thirsty? Can you drink?”
Gisela mustered her voice. “Please.”
Moments later a flask touched her lips, and cool water flowed into her mouth. It tasted so much better than what they’d had on the ship, which had begun to carry the flavor of the wood barrels in which it was stored. The water John gave her was slightly sweet and blessedly refreshing to her fever-parched tongue.
“Now rest if you can,” he murmured, slowly urging the horse up to speed. “We have a long way to travel yet.”
Rest. If only she could—if only the pain would fade away and allow her a measure of peace. The cacophony of sound and light roared inside her head, thundering with each rise and fall of the horse’s stride. Would this infection be the end of her?
“You need to rest if you’re going to keep your strength.”
The king’s words were a reminder she sorely needed. Yes. She had a mission to fulfill. She couldn’t die. She had to keep up her strength. To rest.
The people they’d left back at the dock were depending on her. If she didn’t make it, there would likely be war, not only for her father’s people, but for King John’s, too. She owed it to them to survive.
More than that, she owed it to King John himself. His willingness to help her, politically motivated as it may have been, was nonetheless an act of charity. It would be ungrateful of her to die when he’d gone out of his way to procure for her the means of life. Besides, she had to recover if she was ever going to see if King John was half as handsome as she imagined him to be.
* * *
John kept to the main road that led southeast down the Lydian peninsula. When the woman in front of him finally slumped into a fitful sleep, he prodded his horse to greater speeds. He hadn’t wanted to upset Gisela too much, but they needed to hurry. He’d wasted precious time arguing with his courtiers.
Fortunately Moses, his favorite stallion, had been bred for speed. The animal hadn’t been out for a hard run in weeks and was eager to stretch his legs. “Good boy, Moses.” John reached past the Frankish princess and patted the stallion on the neck, encouraging him. If he had to take the emperor’s daughter to the Illyrian borderlands, there was no animal he’d rather ride.
And Fledge, his falcon, perched upon his shoulder with her beak pointed forward, the wind produced by the horse’s speed hardly ruffling the raptor’s feathers. Fledge was used to diving on her prey from blustery mountain updrafts. Their pace didn’t bother her in the slightest.
The only one John worried about was the Frankish princess, who moaned and twitched as she fought her rising fever. The late-summer day was warm, but her flushed face felt warmer still. John had seen this type of infection far too many times, and he knew its usual pattern. Without the hare’s tongue to stop it, the fever would continue to rise until the woman was dead.
It was just such a fever that had killed his own mother when he was a boy of twelve years. Tragically, she’d fallen sick during winter when there was no hare’s tongue to cure her. Nonetheless, John had set out with a search party in hopes of finding some tucked away under the snow.
He’d returned in the night half frozen from his search, with nothing to show for his efforts.
His mother had died the next morning.
The memory spurred him forward. It had been his last failure for many years. Some had said that with his mother’s passing he’d inherited her healing gift full force. For a while he’d almost believed them.
Then his own wife had taken ill during childbirth three years ago, after years of battling recurring illness and a miscarrying womb. In spite of all his efforts, he’d lost her and the child she carried. From then on, failure haunted his every effort at healing. Even simple maladies had spiraled out of his control, as though the touch of his hands carried death instead of healing.
His conscience tugged at him. What if his efforts at helping Princess Gisela only led her more quickly down the road to death? The Emperor Charlemagne would blame him and rightly so. Illyria, too. He’d bring war upon his people. Gisela’s death would bring more death until Lydia itself was conquered by foreign empires, dying to rise no more.
The thought of losing the princess prodded at a tender spot in his heart, and he pulled her closer against him, almost as though he could hold her back from death by the strength of his arms. Over the distressing smell of her infection he caught the delicate scent of rose perfume. He fought the temptation to bury his nose in her silk veil and breathe in deeply.
What would Charlemagne say? And yet, John found the impulse surprisingly difficult to resist. The woman’s obvious charms fascinated him. He would do well to find the herbs quickly so she could be on her way.
They passed vineyards and orchards and olive groves. Moses slowed as they came to a stream. John supposed the animal would have liked a drink, but he knew the water here was salty. The sea had cut a ravine through the slender bend in the finger of the peninsula. Every tide washed it wider.
John led the horse upstream to where the locals had improvised a bridge of beams. The site, John realized, could use some attention. Someday the sea might divide the peninsula into its own island. Even now, the beams barely stretched the width of the ravine, and John eyed the waters ten feet below with a wary eye as Moses’s hooves clattered across the sturdy planks. The princess shifted restlessly.
John peeled back the veil that covered her face from the sun and felt her forehead.
She was burning up.
He held his relatively cool hand against her skin as though it could absorb her heat and relieve her discomfort. But the touch imbued more than mere heat. Emotions that had lain dormant deep in his heart roused as though warmed by the sun after a long winter. But John had no intention of letting his feelings blossom to full flower.
“On, Moses,” he encouraged his horse. They still had a ways to go before they reached the point where the peninsula joined with the mainland. From there, they would turn northeast, toward the mountains. The ride lay long ahead of them.
The sea breeze faded behind them as they entered a more heavily wooded stretch of road. Here on the peninsula, travel was quite safe. Seaside villages clung to the rocky coastlines on either side of them. The road connected them to the mainland with its agricultural produce and access to the lands beyond.
But once they entered the dense woods at the foot of the mountains, John knew he’d have to be alert for trouble. Though Lydia’s borders had once followed the ridge of the mountains, the Illyrians had been encroaching on their land for generations. John’s father had died defending a village there. He’d lost his life and the village.
John’s younger brothers, Mark and Luke, sometimes talked about trying to take back those lands, but they hadn’t been with their father that day. They hadn’t seen him die or felt the sharp tang of fear as death dogged their heels. Had it been up to John, he would have died there next to his father. But he’d been injured as well, and Urias, his father’s one-time right-hand man, had pulled him away and fled toward home. They’d lost two dozen men that day in a skirmish that should never have happened. They could have let the Illyrians take the village without a fight.
He couldn’t change what had transpired that day, but John wasn’t about to invite death and trouble into his kingdom by trying to get those lands back. His brothers feared that the Illyrians would one day take over the entire kingdom. Luke had thoroughly scouted throughout the area and had even asked to be dispatched with a team to recover the closest villages.
John wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. He wouldn’t risk his brother’s life if it wasn’t necessary.
As the woman who shared the horse with him moaned and twitched, John’s thoughts turned to her father, Charlemagne, who’d famously united the various tribes on his continent into one Holy Roman Empire. The man didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by a fight.
How would Charlemagne handle the situation with the Illyrians?
Charlemagne wanted to marry Gisela off to an Illyrian prince. From what John understood of the emperor, Charlemagne preferred to keep his family close. What had prompted him to seek a marriage agreement with Illyria? What did he hope to gain? John wished he could discuss the issue with the emperor. Perhaps, if he saved Gisela’s life, he could meet Charlemagne and learn about his political strategies.
But he’d have to save her life first. Could he do it? Uncertainties raged inside him. He’d failed so many times before. He prayed that God would be merciful and grant him success, not for his sake, but for the lovely princess who suffered so.
The road bent northward as they cleared the end of the peninsula. Moses shook his mane as John pointed him toward the mountains instead of riding into the city of Sardis. Of course, the animal wasn’t used to traveling away from the city. He hadn’t been born yet when John had last traveled there seeking herbs. Moses hadn’t known John during his years as a healer. He wouldn’t understand.
“Yes, Moses, we’re going toward the mountains.” John bent his head past the woman to speak to the horse, encouraging him on the right path, prompting him to gallop faster. They needed to move quickly. Gisela’s suffering was a constant reminder that every minute was precious.
* * *
Gisela fought against the pain that threatened to keep her from sleep. She’d been told to rest. Why? By whom? She had to rest to get better. But what was wrong with her?
Pounding sounds and flashing lights filled her mind. She couldn’t see. She could hardly think. She was too warm, and yet, she shivered. Words pattered against her ears like gently falling rain, making no sense. She wasn’t near any mountains. She’d been at sea. Yes, her ship had been at sea when the Saracens had attacked them. They’d told her to stay below—Hilda had nearly strangled her trying to keep her below deck—and yet, Gisela had heard enough of the battle to know they needed her.
They had needed her.
Perhaps, if she’d gone to help sooner, their captain would not have died.
And if she’d been a bit quicker with her blade, perhaps she wouldn’t have been injured herself.
Injured. That’s right. That was the source of the throbbing pain in her head. The pirate had sliced her just above her right eye, catching her off guard while she battled with another man. She’d forced them both overboard before she’d had a chance to staunch the flow of blood. First she’d thought she’d bleed to death. Then she’d thought Hilda might smother her with her sobbing.
But they’d brought her to a healer. Some king who was supposed to be a healer. And...what was it he’d said?
She’d be dead by morning.
How soon was that? And where were they going?
The man’s voice spoke again. “Faster, Moses. We’ve got to help the princess. We can’t lose her.” His arms tightened around her, pulling her close against his muscle-hardened chest as the horse charged on at greater speeds. “I can’t lose another one.”
Determination and sadness laced through his words, and Gisela felt her heart lifting up a prayer, that this kind man wouldn’t lose... Who was he afraid of losing?
She tried to remember, but her thoughts were blurred. So instead, Gisela snuggled into his embrace, grateful for the solid arms that kept her on the horse, since she was certain she would otherwise fall.
* * *
Moses wouldn’t go any faster, and they’d finally entered the wooded region where John had some hope of finding the hare’s tongue at any time, so he let the animal slow his steps. Fledge had been sleeping on his shoulder, her head tucked in the crook of her wing, but now she looked about as though the scent of the woods sparked in her a hunger for wild game. She pranced impatiently. Her sharp talons prickled him through his leather shirt.
“You want to find a hare, Fledge?”
She cocked her head and trained her bright eyes on him.
“Fly, then. Find a hare. Perhaps it will lead me to the hare’s tongue.”
The bird flew to a branch not far ahead and looked back at him impatiently. John kept his eyes down, scanning the underbrush for a sign of the distinctive leaf pattern he sought. Hare’s tongue tended to grow in shady areas, often in loamy soils, in earth enriched by a long-fallen tree, or among the pebbled manure of the rabbit warrens, as the name of the herb suggested.
The soil was too rocky here, with too much hard yellow clay. John looked past Fledge to the forest beyond. If he traveled farther north, he’d only skirt the rich soil. The chance of him finding the necessary herb wouldn’t be good there.
And yet, if he turned east and plunged into the cool darkness of the woods, he’d quickly enter Illyrian territory. Yes, hare’s tongue might await him there.
But so might his enemies.
For an instant, John recalled the distinctive crooked beak of a nose and the sneering face of the man who’d killed his father. A bandit of sorts, powerful in his own right, Rab the Raider lived by the sword, took what he wanted and didn’t seem to care what destruction he left behind. As John understood it, Rab had come from the north years before. He thrived on war and had moved south to conquer more villages, leaving the once-Lydian village of Bern in Illyrian hands.
Luke kept John updated on the Illyrians’ movements, always with the unspoken implied request to go to war with them. But the situation was stable, if undesirable. John wasn’t about to invite bloodshed on his people—and on his own brother—just to satisfy a desire for revenge. A thirst for revenge could never be satisfied. Even if he killed Rab to avenge his father’s death, one of Rab’s men would then come after him in return. To meet death with death was only to create a cycle of death with no end.
It simply wasn’t worth it.
If he’d had his way, John would have kept to the tip of his peaceful peninsula. But Gisela’s fever grew, and John’s concern for her grew with it. He couldn’t let this precious woman die. She meant more to him than continued peace, more to him than proof that his skills had not dissolved completely. The warm bundle in his arms provoked a sense of protectiveness and allegiance he didn’t fully understand. But there was no time to examine those feelings now. He had to act quickly to save her life. He turned Moses toward the east, to the cool shadows of the mountains. He prayed the shadows held only hare’s tongue and not Illyrian war scouts, watching him.
Chapter Three
The deeper they traveled into the forest, the greater John’s sense of anxiety grew. He recognized these woods. They were transformed from the snow-covered lands that had hidden the herb that might have saved his mother, but they looked all too much as they had the day his father had died here.
Woods of death, that’s what they were. And he’d been foolish enough to travel here in search of healing.
“Almighty God in heaven, have mercy,” John prayed in a low voice as Gisela’s moans became less frequent and her fever grew. But hadn’t he prayed for God’s mercy when his mother had died?
He scanned the underbrush, spotting bladderbark, motherwort, hyssop, wormwood and devil’s nettle—enough herbs to cure a host of other ailments, but none that would take care of the infected injury above Gisela’s right eye. The shadows lengthened, threatening to cloak the tiny leaves of hare’s tongue in darkness.
There was nothing for it but to give up or continue deeper into the territory the Illyrians had stolen from Lydia over the past several generations. If Lydia hadn’t lost those lands, the hare’s tongue would have been easy enough to get. The loss tugged at him. Perhaps there was something to be said for taking back these lands.
But there was no point thinking about that now. Gisela lay deathly still, with only the fiery warmth of her fever to reassure him that he hadn’t lost her yet.
Fledge had flown back to him and now pranced in place on his shoulder, straining forward, pointing her beak toward potential prey. John recognized her dance and followed the aim of her gaze to where a plump bunny sat among the underbrush, a long leafy stem drooping from its mouth, half-eaten, dangling like a green tongue.
Hare’s tongue.
The animal had sensed their approach and stood frozen like a furry statue.
Fledge’s wings beat thrice as she lifted off from John’s shoulder. As she sped toward the hare the animal took off, the falcon in hot pursuit.
John didn’t waste any time watching to see if his falcon caught her prey. Noting the place where the rabbit had been munching on the precious herb, he scooped Gisela up in his arms and slid from Moses’s back, settling her in a soft bed of leaves.
“Lie here. I’ll be right back,” he promised the princess, though he doubted she was in any condition to hear him. He darted to the spot where the rabbit had been munching the herb, and found, to his relief, several plants nearly as high as his ankle—a good size for the reclusive vegetation and an indication that these late-season specimens were mature enough to contain the fever-reducing oils. Grabbing them up roots and all from the loose soil, he stuffed all but one into the bag he wore strapped crossways over his chest.
He tore leaves from the last plant, crushing them between the gloved fingers of his left hand as he hurried back to the princess.
The underbrush beyond him rustled with movement. His attention on the herb and the suffering princess, John paid the sound no heed until a flash of activity ahead of him caught his attention.
Fledge had her hare to the north beyond him.
So what was that sound coming from the south, behind him?
John had his right hand on his sword hilt as he spun around. Branches shifted in a stand of bushes.
Something was there.
It could be a bear or a fox or possibly a slighted falcon that had lost his lunch to Fledge. Or it could be an Illyrian war scout. Whatever it was, it wasn’t attacking, at least not yet.
But the Frankish princess needed the herbs, and the sun was sinking fast, taking with it any hope for her recovery. Even if that was an Illyrian in the bushes, it would take a flurry of arrows to kill the princess any faster than the fever that already had her in its grip, dragging her relentlessly through death’s door.
Crouching at her side, John hastily applied the crushed herbs to the festering injury, ignoring its ugliness. He’d seen worse.
Of course, most of those had killed the men who’d borne them.
* * *
The pungent scent of freshly crushed herbs teased her nostrils. Gisela tried to think past the pain. Herbs were important somehow, vitally important, but she couldn’t think how.
Suddenly jabbing spears prodded at her eye and light exploded across her field of vision. She tried to cry out, but all she managed was a whimper.
“It’s all right. I’ve found the hare’s tongue. You’ll be fine,” a deep voice soothed. The spears stopped jabbing, and coolness ebbed through her fever, with every feverish pulse of her heart drawing relief out of the mass that had been crammed against her eyelid.
A gentle hand cupped her cheek for just a moment, then slid under her head, lifting her, tying something around her eyes, binding the cooling herbs against the point of pain. “There now.” Fingers brushed her face again, tenderly, almost reverently. She heard a whisper of words, realizing only after a moment that the speaker wasn’t addressing her directly. It was a prayer.
* * *
With the crushed herbs packed over and around the open wound, John peeled off Princess Gisela’s silk veil to use as a bandage to hold the healing compress in place. A long, thick braid of golden hair brushed his hand, freed from the veil that had hidden it. The silken strands were scented like roses, and for an instant John pictured her with the lovely locks cascading about her shoulders, and imagined what her flowing mane might feel like if he ran his hands through it.
John immediately chastised himself for being distracted by her beauty. She was the emperor’s daughter. It wasn’t proper for him to feel these swirling emotions that cracked the crust of his hardened heart. His job was to save her life. He hastened to fulfill that obligation.
In spite of his chastisements, John couldn’t help picturing how the lovely princess would look without the injury above her eye. If she was fortunate enough to survive, the wound would likely blend in with the fold of her eyelid.
She would be a picture of royal beauty.
His work done, there was nothing more he could do but pray.
The bushes rustled again, nearer this time, and John looked up.
Three red feathers stood stiffly like a plume from the helmet of the man in the bushes. An Illyrian—the distinctive feathers indicated his status as an infantryman. He’d obviously been watching John.
For an instant, John considered speaking to the man, explaining his situation and excusing himself.
But the man had obviously realized he’d been spotted. He raised an arrow and fitted it in his bow.
John scooped up the princess. “Still, Moses,” he insisted, grateful when the horse stopped his nervous prancing long enough for John to toss the princess over his withers before leaping on after her. It wasn’t graceful, but the whiz of an arrow’s flight just past his ear told him there wasn’t time to attempt a more genteel position.
Nor was there time to find Fledge. The bird would have to find him.
“Fly, Moses, fly!”
The stallion pranced backward a few steps before he spun around and took off to the south, more than eager to return the way they’d come. After wrapping one hand tightly around the reins and looping his other arm around Gisela’s waist so she wouldn’t slide off the speeding horse, John risked a glance behind him.
The plumed man had turned and headed north on foot, leaping over logs and underbrush in a mad dash.
Back to his village? John had posed no threat to him. He obviously wasn’t running for safety. No, there was only one explanation for the man’s mad-dash flight through the woods.
He was going to get reinforcements.
Rather than risk injuring the princess any more, John paused just long enough to hoist her upward, so that she was resting on her rump instead of her ribs. They’d make faster time, and she’d handle the trip better.
Her head slumped back against his shoulder almost lifelessly, but the sound of her sigh told him she still had the breath of life in her. For now, at least.
“Fledge?” John called out and whistled for the falcon, but saw no sign of his bird. When she was hunting for herself and not for him, she liked to carry off her prey to an isolated spot where she didn’t have to share. He didn’t usually begrudge her the indulgence, but today he did not have time to linger. “Fledge!”
No sign of the bird, and John couldn’t wait. If his estimations were correct, the Illyrian would reach the nearest village in a matter of minutes. If he returned on horseback, single-mounted riders on fresh horses might easily overtake Moses, encumbered as he was after a long journey.
“Fly, Moses, fly.” John gave the horse his head. The animal knew how to find footing in the woods better than John could guide him. Darkness fell as they dashed through the trees. John could only hope the lengthening shadows would camouflage his position from the Illyrians who were sure to be close behind him.
“This way.” As they came to a path, John nudged Moses in the direction of the wayside inn where he’d agreed to meet Renwick and the riding party traveling with Gisela’s maid. It was out of the way of the route they’d taken earlier and far off the meandering path they’d picked out while looking for the hare’s tongue, but the inn at Millbridge still lay much closer than his castle or the walled city of Sardis. Nonetheless, there was little chance they’d reach it before the Illyrians caught up to them.
John regretted that he hadn’t had an opportunity to change from his cross-emblazoned habergeon before departing. Though its metalwork would protect him from the direct hit of an arrow, the symbol nonetheless clearly identified him.
Assuming the Illyrian recognized the Lydian crown, or could describe what he’d seen well enough for another to identify it, the Illyrians would know who’d trespassed on the land they’d taken. Luke always had his scouting men ride in the unassuming leather garb of huntsmen. The Illyrian’s bright red plumage told John that the Illyrians hadn’t caught on to Luke’s disguises, since they’d failed to adopt the technique themselves.
Nonetheless, he was bound to be recognized by the inlaid mother-of-pearl disks that formed the design splashed across his front and back. So in spite of his determination to be a man of peace, he’d end up bringing trouble to Lydia after all.
Something thwacked at the leaves near him. John glanced back.
The Illyrians were gaining on him quickly, even as they fitted arrows to their bows.
Suddenly Moses reared! John spotted the spot where an arrow had grazed his haunch. Moses took off at a fierce speed while John struggled to keep Gisela upright. He couldn’t lose her now. The very thought tore at his heart, and he pulled her tighter against him.
Trees barred their way. In his frightened state, Moses had left the path and now dipped and darted between the trees in a frenzy.
John let the horse find his own way. He had his hands full holding on to Gisela, keeping them both on the rocking back of the pain-crazed stallion.
With a twang, an arrow lodged itself deep in a tree just ahead of him.
The Illyrians were gaining on them.
Splashing sounds below told him Moses had found a stream. The horse took advantage of the creek’s clear path, charging through the shallow waters. John tried to think of all the streams he knew of in the area. If he had the right stream, this one met the river up ahead, just before the place where the miller’s wheel churned the waters beside the wayside inn.
Splashing sounds behind told him the Illyrians had found the stream, as well. John scanned the steep banks, looking for a place where they might leave the open streambed. They made too clear a shot here. Once the stream joined the river, the water would be too deep for Moses to run through it.
But there wasn’t a low spot on the banks. Their steep muddy sides rose up higher than John’s head, and it was all he could do to keep Gisela on the lurching horse’s back while he ducked low over her, shielding her from the flying arrows with the chain mail on his back.
Roaring water up ahead told him the river was near—and surging with water from the summer rains that had fallen in the snow-capped mountains. The water would be frigid.
John tried to pull Moses to the side, but the banks grew steeper as the water plunged over the falls.
John had forgotten about the falls.
They weren’t high—no more than half his height—but Moses leaped over them as though he were leaping from the earth itself. John gathered Gisela in his arms, dropping the reins and allowing Moses free use of his head. The animal would need it if he was to find his feet.
As they came down in the deep swirling pool at the foot of the falls, the water scooped him up like a hand, sweeping him off Moses’s back. John cried out as the cold water swept through his clothes, chilling his skin with its overpowering grip, carrying him downstream. John held tight to the princess and struggled to right himself. The water swirled halfway up John’s chest, and he recalled another disadvantage of wearing chain mail.
It was heavy.
So was the princess, with her draping robes now sodden with water. He struggled to lift her above the level of the churning waters, to keep her safe from the hungry river. His leather boots slid against the smooth rocks of the riverbed. Beyond him, shining pale in the moonlight, the miller’s wheel turned steadily in the surging current.
* * *
Gisela’s prayers for relief from the unrelenting fever had stilled on her silent lips, yet her heart still pounded with the plea. Numb as she felt, she couldn’t be sure what was happening, but it seemed the mount they rode had bolted in fright.
Should she be frightened? No. She trusted the arms that held her, wrapping around her more protectively as the horse galloped frantically. With trembling fingers she grasped the strong arms, holding on. Whatever was happening, she felt instinctively that she could trust these strong arms. She could trust the man who held her.
The sound of splashing water teased her thirst. She’d give anything for a taste of cool water to soothe her parched tongue and throat.
Suddenly cold water enveloped her, dousing the flames of fever and rushing into her open mouth. She drank deeply, grateful for the relief, more grateful still for the strong arms that held her securely and refused to let her go.
* * *
John lunged for the banks. The waters tugged at Gisela’s robes, threatening to tear her from his arms. He tried to hoist her higher, fighting against the current and the slippery rocks, nearly falling twice before movement on the bank caught his eye.
Illyrians stood above him on the shore. They fit their arrows to their bow strings and took aim.
There was nowhere to go. Moses swam far beyond him, his nose pointed to the narrow path that led down to the water from the miller’s house.
John gulped a breath, covered the princess as best he could, and bent his knees, plunging them both beneath the surface of the chilly stream. He let his feet leave the rocks, and the greedy current took them both, sweeping them swiftly toward the turning paddles of the miller’s wheel.
At least, in the darkness, the Illyrians would have trouble finding the swirl of water that marked where they swam. And the swift current would deflect the arrows.
John kept his head down until smooth rocks knocked against his knees. He realized that, as the stream widened to meet the miller’s wheel, it also became shallower, and its water flowed less swiftly.
Raising his head and gulping a breath, John stood and found the water reached only to his hips. He could walk, and made for the path by which Moses had already clambered free of the cold waters. Glancing back, he saw the Illyrians in retreat and caught enough of a glimpse of the activity in the moonlight to guess that Renwick and the guards of the riding party had heard the commotion and rushed to his aid.
“Your Majesty?” a voice called from the bank just beyond him.
“Yes. Here! Lend me your hand!”
In a moment two pairs of feet splashed through the shallower waters, and Gisela’s sodden frame was lifted from John’s arms. His hands and fingers trembled after the aching ordeal, yet he still felt a strange sense of loss now that he was no longer holding her. Renwick’s shoulder propped him under one arm and he stumbled toward the bank.
“The Illyrians?”
“We ran them off,” Renwick assured him. “We’d been watching for you anxiously. We heard the commotion and saw them shooting. We knew they had no right to be here.”
“Good man.” John stood straighter as he stepped up the dry path. “You did well.”
“Oh, my lady!” Hilda squealed as she ran from the inn toward them.
“Let’s get her inside,” John instructed the men, who carried in the princess.
They hastily brought her in and laid her on a bed while the innkeeper’s wife fussed about the soaking mess she was making on the freshly ticked mattress.
“I thought you were going to pack her eye!” Hilda cried as sputtering oil lamps were brought near enough to see.
With disgust, John saw that Gisela’s eye pack had come off completely and was likely torn apart by the miller’s wheel or swept far downstream. He pulled his pouch from over his shoulder, disheartened to see that the plants inside had been soaked through.
“I’ll make another eye pack.” John tried to be calm, but Gisela’s potential to recover wasn’t good—especially not after the dunking she’d suffered in the chilly waters of the stream. At least she was breathing evenly after her impromptu immersion.
“I need to get her out of her wet clothes. All the men should leave the room.” Hilda began to shoo them out.
“They can leave now.” John got to work quickly crushing the leaves of the best-looking plant. “But I’ve got to get this on her eye. Then I’ll leave and you can undress her.” He hurried to apply the crushed leaves, wishing the light would allow him to inspect her injury more closely.
Instead he ran one hand down her silken cheek, but his hands bore the chill of the river, and he couldn’t gauge how hot her fever burned. Quickly, while Hilda’s back was turned, John pressed his lips to Princess Gisela’s forehead, trying to discern how fiercely her fever raged.
Heat speared through his lips, imparting a far stronger message than the one he’d sought. He recoiled, but not before the memory seared itself into his mind like a firebrand. It was more than mere fever. His lips hadn’t touched a woman since the day his wife had died.
Shoving aside the temptation to press his lips to her again, John focused on her medical condition. Though her fever was down slightly following her unintentional dousing, she would likely suffer chills. How much water had she breathed in? It could kill her even if the hare’s tongue worked.
With a heavy heart he finished and closed the door to her room behind him and prayed silently that his efforts would not have been in vain.
Renwick met him at the door with an anxious expression.
John was soaking wet, cold, hungry—and bone tired.
“The men looked after Moses, Your Lordship,” Renwick offered, using a loftier title than usual.
It made John suspicious. “Moses was nicked by an arrow.”
“We saw, Your Highness. The bleeding has stopped on its own.”
“Good.” John wondered what vexed the man.
Renwick didn’t leave him curious for long. “The men gave chase to the band of Illyrians. They wanted to make sure they were out of the area. They sent a volley of arrows after them.” He gulped a breath. “One of the Illyrians was struck, sire.”
“So was my horse.” John headed for the single flight of stairs that led from the inn rooms above to the common dining hall where a warm fire and roasted meat awaited. He hoped the innkeeper would let him pay for a set of dry clothes.
“He fell and didn’t rise.”
John froze and squinted at Renwick in the darkness of the hallway. “Did he die?”
If they’d killed a man, the Illyrians could use it as an excuse to attack. Death begat death. If his men had killed a man, the Illyrians would kill one of his men—or likely more than one.
“The rest of his band plucked him up and carried him off, but...” Renwick sucked in a breath. Though technically a messenger, Renwick had seen his fair share of battle. He’d ridden with John the day his father died. “It didn’t look good.”
John clapped his hands over Renwick’s forearms and addressed him with greater severity than he’d intended. “Pray that man doesn’t die.”
Renwick winced. “What should I tell the men, sire?”
“Give them my thanks. They did as they were told. They saved my life.”
“And the Frankish princess?”
John shook his head morosely, guilt from his confused feelings swirling with his prayers for her recovery. “Pray for her, as well. If we lose her, we won’t just have the Illyrians to worry about, but the Holy Roman Empire.” He continued to the stairs, the war he’d tried so hard to avoid dogging his every step.
His men looked up at the sound of his boots, their faces drawn with concern.
John offered them a forced smile and held up his hand. “The Frankish princess lives, for now at least—with many thanks to all of you.”
“Sire,” one man spoke up, “we wounded an Illyrian.”
“So I’ve heard. We’ll post a double guard around the inn tonight and dispatch riders to Castlehead to explain the situation to Luke. He’ll need to increase his guard, as well.”
“But, sire,” one of the guards protested, “there are only five of us. If you send two men, there will only be three left to split the guard. One man will have to stand guard all night.”
John sat on a bench as he began the work of prying his water-swollen leather boots from his feet. When he got one off, he addressed his men. “I can take a shift at guard. The Frankish princess lies on the brink of death. It’s not as though I could sleep, given the circumstances.”
As he set about prying the other boot free, John felt a ripple of tension flow through the men. He hadn’t meant to disquiet them, but given the situation, perhaps it was best that they appreciate the potential danger. After all, if Lydia went to war, they’d be on the front lines fighting alongside him.
Chapter Four
His arms no longer held her. Gisela shivered, so much colder now that his strong arms were gone. She heard a voice, but it wasn’t the deep, comforting voice of the man who’d protected her. It was Hilda’s voice. The woman’s scent was far more like boiled cabbage than the woodsy, manly scent she’d grown so fond of.
“Where?” She found her voice after a surprising struggle. “Where has he gone?”
“Who, my lady? King John?”
At the sound of his name, Gisela felt her tension ease. Memories returned and chased away the empty darkness. That’s right. King John had kept her safe. His arms had held her so tenderly and so securely. She shivered, missing his warmth. “Yes—King John. Where?” The strain of speaking silenced her question before she could articulate every word.
“Easy now, Your Highness.” Hilda patted her hand. “The king must see to his men. They’ve posted a watch. I don’t know if he can spare a moment for you. Would you like me to ask him?”
Gisela struggled to consider the question. Would she like Hilda to ask King John to see her? She imagined she must look awful. Likely she was in no condition to receive a visitor. And yet, she wanted so much to hear his voice and to feel his strong arms again. Her shivering continued uncontrollably. Could King John ease her fever? They’d called him a healer.
“Yes, please. Ask for him.”
* * *
“Patrol the entire perimeter,” John advised his men. “Don’t neglect the far bank of the river. The Illyrians could easily cross the bridge past the mill or ford the creek upstream and catch us by surprise. We can’t risk that. If they attack with more men...” He shook his head, letting the threat linger unspoken. He could see in the eyes of his men that they understood how outnumbered they were.
In any other situation, he’d have fallen back, emptying the settlement of Millbridge of its inhabitants and fleeing under the cover of darkness to the walled protection of the city of Sardis.
But Sardis was too far away. They didn’t have the luxury of falling back tonight. Princess Gisela had already suffered far more than she should have. He couldn’t risk trying to move her, not after all she’d been through, not even if they tried to keep her comfortable on the litter.
Besides, litters traveled slowly. If they were overtaken on the road without even the walls of the inn to protect them, the Illyrians would finish them off swiftly. Prince Luke would have the war he’d wanted, but it would be on two fronts: with Illyria by land and the entire Roman Empire by sea.
Lydia would be obliterated.
“Do nothing to provoke them,” John cautioned the men. “Even if they attack, don’t fight back unless they threaten the inn itself. Do you understand?”
The men nodded solemnly, and the two appointed for the first shift headed out to patrol. John turned to consult with Renwick but was surprised by a female voice behind him.
“Your Majesty? The princess is asking for you.”
Warm feelings flooded him. Their suddenness and intensity only increased the guilt he felt after kissing Gisela’s forehead, but he couldn’t stay away if she needed him. He’d hoped to survey the area now that he’d changed into dry clothes borrowed from the innkeeper, but the emperor’s daughter would have to come first. She might not be awake for long.
John hurried after the maid, dismissing Renwick. “Try to get some sleep. You and I will have the next watch.”
He entered the private room where the princess lay resting in fresh, dry clothing her maid had brought. Hilda had pulled Gisela’s long hair from its braid. He could see the comb she’d been using to untangle its vast matted wetness. The golden color glowed in the flickering lamplight.
So did her feverish skin. Everything around her eye was still swollen, but at least the herbs were still packed in place where they could do their work.
“Your Highness?”
Princess Gisela turned at the sound of his voice. Relief erased the tension from her features just before a convulsive shiver ran through her.
“Are you feeling worse?” He rushed to her side and felt her face. It was burning hot. Had he imagined it, or was her fever slightly less intense than it had been on the road? Surely the cold river waters had diminished it somewhat, but he couldn’t risk pressing his lips to her again just to be certain. “What can I do for you?”
“I—I’m—” even her voice shuddered as chills quaked through her “—so cold.” Her jaw quivered.
John addressed the maid. “We need more blankets. Tell Renwick to peel the curtains from the litter, if necessary. We’ve got to keep her warm. She’ll waste all her strength shivering otherwise.”
Her fingers felt icy cold as she found his hand, clinging to it as though for dear life.
“S-so c-c-c-old.”
John scooped her up in the crook of his arm until she sat beside him. He pulled her against him and tried to still her shivers. Hilda headed for the open door, her efforts focused more on fretting than carrying out his instructions.
“Ask the innkeeper’s wife to bring hot water. We’ll have to soak Her Highness’s feet. If they’re half as cold as her hands, they must be like ice.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hilda lingered in the doorway wringing her hands.
“Hurry!”
The woman startled and leaped through the door.
It was only after she’d gone that John realized he should have run the errands himself. But he couldn’t leave the princess now. She’d burrowed against his shoulder. Her violent tremors stilled until she merely trembled against him, her feverish breaths even against his neck.
With the pack of herbs still tied tight against her eyelid, there was little he could do but hold her and try to keep her shivering to a minimum. “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you, Your Highness?”
The princess had grown so still in his arms, her shivering reduced to mere quivering, that John wondered for a moment if she hadn’t lapsed out of consciousness again. But then she clenched his hand more tightly and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”
The sincerity of her plea, voiced in such a faint whisper, doused him with an overwhelming desire to see her safely through this ordeal. She was more than just a political pawn, an inconvenience whose arrival might bring war upon his peaceful kingdom.
She was also a woman whose rare bravery had saved her ship. She didn’t deserve to die in return for the good she’d done. An unfamiliar fascination pulled at him. If he could do so without awakening further the emotions buried inside him, he’d like to learn more about the remarkable daughter of the emperor. But in order for that to happen, she’d have to survive the night.
* * *
Gisela clutched at the coarse fabric of King John’s tunic. This wasn’t the same chain mail habergeon he’d worn over leather garments when she’d ridden with him earlier.
But he was still the same man, his woodsy scent already chasing away the boiled cabbage odor that had trailed through the open door after Hilda. His deep accent lilted pleasantly as he promised to stay by her side, to see her through her injuries until she’d recovered.
A sense of peace seeped past her fever as he held her securely, promising to do all he could to ease her pain. She’d have to be certain her father compensated King John for his selfless assistance.
As her chills subsided, she managed to find her voice. “I can’t see.”
“Your injury has swollen your eyes shut. When the infection subsides we’ll be able to assess the damage, but from what I’ve seen, the blade missed your eye. You should retain your vision.”
Relief eased the last of her shivers. She relaxed as her fear of living as a blind woman subsided with the king’s assurances. After all, Warrick, the Illyrian prince she’d been betrothed to marry, would likely frown on the idea of taking a blind woman for a wife—not when he could have his pick of unblemished women.
Again, she found herself wondering what King John looked like. Was he as handsome as Hilda’s inflection had led her to believe? He certainly had a beautiful spirit and a kind disposition. She could only imagine his physical features would match his generous soul.
But what did he think of her? Concern over the festering wound forced words to her trembling lips. “Will I be ugly?”
The question came out bluntly, but to her relief King John took no offense. “The natural fold of your eyelid should disguise the scar. I may be able to suture the gash as it heals to minimize its appearance.”
Gratitude welled inside her, but in her feverish state, she couldn’t find the words to express her thankfulness. Silence stretched between them. Warmed by his presence, her shivers abated and she felt a measure of her strength return.
The king continued in a musing voice, as though almost to himself, “Not that such a little thing could diminish your remarkable beauty.”
“You’re already in my good graces, King John. Don’t trouble yourself flattering me.”
He straightened at her suggestion. “I didn’t realize you were still awake. You had relaxed so.” He sighed. “That wasn’t empty flattery, Princess. You are as lovely a woman as I have ever seen. Your Illyrian prince is a fortunate man. And I will consider myself equally fortunate if your fever erases all memory of this conversation.”
“I think my fever is easing, Your Majesty.”
He touched her face. “Perhaps it is. And I hear Hilda approaching with your blankets, so I’ll give you my leave before I embarrass myself further.” Gently, as though he feared she might break, King John eased himself away from her, tucking blankets up as far as her chin and instructing her maid about soaking her feet.
Warmth spread up Gisela’s legs as Hilda dipped first her toes, then, by stages, her whole feet into the heated water.
And yet, as she heard John’s footsteps retreating down the hall, Gisela couldn’t suppress a cold shiver, missing him.
* * *
John rubbed his temples as he fled from Princess Gisela’s bedside. He was tired. He’d been through a great deal and still had a long night ahead of him.
Still, that was no excuse for the way he’d let down his guard, speaking aloud words better left only in his thoughts. The princess must think he was full of empty flattery!
He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He might have been caught muttering far worse, especially with the threat of war foisted upon them. But he knew his lapse rankled him precisely because it was the worst possible thing the royal woman could have heard him utter. Ever since his wife’s death three years before, he had taken great pains to make it perfectly clear to everyone in his kingdom that he had no interest in taking another wife.
Even after so long, the eligible maidens and their eager parents were only now beginning to believe him. If it became known that he’d heaped flattering words upon the emperor’s daughter, people might think he’d changed his mind about not wanting a woman. And with the princess obviously unavailable, he’d be back to discouraging eager females again.
But Princess Gisela was the only one who’d heard him. Was there any way he could beg her not to repeat what he’d said?
Not without revisiting it. And if there was any hope that she might not remember his words, he wasn’t about to remind her of them.
Unless she gave him the impression that she remembered, after all.
John rubbed his temples again as he fled outdoors, grateful for the relative cool after the distressing warmth of the feverish princess.
He’d passed Renwick’s sleeping form in the main hall of the inn, and so sought out his men patrolling the perimeter. He could only pray the Illyrians would think better of launching an assault. At the very least, they might postpone their attack until the Frankish princess was safely ensconced in the queen’s tower, the most securely buttressed point of the fortress at Castlehead.
The thought of further harm coming to her filled him with cold dread. Obviously his reaction was due to their political entanglements. She was under his protection now and would remain so until he could hand her off to her betrothed or until her father sent a more substantial escort than the wounded ship with its inexperienced captain.
Assuming, of course, she survived long enough for that to happen.
* * *
As the warm blankets and heated water chased her chills away and the cool herbs above her eye purged the poison of infection, Gisela’s thoughts began to make more sense, except for one thing.
She missed the king’s presence.
It was odd. She’d never been one to rely on any specific person to make her feel better. Her mother had died when she was a toddler, her father was a busy man and she had enough siblings, half siblings and servants that for most of her life she hadn’t concerned herself much about who was around. It had been enough to know that there were plenty of people nearby and that they all cared for her with more or less equal devotion.
It was a strange sensation, wanting a particular person present, even though between Hilda and the innkeeper’s wife bustling about offering her blankets and hot tea, she might have preferred to be left alone.
She told herself she simply wanted King John near so he could monitor her injury. And of course, she felt she could trust him.
But it wasn’t as though she distrusted her middle-age maid or the innkeeper’s wife.
Still, the inexplicable longing wouldn’t go away.
“Is he coming back?”
“Is who coming back, Your Grace?” Hilda’s voice sounded haggard, and Gisela realized the woman would have normally been snoring for hours by this time of night.
“King John.”
“He just left not so long ago. I imagine he has matters to attend to.”
“I see. Of course.” Gisela resolved to rest and forget about the king. “Don’t bother about the heated water, Hilda. You need your sleep.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
As Hilda settled onto the other mattress, it occurred to Gisela that, really, someone ought to fetch the king to look at her injury again before her maid went to sleep. Otherwise, assuming the innkeeper’s wife didn’t return (and she’d been gone long enough, Gisela supposed she’d retired for the night), there wouldn’t be anyone to fetch the king, if she needed him.
“Hilda? Could you please ask the king to check my injury one last time?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The maid heaved herself to her feet and shuffled past.
Gisela listened to the sounds of the night and wished she could see, but the swath of fabric that secured the herbs to her eyelid stretched across both of her eyes. Whether she’d be able to open even the left one without it, she wasn’t certain.
The minutes crawled by slowly. Gisela had tried so hard to ignore her fears, but in the dark silence they taunted her with every unfamiliar noise. Without her sight she was particularly vulnerable, especially alone. Had she been unwise to send Hilda to fetch the king? Worse yet, what if the king and his guards were in the middle of some vital operation and Hilda stumbled into it?
Gisela wasn’t entirely clear on the events that had preceded her arrival at the inn, but she’d caught enough of the discussion through her fever to deduce that they were in danger from enemy war scouts in the area. Was King John needed outside more urgently than she needed him inside?
Had she exposed them to danger through her selfish request? And why did she feel so strongly about seeing the king again?
* * *
“Your Majesty?”
John turned at the sound of Hilda’s voice, instantly concerned. The maid should be at Princess Gisela’s bedside, not out here by the river, looking for him. He darted downstream, speaking softly before she called out for him again. “Yes, Hilda?”
“She’s asking for you again.”
A wave of relief hit him with force, followed by an almost euphoric joy he attributed to happiness that the princess was well enough to speak. Certainly it had nothing to do with her request to see him. She only needed his medical knowledge—not anything more personal than that.
Still, he hurried after the maid, fearful that she’d already left the princess unguarded for long minutes while she’d been out searching for him. John had traveled upstream, expanding the search perimeter looking for signs that the Illyrians might have forded the creek.
The darkness had yielded no sign of them. He passed the other two guards on his way to the inn and was relieved to see them patrolling attentively.
Hilda panted as she held her oil lamp aloft and led him into the low-beamed private room.
“Did you find him?” Gisela asked.
Realizing the princess had heard her maid but was unable to see him, John hastened forward and scooped up her hand. “I’m here.”
A smile spread across her lips and the anxiety fled from her features.
John found the expression contagious and couldn’t help grinning back. Certainly his relief stemmed from finding her responsive—from finding her alive at all. He’d not stopped praying for her since he’d left her bedside.
He pressed his hand to her forehead. To his immense relief, her fever had already begun to abate, even from its reduced state when he’d left her last.
“Hilda? Where are the herbs I brought in my pack?”
“I gave them to the innkeeper’s wife, Your Majesty. She was going to put them in a pot.”
Instantly alarmed, John snapped, “She can’t cook with them! The princess is still in a precarious state. I need those herbs—they must be fresh!”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean a cooking pot. She was going to plant them in soil to keep them alive, sire. That’s all. Shall I fetch some?”
Mollified by her reassurances, John softened his tone. “Please, if you can find them, bring me the whole pot. I’ll pick what I need.”
“Yes, sire.” Hilda shuffled past him, taking her oil lamp with her, leaving him only one sputtering flame to see by.
“I’m sorry if she interrupted your patrol.” The princess looked repentant.
“It’s fine. You don’t need to apologize. I’ve seen no sign of the Illyrians, and my guards are actively patrolling. In any case, your condition is of paramount importance. I’m glad you asked for me before your maid retired for the night. I was hoping to change your bandages again and refresh the herbs. They seem to be helping.”
“Yes. I’m feeling more alert and less feverish already.”
“Good,” John said, though he felt a prickle of distress that she might remember the words he’d spoken earlier when he hadn’t expected her to hear. His mouth dry, he posed a tentative question. “Have you been awake since...” His words dropped off as he tried to think of the best way to pose his question.
“Since you heaped flattering words upon me?” Princess Gisela’s slight grin told him she was teasing him.
His heart stuttered at being caught, then an unfamiliar thrill of relief rippled through him. The princess wasn’t upset. In spite of her continued fever, she was playing with him.
King John wasn’t used to lighthearted repartee. Few were the men in his kingdom who would dare to jibe with him. His brother Luke was far too serious in demeanor, and his brother Mark was away on a journey. That left only his little sister, Elisabette, and though she’d once enjoyed nothing more than goading him to laughter, the girl was growing into a woman and leaving her playful ways behind.
Gisela’s smile spread across pearly teeth. “I haven’t forgotten, Your Majesty, though I struggle to understand your embarrassment. Your compliments were quite kind, considering my condition.”
“I hadn’t meant to be heard. I would appreciate it if you keep those comments to yourself. I can’t have anyone thinking that I...” John tried to think of an appropriate way to express what he meant without making the situation worse.
“That you revere the emperor’s daughter for her beauty?” Gisela finished his statement for him. “It is well-known that Lydia is a Christian nation. My father’s empire is Christian, as well. We do not worship our leaders as some nations do. That fact is well-known. I doubt anyone would misinterpret your words, but since you’ve requested that I not repeat them, I shall refrain from doing so.”
Relieved as he was by her promise, John didn’t bother to correct her interpretation. Everything she’d said was quite true, other than her guess at his reason for making the request. And he wasn’t about to correct her on that, since it would require him to explain feelings he neither wanted nor understood.
John hastened to change the subject. “Assuming Hilda is able to find my herbs, I’d like to change your compress. Do you mind if I remove the bandages?”
“Please do. I feel as though the swelling has gone down, and I’m curious to discover whether I can open my left eye.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” John began tugging at the knot that bound the herbs in place. “You ought not strain yourself too soon.”
“But how will I know...” The princess began hesitantly as a coy smile graced her lips.
“How will you know what?” The knot came free at last, and John eased the bandage away from her eyes. The crust of infection that sealed her lids shut had trapped even her left eyelashes. “Don’t try to open your eyes just yet,” he cautioned her. “Let me use a warm compress to soften the film.”
The pot of steaming water had cooled somewhat, but John found it still warm enough for his purposes. He dipped a soft rag into the boiled water and pressed it gently against her left eye.
“Does that hurt?”
“It’s soothing.” Her demeanor had grown more serious.
John found himself longing for her to toy with him again. It was a silly thing to fancy, but it made his heart feel far lighter than he could recall it feeling in recent memory. “If you can see,” he adopted a serious tone, “what is it you want to know?”
The smile returned to her face, this time with an impish dimple that winked at him from high on her cheek. He hadn’t noticed it before because the bandage had obscured it. Now he instantly wished to see it again.
“I would like to see—” the dimple flashed at him, then disappeared as the princess matched his tone in mock-seriousness “—if the king who heaps such flattery upon me has a face that begs for accolades as well.”
“I cannot answer that, but you may find out for yourself in a moment.”
* * *
Gisela’s heart beat as rapidly as it had at any time during the height of her fever. She wasn’t usually so bold in her chatter, certainly not with near strangers, although in feasting season her father’s household was filled to the rafters with joking and jesting, and several of her brothers prided themselves in their skill at exchanging jibes.
She was no match for them, but there was something about King John’s otherwise melancholy spirit that challenged her to make him smile. And after her long journey holed up in a ship’s cabin to keep her away from improprietous sailors, she was ready to accept that challenge with gusto. Uncertain as she was about his physical appearance, she had nonetheless long believed that a smile improved the features of any person.
Besides, when she heard the sadness in his voice, all she could think about was easing his sorrow, if only for a moment.
“There.” John dabbed gently at her left eye. “The light is not well, but if you can open just your left eye, we’ll see what you can see.”
Cautiously, taking care not to disturb her injured right eyelid, Gisela lifted her left eyelid until she could just make out the yellow glow of the oil lamp. She let out a relieved breath, grateful that she still retained the ability to see. Then she lifted the lid a little farther and turned her head to the place where John’s voice had last sounded.
It took a moment for her vision to focus. Then she saw him dipping the rag he’d used in the pot of warm water and wringing it out carefully before turning to face her. Dark hair revealed that he was young for a king—young enough that no gray hairs discolored his ebony locks.
And he was handsome. As he bent over her, she was able to get a better look and felt a smile spread across her lips in spite of her best efforts to stop it. Had she ever seen a more handsome man? Not with only one eye, that was for certain. She could only imagine he’d look even better when she saw him with both eyes.
King John’s serious expression lightened. “Why are you grinning?”
“I can see you.” She felt herself blushing and wished she could think of a lighthearted jab to cover her reaction at seeing him for the first time. But all she could think of was the way his arms had felt around her earlier. Her blush deepened.
His expression sobered again. “I wonder what’s become of Hilda.”
The giddy delight she felt while looking at him was quickly replaced by fear for her maid’s safety. How long had Hilda been gone? Gisela realized she’d been so distracted by her conversation with the king that she’d lost all track of time.
John set aside the bandages. “I’ll go look for her.”
“Is it safe?”
“For me to leave or for you to be left alone?”
“Either.”
“Safe enough. Try to rest. I should be back soon to redress that eye.” He darted away quickly, almost as though he was in a hurry to be gone from her side.
Chapter Five
John rushed outside looking frantically for Hilda or either of the guards. Were they safe? He could only pray they were. As for his safety, he’d quickly realized he’d be far safer outside than he was in Princess Gisela’s room. Even if the Illyrians had them surrounded, that was preferable to the dangers of getting close to the emperor’s daughter.
At what point had their discussion turned so coy? He reviewed their course of conversation as he trotted around the inn in search of Hilda or the plants she’d gone to find.
With chagrin, he realized he’d been afflicted the moment he’d entered her room and a thousand times more so when he’d taken her hand.
By the time he’d seen the dimples on her cheeks, he’d been utterly smitten.
Was he a fool? Her father was the greatest leader the Holy Roman Empire had ever known. Everyone knew Charlemagne was a zealous family man who adhered strongly to the tenets of the Christian faith.
John embraced those same tenets himself. So how had he let himself get so close to a woman who was promised to another? If they suspected him of any impropriety, he’d have the wrath of both Charlemagne and the Illyrians on his head—and on his kingdom.
“Hilda!” He spotted her making her way up from the river, huffing along carrying a burden he couldn’t identify in the darkness, though she acted as though it was much heavier than his herbs should have been.
“Sire,” the maid wheezed as she made her way up the bank. Her words came out in spurts between gasping breaths. “She took it down to the river to water it.”
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