Fairy Tale Romance Collection Read online

  “Would you keep your voice down?” Rose urged Hildy to start walking toward the Marktplatz. She glanced around, afraid the townspeople would overhear their embarrassing conversation. She imagined the miller’s skinny wife, who walked ahead of them, snorting in derision at Hildy’s compliment. The shoemaker’s buxom daughter, striding down the other side of the street, would laugh out loud.

  Hildy and her romantic notions of love. She was a candle-maker’s daughter, dreaming about the local nobility as if she had any chance of inspiring a serious thought in them. As a woodcutter’s daughter, Rose held no grand illusions about her own prospects.

  Hildy’s chatter faded into the background as Rose wondered at Lord Rupert’s flirtatious wink. But what stuck in her mind was the way Lord Hamlin had looked at her. Thinking of that, her face began to burn once again. She’d encountered her share of leering men and their crude comments, but Lord Hamlin’s look was different. It had made her feel pretty—until he noticed her clothing.

  She should have worn her good dress, the crimson one with the bit of white silk at the neck and wrists that Frau Geruscha had given her. Hildy said it brought out the red tint in her chestnut hair. But how could she have known Hildy would draw the attention of both Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert and that they would look straight at her?

  Realizing her train of thought, she snorted. What difference did it make which dress she wore? Everyone knew Lord Hamlin was betrothed to the daughter of the Duke of Marienberg. But betrothed or not, he’d hardly be interested in her. And Lord Rupert, as the younger son, would inherit none of the family’s wealth and so would need to find a rich heiress to marry.

  If, as an apprentice, Rose could impress Frau Geruscha with her skill, she would become the next healer—needed, respected. She could avoid the indignity of marrying someone out of desperation.

  So she’d never experience love. Most married people didn’t, either.

  Rose dipped her quill in the pot of ink and concentrated on scratching out the next sentence of the tale she was writing. Frau Geruscha encouraged her to write her stories, although she said it was probably best if she didn’t tell anyone about them.

  Shouts drifted through the open window of the healer’s chambers. From her vantage point in the southwest tower of Hagenheim Castle, Rose peered out, seeking the source of the commotion.

  “Make way!”

  Two men hastened across the courtyard. They carried a boy between them, using their arms for a seat. A woman ran behind them.

  Rose scrambled to hide her parchment, pen, and ink in the small trunk beside her desk. “Frau Geruscha! Someone’s coming!” She snatched up a gray apron that lay nearby and slipped it over her head.

  Wolfie adjusted his grip on his bone and growled low in his throat.

  “Wolfie, stay.”

  The dog’s lips came together, sheathing his fangs, but he focused his eyes on the door.

  Frau Geruscha entered the chamber from the storage room, her wimple bobbing like the wings of a great white bird.

  The two men carrying the boy burst through the door, the woman following close behind. Rose recognized one man as a farmer who lived near her parents’ home. The boy was his son, perhaps eight years old. He wore ragged brown hose and his torn shirt drooped on his thin frame. Bright red blood covered one of his sleeves. His lips were white, as if all the blood had drained out of his body.

  Here was her chance to show Frau Geruscha she was a competent apprentice. She would strive to appear calm and ready to help. She was thankful she had already braided her hair that morning and covered it with a linen cloth, as her mistress had instructed her.

  “Frau Geruscha!” Fear and panic lent a high pitch to the woman’s voice. “Our son fell on the plow blade.”

  The healer’s wise face wrinkled in concentration as her gaze swept the boy from head to toe. She pointed to a low straw bed against the wall, and the men laid the child on it.

  Pain drew the boy’s features tight. Rose longed to comfort him, but she didn’t want to get in Frau Geruscha’s way.

  Frau Geruscha sat on the edge of the bed. She showed no emotion as she pulled back his sleeve, revealing the gaping wound.

  “No!” The boy screamed and shrank away from her. He held his arm against his chest and drew his knees up like a shield.

  Rose turned her head. O God, don’t let me get sick. She had to prove herself.

  Frau Geruscha glanced back at Rose. “Fetch me some water from the kettle and a roll of bandages.”

  Rose scurried to the fireplace and grabbed a pottery bowl. Using a cloth to hold the lip of the iron kettle, she tipped it to one side and poured hot water into the shallow vessel. She carried it back to Frau Geruscha then dashed to the storage room to get the bandages.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  Rose tried to force the boy’s terrified voice from her mind. When she returned, Frau Geruscha was washing the blood from the wound. Rose held out the roll of fabric.

  Her hand shook. She had to get control of herself before her mistress noticed.

  Frau Geruscha took a section of the clean linen and used it to soak up the blood and water around the wound. “Rose, get him some henbane and wormwood tea.” She turned to the parents. “The herbs will help ease his pain.”

  Biting her lip, Rose ran into the adjoining storage room again. She should have guessed Frau Geruscha would want that tea. She should have already gone for it instead of standing there with her mouth open. So far she wasn’t proving herself very competent.

  Shelves of dried herbs lined the walls. She grabbed the flasks labeled henbane and wormwood and scooped a spoonful of each into a metal cup, then used a dipper to ladle in steaming water from the kettle.

  She hurried back and placed the cup in the mother’s outstretched hands. The woman held it to her son’s lips.

  Frau Geruscha made the sign of the cross and laid her hand on the boy’s arm. She then closed her eyes. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, we ask you, God, to heal this boy’s wound in the name of Jesus and by the power of his blood. Amen.”

  The smell of blood, warm and stifling, mingled with the odor of sweat. The bowl of water was now bright red, and Rose caught another whiff of the familiar, sickening smell.

  Frau Geruscha opened her eyes and crossed herself again. She reached into her box of supplies and held up a needle. The tiny metal object glinted in the morning light.

  The boy locked wide eyes on the needle and screamed, “No! No! No!” His father moved to hold him down.

  Rose fled into the storeroom, her bare feet noiseless on the stone floor. She leaned against the wall and sucked in deep breaths. Her head seemed to float off her shoulders, as light as a fluff of wool, while her face tingled and spots danced before her eyes.

  How childish. Rose pressed her face into her hands and stifled a groan. Had Frau Geruscha seen her flee the room? She must get back in there and overcome this squeamishness.

  She drew in another deep breath. The earthy odor of the herbs that hung from the rafters was stuffy, but at least it didn’t trouble her stomach like the smell of blood. Rose focused on the sights around her—the rushes strewn over the stone floor…low shelves packed with flasks of dried herbs…the rough stone wall poking her back. The screaming drifted away.

  The tingling sensation gradually left her face and she breathed more normally.

  She entered the room again, stepping carefully so as not to rustle the rushes on the floor and draw attention to herself. The boy’s eyes were closed and his lips were the same ash gray as his face. He must have lost consciousness, since he didn’t even wince as the needle pierced his skin.

  Frau Geruscha quickly finished stitching the wound. After she tied the last knot and clipped the string of catgut, she wound the remainder of the bandage around his arm and tied a thin strip of cloth around it to hold it in place.

  Finally, the people left, carrying the limp boy with them.

  Rose hurried to c
lean up the water spills and the bloody linen. Her stomach lurched at every whiff of the metallic odor, but she had to pretend it didn’t bother her, to hope her mistress didn’t notice how it affected her.

  “Are you well?” Frau Geruscha’s gray eyes narrowed, studying Rose. “You looked pale when you ran into the storage room.”

  So her mistress had noticed. “I am very well.”

  How could she be so pathetic? She had to find a way to prepare herself for the next time she must face the blood, screams, and smells.

  Ravenous after his long journey from Heidelberg, Wilhelm attacked the roasted pheasant on his trencher. A page, a lad of less than ten years, leaned over his shoulder to refill his goblet. The boy lost his balance and teetered forward. Wilhelm grabbed him around his middle and righted him, but the goblet overturned onto the table.

  The boy’s face flushed red. “Lord Hamlin, forgive me. I—”

  “No harm done.” Wilhelm gave the boy an encouraging smile.

  With a quick bow, the boy refilled Wilhelm’s goblet and moved on to the next cup.

  The Great Hall looked exactly as Wilhelm remembered it. Flags bearing the family colors of green, gold, and red jutted out from the gray stone walls on wooden poles, and several hung like banners on either side of the large mural painted on the wall. His father still spoke sternly, and his mother still clucked over him and his brother, continually admonishing Rupert to proper, gentlemanly behavior. At that moment she was reprimanding him for pinching the serving wench.

  If she only knew. While they were supposed to be educating themselves in Heidelberg under the finest teachers in the Holy Roman Empire, Rupert had spent more time carousing than studying. And as Rupert misbehaved, Wilhelm had continued sending out spies in search of Moncore.

  His younger sister, Osanna, smiled at him from across the table. Wilhelm smiled back and winked. She’d grown up in the two years he had been away. He missed the freckle-faced maiden who used to trail behind him, begging him to teach her to hunt or fish or shoot arrows.

  His father sat at the head of the trestle table, on Wilhelm’s left. He put down his knife and wiped his hands on the cloth across his lap. Then he took a drink from his goblet and turned to Wilhelm.

  “So, son, you are still scouring the country for Moncore.” He peered at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. “You’ll get him.”

  Wilhelm remembered how his father had awed—and intimidated—him as a child. His greatest desire was to make his father proud of him. “Thank you, Father.”

  His brows lowered in a scowl. “You must.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Your responsibility is to your people and to your betrothed. You must not let them down.”

  Did his father say these things because he doubted him? He had worked hard to become mighty in strength and swordplay, believing that would please his father. But there was still one thing he had not been able to accomplish; one thing that would exalt him in the eyes of his father, as well as the entire region.

  “Wilhelm.” His father nudged him with his elbow, pointing toward the far end of the table. A man dressed in leather hunting clothes stood near the door of the Great Hall. He nodded at Wilhelm, tucked his chin to his chest, and backed out of the room.

  “Pray excuse me.” Wilhelm stood and stepped over the bench where he sat with his family and the guests who had come to welcome him home. He strode from the room.

  “Lord Hamlin.” The courier stood in a shadowed corner of the corridor outside. He handed a folded parchment to Wilhelm then bowed and slipped out the door.

  Wilhelm glanced at the wax seal, confirmed it was from his spies, then ripped open the missive.

  Lord Hamlin, we have reason to believe Moncore is in our region. Be on your guard.

  Wilhelm crumpled the note in his fist. “Glory to God.”

  After Wilhelm’s six years of failing to locate the evil conjurer, the fiend had come to him.

  If he were able to capture Moncore, he could tell his future father-in-law, the Duke of Marienberg, to bring his daughter out of hiding. Wilhelm’s betrothed would finally be safe.

  But Moncore had eluded him before. The fact that one man had continued threatening Lady Salomea’s safety, despite Wilhelm’s best efforts, was a frustration like he’d never known, a splinter he couldn’t gouge out no matter how hard he tried.

  With long strides, Wilhelm headed back into the Great Hall. He’d find Georg and Christoff and discuss where to hunt for Moncore. They would ride out in less than an hour.

  Morning sunlight winked through the narrow window as Rose moved about the southwest tower. The only sounds were the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer ringing from the castle courtyard. She straightened jars of herbs, checked to see which of them needed to be replenished, and began sweeping up the old straw from the stone floor. Once finished, she would sprinkle new rushes and dried lilac over the chamber floors.

  Rose so wanted to impress her mistress, but had failed miserably. Frau Geruscha never turned ashen at the sight of blood, never shrank from the bad smells, never grew squeamish when sewing up a wound.

  O God, make me like Frau Geruscha.

  Because one day she would be expected to take over her mistress’s healing work, Rose grew increasingly more desperate to be a good healer. If she returned home a failure, her mother would torment her until she accepted one of her suitors—a desperate widower with nine children, an old man with no teeth, anyone with a little money.

  A commotion in the courtyard cut her musings short. She put her broom away in case the noise was the result of someone in need, coming to the healer for help.

  As the shouts drew closer, her stomach knotted. Frau Geruscha was away and might not be back for several hours. Please, let them not be coming to see Frau Geruscha. She stood in the middle of the room and held her breath as she stared at the door, waiting.

  “Frau Geruscha!” a masculine voice boomed. Someone pounded on the door.

  Rose rushed to unlatch the door. Three men stood at the threshold. The middle one’s arms were draped over the shoulders of the other two. His head hung down so that she couldn’t see his face. Sweat dripped from the dark hair clinging to his brow.

  She recognized the men on either side as the two knights who yesterday had traveled alongside Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert. That meant the one in the middle was—

  Lord Hamlin lifted his head, his face pale. His eyes riveted her with a look of pain.

  Chapter

  2

  Rose couldn’t stand there gaping, so she spurred her mind to action. “Lay him on the bed. Where is he hurt?”

  The two knights eased him down. “Right leg,” one of them said. “Wild boar gored him. Where’s Frau Geruscha?”

  Of course they wanted Frau Geruscha, the healer, not her lowly apprentice. “She’s gone.”

  “Where?” The man with the dirty blond hair barked the word, tension showing in the wrinkles between his eyes. “Where did she go? We’ll fetch her.”

  “I know not. The woods somewhere, gathering herbs and visiting the sick.” She averted her eyes to Lord Hamlin’s leg, lest the man’s dismayed expression drain her of courage.

  She sank to her knees beside Lord Hamlin. The dark stain on his hose indicated an injury on the outside of his calf. The boar’s tusk had sliced through his leather boot, its jagged edges dangling open. “Help me get this boot off.”

  The knight nearest to her was twice her size, with red hair sticking straight up on top of his head. He bent over and tugged on the shoe.

  “Ahhhg,” Lord Hamlin groaned.

  Rose glanced up. Lord Hamlin’s eyes were closed and his features clenched in pain. Compassion squeezed her stomach like a fist.

  Once the boot was off, blood dripped from his foot off the side of the bed. She grabbed a knife from a nearby shelf and half cut, half ripped the cloth away at his knee. The material stuck to his leg, held on by dried blood.

  Running to the adjoining room, she fetched a bo
wl of water and a clean cloth. She dipped the cloth into the water and repeatedly soaked his leg until the water turned bright red.

  She must not focus on the smell or sight of the blood, must not dwell on the fact that this was Lord Hamlin—the duke’s eldest son—bleeding all over the floor.

  Gently, Rose pulled the cloth away from the jagged wound, which extended the length of his calf and looked very deep. Fresh blood oozed from the gash. She used her thumb and fingers to push the two edges together while pressing a linen cloth against it with her other hand, angrily commanding herself the whole time not to get sick.

  Lord Hamlin moaned low in his throat.

  Thinking about his pain made her stomach twist. Don’t think about it. Be like Frau Geruscha. What would Frau Geruscha do?

  “You there.” She glanced up at the redheaded knight, who squatted beside her. “Hold this.”

  The man dropped to his knees and pressed the bandage.

  Rose stood and rushed into the storage room. She found the dried henbane and wormwood and put a spoonful of each into a cup, spilling some on the floor in her haste. A jar labeled poppy arrested her gaze. It couldn’t hurt. Rose threw in a spoonful, ladled hot water from the kettle into the cup, and carried it to Lord Hamlin.

  His eyes were still closed, but when she approached, they flickered open and fixed her with a heavy-lidded gaze.

  “Here.” She addressed the other knight, whose equally unkempt blond hair and beard were covered in dust. “Give him this tea.”

  The man helped Lord Hamlin into a sitting position.

  Rose knelt beside the knight holding the bandage. “I thank you,” she said.

  The knight stood and she took his place. She held her breath and eased the cloth away from the wound. The bleeding had stopped.

  The wound was ugly. She closed her eyes and tried not to think how much it must have hurt when the angry boar thrust its tusk into Lord Hamlin’s leg. She hoped it wouldn’t fester. The yellow pus that sometimes developed in wounds often led to death. O merciful God, let Lord Hamlin’s leg not develop that telltale sign.