The Promise (23 page)

Günter thrust the man away with a grunt, and the fighting resumed. He allowed himself to be pushed toward the trees and away from the torches. For long minutes they fought, their blades clashing while they tested each other’s strength and commitment. At one point, Günter slipped on a patch of mud and stumbled, fumbling his sword. Rather than press his advantage, the Frenchman took a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes, giving Günter the precious seconds he needed to recover. He scrambled up, raising his sword just as the other man came in for the kill. The nobleman spun away in time to prevent Günter’s sword from hacking into his chest, and they resumed the fight. Their movements took them away from the inn to where the light from the torches shined weakest, but Günter had eyes like a cat. He went on the attack, his footing surer now, the swinging arc of his blade driving his opponent to the tree line where it was more difficult for him to maneuver with his back against the barks.

Günter did wonder why the Frenchman was trying to kill him, but he’d ask the question later, if he survived the contest. He decided to end the match quickly since he’d taken the man’s measure. He went down on one knee, briefly, his hand sinking into the drier dirt near the tree line, but he recovered quickly.

The Frenchman had one disadvantage. He fought like a knight, that is to say, by rules of order. Günter was not averse to fighting outside the rules, if the occasion warranted it, and this certainly did. Günter flung the dirt in his hand into the other man’s face. The soil hit its mark, blinding the Frenchman, who screamed in pain and indignation.

With a startling shout and a flurry of blows, Günter got close enough to knee the man in the stones. The Frenchman, astonished, gasped and folded up. Günter brought the pommel of his sword down and struck the man hard enough on the forehead to stun him. The Frenchman went to his knees still gripping his cock, his head now bleeding from the blow.

Dazed from the pain, the noble nevertheless had the wherewithal to cross his blade and protect his head from further strikes. The rapid attack had rendered him senseless enough, however, for Günter to disarm him easily.

Günter stood over the man with his
Zweihänder
primed for a final strike. Breathing hard from exertion, he stared down at the nobleman prostrate at his feet. His opponent raised his unusual steel-gray eyes, red-rimmed and watering from the dirt irritating them. Those eyes neither pleaded for mercy nor seemed to expect it.

“Bastard!” he barked. “Do it, then. Why do you wait?”

Günter gripped his blade tighter. “I wondered if you would care to share with me why you wish to kill me. Call it idle curiosity.”

His opponent clenched his teeth. “I took an oath. I will kill the man who killed my brother, or be killed by him instead. You have me at your mercy. Why do you hesitate?”

Günter shook his head.

“A soldier does what he does. It is not personal. Your brother, if he fought in battle, would have known that. To swear vengeance against someone for such a reason is not only foolish, but the act of a green knight.”

The man blinked at the insult. Then his eyes narrowed. “You say you are a soldier?”

Günter nodded, realizing the man had not already known. The puzzle grew more complicated.

“Soldier or not, you are a bandit with no honor,” the man accused, his lips clenched in a grim snarl. “The way you won only confirms this.”

The hatred pouring from the French noble confounded Günter. “Unlike the man who wore the carbuncle ring, I am no bandit. As does any mercenary, I sometimes take my pay in the form of spoils fairly won, but I do not lie in wait, nor take from those who can ill afford to lose the little they have. And I might have killed you, but I chose to disarm you instead. Be grateful I used the dirt instead of my usual method, which would have been hacking off your fighting arm.”

The Frenchman shifted as though he intended to rise, the muscles bunching in his neck. Günter’s raised sword served as an effective deterrent.

“Liar! You stole the carbuncle ring from my brother,” the noble snarled, “the day you murdered him like a dog by the side of the road.”

Comprehension dawned. “I did not steal the ring. I took it as spoil, fairly won.” Günter slowly edged his blade away. Things were becoming clearer. “Are you certain the ring is your brother’s? And did you see the men who did this deed?”

“I did not witness the attack, but I know what happened. His servant survived and described it. As to the ring, it is unique. Only four of them exist.” The Frenchman held up his right hand and an exact replica winked from his finger. “I wear one. The others are worn by my father in his grave and by my two brothers, one of whom is now dead.” The side of his mouth rose in a cynical sneer. “Your wife conveniently displays one on her finger, and you say you gave it to her. Yet you deny you stole it from my murdered brother’s hand.”

“I do not deny I removed it from a dead man’s hand,” Günter responded. “However, unless your brother was given to banditry, the man I obtained it from was not he. He and another tried to violate my wife. I killed them for it. I took what they had as spoil. I intended to return the ring to its rightful owner if the opportunity arose.”

He lifted his blade and swung it over his shoulder, effectively rendering himself defenseless. Let the truth be his protection. “It appears it has,” he finished. “The ring is yours, and I offer my condolences on your brother’s death. I can offer this as consolation: the man who murdered your brother will kill no others.”

The nobleman stared up at him in disbelief.

“You killed the bandit?”

“Actually, six of them,” Günter answered.

Astonished, the French noble gaped.
“Six
of them?”

Günter narrowed his eyes. “They threatened those under my protection.”

“I … see,” the man murmured. “I will heed the warning. But why should I believe this story?”

Günter gripped the hilt of his sword in annoyance, but then remembered this man had recently lost a brother. He knew the devastation he would feel if he lost one of his own siblings.

“The bandit and his cohorts accosted us by the river outside of Broni. We barely escaped with our lives. The bandit who had your brother’s ring wore red and black clothing, like yours, but it fitted him poorly, as if it was not made for him. If he was a noble, then so is my horse. I believe everything he possessed was stolen property.”

Günter motioned his head toward the inn.

“You may ask after my character of the innkeeper, and the details of the attack from the monk who keeps the abbey in Broni.” He smiled slightly. “And if you are interested, you may nose the bandits yourself as you pass the river Po about one hour’s ride outside Broni. I decided the wolves could dispose of them more efficiently than we, so we did not waste the effort in burying them.”

The man looked up at Günter, a dazed expression on his face. “Then it appears my quest for vengeance has come to an abrupt end.”

Günter held out his hand in treaty. After a brief hesitation, the man took it and allowed Günter to help him rise.

“Come, we will return your brother’s ring to you,” Günter offered. “My bride has certain reservations about wearing it regardless.”

The Frenchman retrieved his sword from where it had fallen and turned to face Günter. He dragged a hand through his reddish brown hair. Guilt wore heavy on his thoughtful brow and he gazed at Günter, his expression troubled.

“Our Lord said, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ In my eagerness to usurp His authority, I might have killed an innocent man. This has been a valuable lesson, and one that with God’s grace I will only have to learn once.” He stood straighter. “If all you say is true, I owe you a debt for ridding the earth of the villains who murdered my brother. I owe also an apology. How can I ever repay you?”

Günter grinned. “The beer here is truly excellent,” he said, “but I only drink with men whose names I know.”

The Frenchman bowed.

“I am Robert.” In the French way, he did not pronounce the final “t.”

Günter raised his eyebrows. “Just… Robert?”

For the first time, the other man smiled.

“For now. This might not be the best place to proclaim one’s identity. Particularly to a mercenary. Ransom is such a bothersome business.”

“Ah. Well,
Robert,
I am Günter, and today is my wedding day. I refuse to spoil it by taking captives. You are welcome to join our table, if you are buying the beer. I warn you, however,” Günter said, tongue not entirely in his cheek as they turned back toward the inn, “I am a great drinker of beer.”

Robert laughed. “My purse can accommodate your thirst, I think.” He slapped Günter on the shoulder. “I will accept your invitation, and drink a toast to your bride.” His gaze flickered toward the inn’s passageway. “Provided she does not run me through with that very fine steel of hers.”

Günter turned to see Alonsa standing in the doorway of the inn, brandishing her sword. Fritz attempted without success to stand before her, and Inés peered over her shoulder in agitation.

Günter strode to her in exasperation. “Didn’t I say to stay inside?”

She raised her chin in defiance. “You did. I only intended to come out if you needed my assistance.”

“If I needed
—” Günter sputtered with indignation, insulted beyond words. He heard Robert chuckle behind him but quickly subdue the sound. Finally, Günter managed to speak.

“Woman, I am a mercenary of seven years’ fame. I have successfully defended myself in a half-dozen countries. I would not require your assistance under any circumstances I can possibly imagine.” He took her blade away. “The next time, follow my instructions.”

She stiffened. “You cannot order me about as if I were one of your soldiers.”

“Nay,” he agreed. “For if you were, I could not do this.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and crushed her body to his. She gasped. When she did, he dipped his head and took her open mouth in a hot, wet kiss that had him forgetting his surroundings, his name, and the fact that they had a highly amused audience watching their every move.

To his astonishment, Alonsa wound her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with open abandon. Only Robert’s admiring whistle and the persistent throat clearing of Fritz caused Günter to lift his head and unsteadily put Alonsa from him. She slowly opened her eyes, her expression stunned.

“Perhaps,” Robert said behind him, a smile in his voice, “you will wish to delay the drink until another time, no?”

Günter shook his head to clear it and scrubbed a hand down his face. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. Alonsa would begin to suspect his feelings for her might not be as casual as he pretended.

He put the thoughts of tossing his bride over his shoulder and carrying her away out of his mind. For now.

“Nay. Free beer is free beer.”

He felt suddenly happy. He lived, he had married the woman of his dreams, and he did not have to pay for his drinks. Sometimes life was good, he decided, and he led the little group back into the inn.

Wrested from a sound sleep, Alonsa jerked upright in the bed when something heavy skidded across the floor followed by the sound of a loud crash. From the entryway came a slurred string of curses in four different languages.

“Who the devil,” Günter muttered, “put a table in front of the damned door?”

Alonsa leaned back on one elbow, allowing her breathing to return to normal before she answered her husband, who swayed slightly in the open doorway.

“It was not in front of the door. You walked into it because you are as drunk as a pissed-faced goat, and you cannot see two feet in front of you.”

Günter blinked at her slowly, then rose to his full height, indignant, and closed the door behind him.

“I am not drunk,” he said very carefully. “I am merely”—he waved his hand in the air—”happy.”

She harrumphed.

He frowned. “I am never drunk.” He made his way to the bed, where he sank down with a heavy sigh. “Hardly ever, anyway. Bad for the reflexes.”

Alonsa moved over to avoid being crushed.

“Well, you have managed to accomplish it, even so. You have been downstairs with Fritz and your new friend forever.” She sniffed and punched the pillow, wishing it were him. “And on our wedding night, too.”

He sighed. “I’d planned to stay for just one or two beers, but …” He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “How was I to know there is a tradition here that the groom cannot leave without every man present toasting to his potency? By the time I shook free, you had gone.” He reached over and stroked her hair. “Why did you leave?”

She jerked away and glared at him. “The idea of singing ‘Helga Toss Your Skirts High’ for the twentieth time lost its appeal. Moreover, I thought one of us ought to be sober enough to lead the party to Genoa in the morning.”

A stubborn expression passed over his face. “I told you, I am not drunk.”

“Most assuredly,” she huffed. “And the sun will not rise in the morning, and I am not your wife!” Incensed, she shoved him out of the bed. The only reason she managed it had to be due to the great amount of beer he had already consumed.