Forever and a Lifetime
by
Jennifer Horsman
SMASHWORDS EDTION
*****
PUBLISHED BY
Jennifer Horsman on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Horsman
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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*****
Chapter One
An autumn sun set on the court of Charles the Bold, lord of the realm of the Lucerne Valley where the court presently convened in the castle of the Lower Lake. The castle was a product of the early twelfth century, and only one concept governed the grand fortress: defense.
Everything both inside and outside of the stone fortress had been designed for the sole purpose of beating back an attack. Like a mammoth stand of stone trees, four towers rose against a green hillside. These great monstrosities enclosed a space of more than two archers and threw lengthening shadows over the township of perhaps a hundred houses and a square-cut church that serviced the castle. The only entrance to the castle was a fortified gate positioned between guard towers, a gate further protected by the portcullis. Another twenty-foot stone wall separated the inner and outer bailey so that the stables, barn and kitchen, the servants and guard barracks were housed a goodly distance from the keep— which now served only to give all but the most industrious servants a thirty-minute excuse for being late. The four tall stories and basement of the stone-and-wood keep—the solar rooms and chambers, the chapel, hall, and storage rooms—could only be maneuvered by climbing up or down the most treacherous spiral staircases, a winding menace that turned sharply upward to the right so that the knight coming up was hampered by the center post but the defender coming down was not.
Large with her third child, Lady Fiona, descending from her rooms in the solar to the main hall, was keenly aware of this. With one hand flat against the stone wall and her other hand gripping Sarah's, one of her serving women, she eased her cumbersome weight from one unseen step to another. "Anyway," she was telling Sarah, "there I was in the middle of a great large circle with God knows how many hands pushed against my belly to feel these somersaults, when I looked up and saw Anne Marie. Such sadness! I half thought she would burst into tears, I did, and it made me think, why, Nichole is right—"
Lady Fiona stopped of a sudden as a clamor of noise and voices were heard shouting after someone from the great hall below. She braced against the cold stone wall as the sound of quick, soft footsteps rose closer and closer. A girl raced up the staircase beneath them. The narrow space burst into sudden colors: a plain bright yellow gown, pale skin, raven dark hair— Nichole!
Startled blue eyes shot up and, breathless, Nichole pressed against the center post across from them. She closed her eyes against the torrent pounding in her head, trying to catch her breath as a litany of prayers rushed to overcome her disbelief at last. He meant it... He meant it. . .
"Milady." Sarah dropped a slight, unseen curtsey, holding tight to Fiona as they stared at the girl. Something terrible had happened, a wild kind of terror and rage marked the lovely, flushed face, and unnaturally deep quick breaths pushed her breasts against the low bodice of a plain yellow gown. The girl's legendary thick, dark hair was plaited thrice, each plait wrapped in a tight circle around her head to form a halo of black silk that seemed to catch and hold the torch's light. Only Nichole could change a plain unadorned dress and the simplest hairstyle into something remarkable and lovely.
A dual heritage drew the young lady's beauty, and a great and rare beauty it was. Everything about the lady Nichole Lucretia radiated the health and vitality of living in this land where nature's splendor was displayed on a scale so majestic as to be unequaled the world over. Like most Swiss, she was tall, slender, and admirably proportioned, blessed, too, with her countrywoman's famed complexion. Yet the long dark hair, the arrogance of her poise, and the formidable intelligence—she was too smart for a girl, everyone thought so—these things let no one forget that not only was her father the late Lord Charles of Lucerne but that her dear mother had been an Italian princess of the famous Medici family.
The girl's regular if delicate features belied her uncommon strength and character, misleading all those who did not know her better. Set in a heart-shaped face, two thin brows arched dramatically over lovely eyes. A bright rosy blush spread across her high cheekbones; and a small, straight nose added a beguiling element of whimsy to the picture, while the full, sensual lines that drew her mouth mischievously concealed the well-known sting of her tongue. A wild, rebellious nature— "like a wood creature she is", people said, shaking their heads—mixed with the great wealth of her compassion, understanding, and kindness, often with disastrous results. She was an initiate to the old religion, too, and she freely dispensed that treasured knowledge—too freely, Nanna always complained. Yet even if she weren't so able and quick to help, she'd still be the jewel of the Lucerne court, loved by one and all. The magic of her charm captured the hearts and laughter of the men and the love of the women.
The women watching her were no exception, and with alarm, Fiona reached to take her hand. The girl gripped it tightly. "Nichole, my love, what has happened?" The yellow dress reminded her suddenly . . . the color of mourning for the initiates. Dear, no! Nanna, has she . . . mon Dieu, has she—"
"Nay." Nichole managed to shake her head, and in a gasping, pain-filled voice, "Nay, by God's grace she is still with me—though I know not how. Yet, Fiona, 'tis bad-"
"What? What has happened?"
"Nichole! Nichole!"
Nichole's women and the ladies of her brother's court had overcome the shock of Nichole's defiance to race up the stairs in pursuit of the girl. Four ladies suddenly appeared below them and more behind, and there was a sudden chaos of cries and exclamations and scolding; Charles's curses rising over them. "God's teeth, don't let me get my hands on you, girl, for I will beat you sound for this… What goes on here?" Charles asked indifferently as he met the alarmed feminine faces, the ladies quickly parting for him. "Has my entire court adjourned to the staircase?" Then with a wave of his hand, "Be gone with you now. None can save my sister this time."
No one moved at first. "Go! Be gone!", then the women lifted skirts and fled the tight space of the narrow staircase, no doubt to hover just out of sight below, listening to what he would say to the rebellious girl who went too far this time. Fiona and Sarah were last to pass, Fiona searching Charles's face for a clue as to what had happened but learning nothing past the obvious—he was furious.
A formidable presence, Charles never hid his emotions. A scowl on his face sent fierce warriors scurrying like rats in a fire, while the wave of his hand dispensed crowds of hundreds. Eleven years her senior, Charles was more like her father to her, and with the exception of Nanna, Nichole could not love anyone more. He was and always would be a great hero in her mind, better than the next ten best men, and there was no greater prize than winning his laughter, his love, his admiration, a prize more treasured than all the others put together; until now.
Like their father, too, Charles was a handsome man, devastatingly so—a popular consensus. Ladies found the air of extreme danger and power emanating from him as attractive as-the pronounced angular features were handsome: the flat rectangle of his forehead, the sharp arch of brows and long, narrow nose and wide mouth, the point of his goatee, and even the oddity of his mustache, how on one side he let the length grow uncut until it reached across his face and curled over his ear—for luck in battle, he said. Nichole knew him far better, though, and with her, only with her, he dropped his airs and pretenses, not often but long enough to keep him in the special place in her heart.
With the exception of the old woman upstairs dying, she loved her brother more than any other. Even before their parents died—-their father first, followed tragically by their mother two months after that, who died with the birth of a stillborn child—even before then, Charles's love had replaced her father's. Charles loved her when their father did not. Since the day she learned to walk, she followed him about, clinging to each small toss of his affection as if it were a treasure from God, and it was, it was. Until now. Until he did this thing to her.
Charles stopped a step beneath her and leveled his gaze at her, the unnatural pale-blue color burning like the fires of a snow burial, his anger intense. For all of it, though, if anger could be measured on a scale, Nichole's would be greater.
"How dare you unleash that tongue of yours against me in front of my court, young lady!" He pointed a finger of his legendary gloved hand, the hand that had been covered since the day of his birth, its disfigurement so distressing their mother. "Before I publicly take a hand to your backside, what do you have to say for yourself?"
"How could you, Charles?" She ignored his vacuous threats to go to the issue that ignited the night like a thunderclap, the surprise announcement of her betrothal. "How could you do this to me? You've never even asked—"
"Asked? Curse it, girl, you are as spoiled as winter fruit! Nichole Lucretia, you have known since swaddling clothes you would not choose your husband, for no highborn lady has the choice. 'Tis mine to make for you and for the better of Lucerne. And I can tell you this, no pope ever put as much deliberation into a treatise as I put to the question of your husband. Gustave de luc Froissart is the best man, I say! You should fall to your knees with gratitude, thanking me and God for the match. The duke is richer than even I, not too old and—"
"And a weasel! Less than a weasel! He is low, vain, and cruel! He is unjust." The last word was pronounced as an indictment, the damning fault. "The only time I met him, I had to intercede, as he ordered a poor horse killed for stepping on his foot. Even you were shocked that a man would kill a perfectly fine creature for a prick of pride and then . . . then while he is courting me, he seduced two of my women—"
"Two?" He questioned surprised, then realizing, "Oh, for God sakes!"
"Aye, and poor Mayra is so daft, she didn't know what was happening till the man dropped his leggings. 'Twas like the raping of a child—"
"Listen you, sister mine . . ." He cut her off, the great wealth of his energies going into controlling his temper, rising as it always did when he confronted the only living person who could speak to him like this. "If you think I will let the affairs of state be altered by a virgin's fears—"
That was too much! "Virgin's fears? That is a lie, you know full well! Dear God, I will lay with your army to prove it! I decline for Lucerne! The man is shallow, witless, unendurable, and while he might put his nobility beneath God, 'tis elevated in his mind's eye well above the angels. His only notion of justice is that of a lance or sword, his idea of righteousness for the people is the swift collection of his outrageous tithes. I will not marry him, Charles! I will not! Charles, Charles," she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, switching tactics in a breath, pleading now as her eyes went wild with the fear of it. "If you asked only for my lifelong unhappiness, I would give that to you gladly, you know I would, but, God forbid, what if something happens to you? Anne Marie is still without a child, and with no heir my husband will inherit the realm—"
"Stop it, I say! Enough!"
Nichole gasped, her hands clasping her mouth. He had expressly forbidden ever mentioning Nanna's prophecy—the night four years ago when the old woman announced to the full court that the man Nichole married would inherit the realm, she had seen it with her famous third eye. The auspicious announcement came before Charles's second wife died in childbirth with a stillborn girl and long before it seemed obvious that his third wife Anne Marie was barren. Everyone had believed it even then, and most still did, for Nanna's sight was as famous as the miraculous power of her medicines, potions, and ointments. Just as Nanna could cure headaches and hangovers, a child's fever or earache, infertility or overfertility, and every problem in between, the old woman could predict everything from the course of storms to the sex of the unborn—and all with startling accuracy. Nichole was Nanna's initiate in the old religion, and she had been taught all these secrets, not just the ingredients in the potions but the tricks of the prophecies. And none the least was this last.
Only Nichole knew Nanna had made the whole thing up, or so she had confessed. " Tis a goodly way to protect ye when I'm gone. If yer kinfolk all think the man ye marry inherits the realm, then the fools will be sure enough to pick only the very best man. No foppish blue blood old men fer ye." Nanna had laughed, always amused by the success of her ploys. "And did ye not see the look on Charles's face . . ." Nichole had seen the look on Charles's face, and though Charles claimed to think Nanna half senile and the rest of her ridiculous, from that point on he did not bother to hide his animosity toward the old woman. Like her mother...
Which tore her in two. For as much as she loved her brother, no one who lived—past, present, or future— could win Nanna's place in her life or heart. Nanna was an essential part of her, and in a way only the initiate could understand. She loved Nanna as much as her own mother . . . more even, for Nanna was more. Nanna had molded her very consciousness with the ancient wisdom and knowledge of the old religion, forming the very beat and pulse of her soul.
The explosive conflict sat between them, the fuse of Charles's temper running very short. He held his head in the gloved hand as he tried to control his anger. Yet as Nichole stared at him she abruptly understood that he had done this on purpose. He had waited until Nanna had fallen from her fever into the coma, waited until Nichole was too weak with her grief to fight him.
Slowly, in a tone made hard with the control he placed on it, he said, "My lords were right, I see that now. I raised you with too free a hand. I reap the consequences now, as it is finally time for you to do your duty to me and to Lucerne." She started to protest, but the velvet glove came to her mouth. "Nay, sister mine, I will hear no more. I will let the matter settle in your mind, and in time you will see the wisdom of my choice. You will marry the duke. I will force you if necessary."
The pale eyes shimmered beneath emotions she didn't understand, he turned from her. For one long moment, she waited incredulously for him to turn back and offer the acquiescence he always gave her, until now. Dear God—
With a sudden flurry of yellow, Nichole swung around, running up the steep steps. The girl fled past the chapel, the sewing room, past the guard's rest and the servants' rooms. She reached the solar landing and turned down the well-lit hall to her outer rooms against the west wall that overlooked the lake. She pushed open the door and stepped in the dark space of the waiting room and through the door into the warm, soft light of her chambers.
Mayra rose at once, but stopped upon seeing Nichole's alarm. "Milady? What's—"
"Leave me, Mayra. Please . . ."
"Aye." Without another word, Mayra lifted her skirts and quit the room. The door shut. The silence rang loud.
Thirty-three candles lit the space of Nichole's vigil. The still September night air was warm, filled with the sweet, perfumed scent of the candles. Sparing no expense, Nichole had replaced the common wisps of rushlight made from tallow with sweet-scented candles of expensive beeswax. The candles surrounded the old woman in gold light where she lay so still on the four-poster goose feather bed under a blue satin comforter. Nanna's element was air, her color the blue of a summer sky and during the long hours of the seven-day vigil, Nichole had embroidered a blue velvet cap with beautiful birds made of gold and silver thread. The cap now covered the old woman's head and her knee-length white hair was neatly plaited with line-thin blue silk ribbons woven decorously through the long ropes.
Like a great centurion oak, Nanna had always had a tall, strong, and commanding presence, growing more beautiful with each year's passing. Yet now, with seven days of nothing but the broth and the ravishes of a fever that would come and go with the wind, the old woman looked small, frail, remarkably childlike, as if the Goddess's promised rebirth had begun before the last breath left her body.
A month ago Nanna announced she would soon be dying, that it was time. Just like that. She set about preparing for the passing, much as one might prepare for a long journey. Nichole was given a multitude of instructions, but the old woman had denied her the comfort of grief, for there was just too much to do: order had to be set to her treasured book of hours, the last secrets shared, recipes checked and rechecked, and Nanna's rather surprising fortune dispensed to the poor.
Within two weeks, a rock had formed in the old woman's lungs, which brought on the fever. Nanna's life was made by air—and as fire consumed air, fire was her antithesis and so it was the fever, Nichole knew, that would take Nanna's life. Just as she had planned, the old woman at last fell into unconsciousness, where she had stayed for seven days now. "This way ye don't have to mourn over a still and lifeless body. Yet ye only get seven days, then ye can bury yer grief with my body . . ." Nanna felt certain the only good tears were made from the uplifted heart, from joy. Tears were, after all, a passive response to the world, changing nothing. One should either accept the tragic or change it, and crying signaled neither.
Nanna was also a stickler for the laws governing the art of numerology, and since the seventh day was the one of rest, transformation, change, Nichole had little doubt Nanna would leave her on this night...
This night when she needed her most! Nichole leaned against the door, staring through the flickering gold light to where Nanna lay, her heart still pounding furiously. Thoughts clamored one after another, piling to reinforce her conviction. "I will not marry the unjust man! I will not..."
A miracle took shape before her eyes, or so she thought as she watched the bright, haloed light forming over the bed where the old woman lay. Just as her mind rushed with wild ideas of miracles and enchantments, she realized the light was brought by nothing more than the hot sting in her eyes. "Oh, Nanna . . . Nanna!" She rushed to the bed, dropped to her knees, and with all the drama of a young girl's heart, she seized the old woman's still-warm hand in hers. "Nanna . . . Nanna, was my strength drawn from you all these years? Is that why I feel so weak and frightened a sudden? Nanna, oh, Nanna," she whispered, washed in an overwhelming wave of sadness and missing and fear. "I have lost him. I don't know what to do, I . . ."
For the first time since she had knelt alongside her mother's deathbed nearly ten years before, tears came from her eyes. Then it was like a dam breaking, as wave after wave of grief rose, crested, fell away only to rise up again. Each time she felt the tears finally subside, she desperately tried various tools to keep the wave upon the sand, to calm her emotions, but another wave would rise more powerfully crushing than the last, choking her, leaving her gasping and helpless and alone until—
The voice was neither weak nor faint but filled with outrage. "Mercy of angels, Nichole, do ye think I need all this light to die by? Beeswax, no less! Have I taught ye no thin' all these years?"
Through wide, blurred eyes, Nichole looked up to confront the darkly brown ones, and the shock of her young life! Apparently, Nanna had made a mistake in her calculating or planning—which itself was a kind of miracle, as the old woman's mistakes, like the Goddess herself, were as rare as a summer snow. Nichole was too shocked to respond to the changed circumstances, and she kept wiping her eyes as relentless tears filled them. Nanna took the girl's shock into her consideration, giving her a moment's time to catch up. "Ye got my hand all wet and . . . and what is this on my head?" She reached up to remove the cap, and as she examined the beauty of the stitchery, emotion filled and changed her eyes.
The old woman found the girl's face and only then realized why she had come back. Normally Nichole's eyes were the blue of the deep waters of Lower Lake beneath summer sky, a tempestuous blue that reflected the girl's soul, her fervent passion for life, the wide scope of her heart that included all of Lucerne—this rich land blessed with deep, clear lakes, thick forests, the ever-majestic presence of snowcapped mountains and, most of all, her love of the people . . . Into these eyes Nanna looked and yet what she saw confused her.
Nichole's senses returned all at once, swelling with sudden joy and excitement as she stood up, still wiping at her eyes. "I cannot believe you opened your eyes. I ... I will call for Mayra and a tray—"
The old woman caught her hand, squeezing it, and Nichole felt the weakness of her grasp. The fever had returned, too. "My child... my dear, dear child. My time is an hourglass, turned upside down . . ." She collapsed, weak against the pillow. The memory of the bright, warm light surrounding her receded like a dream upon waking, and now she was here again. "I kept hearing ye callin' and callin' . . . and now I see . . . Nichole, what has happened? The grief and sadness are mine . . . but this fear? Where goes this fear?"
In her desperation, Nichole did not grasp the miracle of it. All she knew was that Nanna had awakened when this was not possible, awakened to tell how she should change Charles's mind. "He announced my betrothal tonight. He waited till I was weak with my grief—"
The old woman grabbed Nichole's arm. "Who? Who did he name?"
"The Duke of Uri, Gustave de luc Froissart!"
"That bastard! He promised me . . . He swore—" Rage changed the old woman's eyes into something fierce and frightening and deadly. "Nichole, Nichole, listen to me, listen. You cannot marry that man, you cannot. There is far more than your marital life or the souls of your unborn sons at risk . . . far more. You must fight him—"
"I begged, pleaded, threatened, and he turned from me. For the first time he turned his back to me. I fear the worst! I fear he stepped from the reach of reason, the bond of my love. The Church is on his side, he will force it!"
The old woman's illness could not accommodate the surge of her emotions and she started coughing violently. Worried eyes watched the frail body shake. The fit finally left the old woman gasping, each gasp forming a word. "I should have given it to ye long ago, I should have foreseen he would betray me once I was gone, but I thought . . . 'Tis a bad omen to give this to ye, a very bad omen for 'twill bring a passel of terror, but I . . . " She started coughing again, weak gasps for breath. "I have a weapon against him, a thing that will force him to your will. Nichole, Nichole . . ." She grabbed her arm and in all of Nichole's life, she had never seen Nanna more alarmed. "Are ye strong enough to go against the man your brother is on this? To save Lucerne?" Passionately, "Are ye, Nichole?"
Wide-eyed and alarmed, the girl nodded—slowly at first, but as she stared into the conviction burning in the old woman's eyes, ever more vigorously.
"No matter what he does or says, ye must resist. I see ... he will put the fate of many in yer hands, but there must be a trick in this. Their fate depends on ye not just fighting Charles . . . but ye must also win." She closed her eyes, forcing her strength to rally long enough, to explain. "Turn to our trust for comfort when the world turns dark. Know only that ye cannot marry that man, no matter what . . ."
The voice faded to wheezing sputters, and Nichole leaned over the bed, alarmed. She grabbed Nanna's shoulders, "Nanna . . . Nanna!"
The old woman felt her throat close as if it were a chimney valve. She could not breathe. The memory of the white light beckoned, threatening to overcome her senses, and so powerful no other soul could resist. Yet using all the strength of her great will, she pulled Nichole down to her mouth to ensure the girl heard her words well: "The paper . . . the paper . . . Yer father's blood, he knows not where 'tis. Get it, Nichole, get the secret. . . 'Twill ruin him, ruin . . . Nichole, where are ye? Put ye hands on the Bible..."
A warm, gentle wind blew in through the window and the light of the candles leaped at it, desperate to keep the old woman's soul in the room for the girl. Yet Nanna was of the air, from which light drew existence, and as the air swept and left the room, it took out the lights, leaving only half a secret, the darkness, and a young girl crying over the still and lifeless body of the old woman she loved.
A thick mist clung like angel hair to the base of Mount Pilatus, spreading a gray blanket of fog over the North lake country of Switzerland, where five riders rode at a gallop. No flags designated the Swiss canton of the riders, though the predominance of maroon and black marked them as being from the Lucerne Valley. Nor was there any sign of the highborn status of two of the riders, for none of the usual fanfare or entourage accompanied either Lady Nichole Lucretia or her brother, Charles the Bold, Lord of the Realm of the Lucerne Valley. This was a secret mission of the utmost importance and urgency and no one was to know about it.
Only Charles and Nichole understood the impossibly high stakes of the game being played, though it was now Charles's retaliatory move, and for his own reasons, he kept his young sister ignorant of their destination. Owing to her personal fortitude— "She might look like an angel but she rides like a man, she does," one of the men commented, unwillingly admiring her impressive riding ability—Nichole never once complained, not of their predawn departure, or of being denied the company of her ladies nor, indeed, even of the seven hard hours of riding. Still, none of the men were inclined to appreciate the courage and determination covered head to foot in a dark maroon cape that spread like wings in flight.
Pulling back on the hard-worked leather reins to hold the stallion back a pace or two, Charles caught a sideways glance of his sister. Nichole kept her back ramrod straight and, though aware of his scrutiny, she ignored it, staring straight ahead at the mist-covered land, the dew-laced leaves of trees and grass as if the common scenery held the fascination of an illuminated manuscript.
Nichole showed no sign of her fear.
As the horses galloped past the last village of the Vierwald region and headed north, Nichole at last guessed his design. The ill-fated region of Stan! Why, how strange! The horses thundered through an abandoned field, grass and bramble bushes growing where wheat should be, evidence of indigent soil and tired people. It was the only depressed region of the canton: the people of Stan were as poor as the crops here, too poor to support any industry. Nanna always said Stan was ill-fated, not because of magic or mystery or its distance from the protection of the Lucerne Valley or even, as most thought, because it sat beneath two black laylands, but simply because these poor people existed in the morning shadow of the great Mount Pilatus.
Nanna . . . Nanna . . . Nanna ... Like a curse or a spell, the name appeared in Nichole's mind with every thought. Still, she gave no sign of her fear or the strain accumulating for the last three days since the old woman's death . . . accumulating like an avalanche racing toward a thunderous crash. Like her fear, she held tight to the reins as Tardian fought for the bit, uneasy and restless behind these men, more uneasy with the three stallions in the group. As Nichole skillfully managed her half-wild mare and took in the strangeness of her surroundings, she thought Nanna's words must be true. Ill-fated because of the shadow! Not because Nanna said it—God knows, the old woman was just as likely to lie as to tell the truth—but while mists in Swiss lake country were usually warm, the overcast sky above seemed darker and the mist thicker and cold.
A feeling gradually penetrated Nichole's senses, and her gaze danced nervously about the landscape as the inner voice told her to be afraid. The steady pounding of horses' hooves became a backdrop for the thud of her heart as her gaze flew about the fast-moving landscape—nothing but swirling colors of green and grays. She tried to tell herself she was safe, that no matter how she threatened Charles, he couldn't, wouldn't hurt her. Yet it was as if she heard the screams of terror echoing through the land from the night, as if she already knew what he was bringing her to see . . .
Nichole had not spoken all day and she would not speak now, though through the thickness of her cloak, her very skin, she felt the anger in his gaze. She could feel it! Charles, Charles, I had to! I had to force this hand, for I cannot, will not, marry the duke!
At last, the horses came onto a wide shepherd's path that led into a small country village and Charles held up a gloved hand as he pulled rein to stop. The dappled gray stallion raised hooves to the air, and the man upon the beast in motion looked a magnificent mythological sight: the tall, princely figure clad in a black velvet broad tunic, scarlet leggings, and fur-lined cape, the handsome face crowned by thick, rust-colored hair. Nichole's fear cried out in silence: Dear God what have I done in making him my enemy! My brother who I love more than anyone now...
The horses quickly rallied around Charles, and Nichole skillfully brought her mare into control, tightening the reins and calming Tardian's nervous dance. Charles sat atop his stallion directly across from her, his men gathered around. These were not the lords of Council, but Charles's own guards, men who, except for the newer face, had served her brother as long as she remembered. The newer man was Kairtand, shrewd and dangerous Kairtand, the great red giant at Charles's side, he with his watchful eyes both silent and knowing. Something surely amiss about him. . .
"We are almost at the place, sister mine."
His tone sounded barely above a whisper, and yet the world suddenly seemed still, as if time itself had stopped. She nervously cast her gaze about her, not understanding the furious pace of her heart, the quick, deep breaths her lungs demanded. The silence again. There was nothing save the profound quiet of a Swiss mountain mist, but this silence spoke to her and loudly.
"Death has been here," she said, as a way of explaining her fear. "Mon Dieu, I hear the cries of the dead in this silence."
A surprised brow rose. Charles should be used to her uncanny intuition, the intuition of the initiates. "That old witch served you well. Your intuition is keen. Death lies ahead in a place I will show you, a place that will change you, sister mine."
Nichole watched as he turned his mount away, emotions blazing in her eyes. What did he mean by that? What were they doing here? The silence of the glen became a roar in her ears, warning her with the pounding of her heart and pulse, the quickness of her breaths, and the frantic search of her eyes. The grief of Nanna's death washed over her in force, leaving her alone as she never before had been. She must take care. 'Twas a deadly game of blindman's buff, one that, for Lucerne and the good of all, she had to win.
Once recovered, she pushed Tardian into the forest where Charles's men waited, leading the horse ahead of them to her place behind her brother, oblivious as always to the stares of his men. Nanna always said a man's brass stare falls dead in the air when you fail to see it. Which proved true as Nichole's gaze focused ahead of Charles and through the trees.
The men knew what lay ahead, so it was Nichole's cry that broke the silence. "There's smoke!"
"Aye, fire was set to this place."
Smoke rose, indistinguishable from the mist except at blackened and charred foundations of what had once been houses. Tardian neighed angrily and reared back. The party stopped. Understanding her creature's fear as her own, Nichole leaned forward to speak softly into Tardian's ear, but the horse threw her head back, agitated, and refused another step forward . . . and even more when Nichole tightened the bit, kicking her boots to her side. Tardian would not have none of it, so terrified was she.
With an irritated curse, Charles came to his sister's side and took her bridle in hand, in this way forcing the creature forward. "What's wrong with her? Why is she so frightened?"
The scent assaulted her first. She choked on it. Hands flew to her mouth, as her eyes alit with panic.
Charles's gaze held a strange light. "You and your creature are the only ones among us not trained for battle. You do not need the sight of your religion now. Open your eyes and behold."
The words sounded as they emerged from the forest at the edge of the village. Afraid to draw breath, Nichole looked wildly about. Black smoke rose from many of the burned houses and shops, curling mournfully into the gray mist like the very shapes of ghosts. That was not the focus of her vision, for in the center of the square lay a macabre pile of bodies . . . bodies of the townsfolk.
Nichole stared for one second, that was all. There were decapitations and mutilations and bloating carcasses, painted with an impossible volume of dark, dried blood. Greedy rats scurried on and around the pile, a vision drawn from hell. She drew in a shocked gasp and, without thought, the instinct to survive caused her to gaze about: a desperate toss to the burnt houses beyond, where eyes riveted on the one remaining box of flowers left—but left, it seemed, only to make a point by contrast. For beneath the box of flowers a woman lay with her arms wrapped desperately around a child, a blanket of blood spread around them.
The breath in her lungs burned with the unholy taste of the terror here and she choked on it a split second before she saw the same horror in the red giant's gaze, as with efficient moves, this man Kairtand grabbed Tardian's bridle while Charles lifted her from her mount across his saddle where he held her as she wretched. As if to expunge the vision, she did not stop until she was weak and breathless and trembling.
"Charles . . . who . . . who did this?"
"The Basel Alliance. Jonpaul the Terrible himself rode here last night."
Jonpaul the Terrible . . . Jonpaul the Terrible . . . Her mind numbly echoed the name. She had always known it, everybody did. Until now, she hadn't believed it, none of it: Lord of the hated Basel Alliance, Jonpaul the Terrible, a demon who rode through the countryside disbanding entire villages to hunt peasants for sport, a great monster of a man who, drunk on the devil's own laughter, could take down fifty warriors. Until now, he had always seemed like the dragons and tales of olden days, made only of myth and legend.
The air was unnaturally still and quiet, the echo of a thousand silent tears of innocent people who wanted nothing more but to live in peace and good will throughout the changing seasons of time. Nichole braced herself and, using all her strength, she forced herself to look upon the dead once more, pairing the sight in her mind with the name Jonpaul. So there would be war now, as this Lord Jonpaul the Terrible of Basel stretched the reach of his ambition after the Burgundy War to the lands of Lucerne—this dangerous enough, but even so much worse now with his alliance with Solothurn and Berne. A war. She tried to imagine not just one village sacked but the entire land of Lucerne and all her people in it falling beneath the swords of raging warriors who killed and raped and then killed some more . . . but she could not, for this image was many, many worlds beyond the scope of her imagination.
Terror seeped into her mind, seizing the whole of her, and, seeing this, Charles battled to keep triumph from showing on his face. "And now, my pretentious little sister," his voice sounded profane against the silence of the dead, "you see why it was wise to keep my army when so many wanted my men disbanded and sent home. I knew, Nichole, I knew the lord Jonpaul would never turn from us. There will be war soon and I will win it. I have the army of St. Gallen, but I want Uri." With vicious emotion, he continued. "I must have Uri, and you, Nichole, must get it for me. You will marry the duke!"
The words penetrated her terror to form a denial. Twas a kind of madness she would never be able to rationalize and she did not try to. Not now... for directly contrary to Charles's expectations, Nanna had warned her that he would throw the fate of many lives into the equation: "... but their fate depends on ye not just fighting Charles on this, but ye must also win."
She closed her eyes and covered her ears, the echo of Nanna's voice louder than the wails of the dead. Each word carved the conviction in her heart: she must fight him . . . she must fight him ...
Then she only shook her head, and it was the boldest move of her life. The choice had been made long ago... no matter what, she could not, would not marry the unjust man. Bloodshed or no, war or no, she could not marry so more men might die. Even if to save the Lucerne she loved. "No," she whispered, "No, Charles—"
"You would dare!" His voice thundered above her. "You would dare! Lord Jonpaul can spread this ruin across our land, all of it, and you would dare say no to me? Vertlucht! Nay, sister mine, nay!" Charles's hands snaked painfully around her arms. "My will be done. You will marry the duke! Paper or no, I know the place where you won't have chance to threaten me again. If you will not marry him to save Lucerne, then perhaps you will do it to save yourself from exile!"
*****
Chapter Two
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall, arched windows of Dornach Castle, falling in streams to the square-cut marble floor of the great hall where the lords of the realm convened. The noise rose in noticeable increments throughout the evening, competing with the musicians serenading the gathering from the gallery above.
Few of the lords or ladies seated at the mammoth white-clothed table on the dais or the servants and pages rushing about to serve them noticed the fine melody of notes played by the English musicians. Nor did the lords and ladies pay any attention to the startling buffet of food spread before them—or certainly not the attention deserved by the bountiful plates and bowls of soup, lambs' heads, pork griskin, ox palates, fricasseed trout, various fruit and vegetable dishes, and French pie. With the exception of one or two of the ladies who whispered praise for the ingenuity of the chefs preparation of these dishes as they discreetly adjusted the stiff bodices of their gowns, all of it was ignored. The men might have been eating oatmeal and tack for all they knew or cared, their attention was so riveted by the heated argument. In typical Swiss tradition, the lord Jonpaul welcomed dissension and discussion on all issues—especially this issue.
Interspersed among the men, the ladies managed to keep their own counsel, enthusiastically engaging in their own conversations and using the opportunity of the Council to renew friendships and exchange news. Yet knowing the discussion would last for several hours more, the subject far from being resolved, the ladies began leaving to check on servants and children or coalescing in smaller groups of twos and threes to discuss their own concerns. Unlike their men, the ladies had an unspoken agreement not to discuss this possibility of a war among themselves, as if voicing one's fears out loud would make it more likely.
The pretense of domesticity soon shattered as Lord Hans Wesmullar suddenly slammed his fist on the table, sending bread falling to the floor and an errant bird flying to the ceiling. The court of the great hall fell instantly silent. One servant dropped to his knees before he realized the outburst had naught to do with the wine he just spilled. Jonpaul's great Saint Bernard, Hercules, sat up, alert and warily watching for trouble. The musicians stopped on a high crescendo that seemed to reflect the passion of Hans's conviction, the color reaching his lined, weathered face, an ominous light in his bright blue eyes as he shouted, "I say enough! Enough!"
Despite the lord's fifty-three years, he was still a great show of a man, handsome and strong, as fearless in battle as Jonpaul himself and nearly as popular. While he was known for the impulsive reach of his sword, he was nonetheless viewed as a just and fair man and for any number of reasons, not the least being the prosperity of his lands and the city of Berne, the older man's lasting friendship with Jonpaul, and the balance his more conservative opinion provided against the excess of Jonpaul's reforms. His voice was weighed heavily by the council. "Strike the barbarians before they strike us again! Let me lead my men across Pilatus for a quick offensive!"
All gazes turned to Jonpaul. His Lordship's darkly intelligent eyes held Hans, but no one could tell what he was thinking, for the handsome features of his face remained impassive, expressionless. "Ah, a quick offensive." His rich voice sounded in quiet authority over the room as he appeared to consider this, a deception. "That would risk losing you, not just one of my dearest friends but your men as well, some of our best. And what is it we might gain?"
"Retribution!" The call swept the room in a chorus of ascension. "'Twould show the bastard that we are strong—"
"That we are strong," Jonpaul smoothly interrupted, wearily repeating the words with no feeling or inflection, as if this were the most common kind of banality. The sky is blue, the grass is green . . . "Do you imagine that he does not know we are strong, that he has any doubts after Burgundy? Who in the world could doubt it after Burgundy?"
The reference was to the great battle of Burgundy, an event that would live forever in Swiss consciousness. Since the beginning of their history, the Austrian kings had coveted Switzerland, King Ferdinand even more than his predecessors. For years, King Ferdinand had begged King Charles of France to join him in a final offensive into Switzerland, a measure King Charles refused until at last the hundred-year war ended and the last of the English Army were finally expelled from France. But then the French king faced a far worse threat to his sovereignty when the Paris streets suddenly swarmed with ten thousand professional soldiers with nothing to do but make trouble and court rebellion and insurrection. It seemed far better to send them across the border into Switzerland and bring those barbaric Swiss a measure of German civilization. And with promises of rich rewards and booty, Charles of France sent his army across the border.
Charles the Bold of Lucerne, St. Gallen, Uri, and Zurich were the only Swiss states that did not send their men to join the lord Jonpaul Van de Birs of Basel, Lords Bruno of Solothurn, and Hans Wesmullar of Berne and their army of two thousand who were to meet and soundly beat the French-Austrian Army of better than ten thousand men in the famous battle of Burgundy. Two thousand Swiss men held the French back for nearly two weeks before a ruined French Army finally fell back, suffering losses of nearly ten Frenchmen to every one Swiss. Despite the decisive victory, the Swiss placed a heavenly value on each and every life lost, and it seemed to all a heavy price to make the Swiss warriors famous across the European continent and to ensure no foreign power ever dare attack Swiss soil again.
Most all of his court nodded agreement with Jonpaul's words, and as Jonpaul leaned back, waiting for the inevitable question, his gaze stopped briefly on Margarite, Hans's wife. Margarite was large with Hans's eighth child, a surprise in her forty-second year and a blessing she swore God sent to ease the pain of losing their firstborn son in the battle. She bowed her head, genuflected, and if this were not enough to demonstrate her gratitude for stopping her husband's apparent desire for a suicidal mission, she blew Jonpaul a heartfelt kiss. Jonpaul winked, a gesture that provided brief comfort to all the ladies watching.
"Then what shall be done about them?" Lord Bruno now stood, a dark-haired giant among traditionally tall men, as great in battle as Jonpaul and Hans themselves. Lord Bruno's canton, Solothurn, was the second largest in the Alliance and his opinion weighed accordingly. More often than not, the issues debated by the council were dominated by the three lord's opinions: Jonpaul's idealism and Hans's conservatism mediated by Bruno's pragmatism, a perfect triangle. "The bastard's aggression cannot be left unchecked!"
The men all agreed, turning now to await Jonpaul's answer. Although Jonpaul had yet to pass his thirty-first year, he had been unanimously chosen as the Lord of the Realm of the Alliance after coming into his inheritance of the Basel canton three years ago, a decision celebrated every day since. It was not just that his innovative, highly unorthodox military strategy had become world-famous after the Burgundy War, or that his own unparalleled battle skill—praises of which were sung as far away as France and the German states—but the fact that his civil innovations had made the Alliance stronger and more prosperous than ever.
With the gift of wisdom aiding the wide reach and scope of his intelligence, Jonpaul was an enlightened leader of men. Jonpaul's uncle, Lord Jon Van de Birs foresaw the need for more than military knowledge in a leader of the people and shrewdly interrupted the boy's military training to send him to school. Jonpaul had studied the languages at Basel University—Greek, Latin, and Hebrew—making him learned in the areas of Roman law and history, the writings of the philosophers Aristotle, Aquinas, and Duns Scotus, among others, and this knowledge was used for the good of all.
Though his fame outside of the Alliance consisted predominantly of the many stories of his battle skills and heroism, within the boundaries of the cantons of Solothurn, Basel, and Berne he was known for his many popular measures and innovations. It was Jonpaul who had introduced the idea of the general assembly—or landsgemeinde—to the cantons, letting the people decide on all matters of jurisprudence. The Alliance's new military strength under Jonpaul's leadership also allowed him to fight many of the Church's more oppressive laws and tithes, while his arguments for doing so were so convincing and eloquent that Basel's Bishop Pol de Swquin not only presented the arguments to Pope Martin, but the Holy See had actually found itself agreeing with Jonpaul, if somewhat reluctantly. There were other things, too. Jonpaul financed trade schools alongside the university and these became the lower classes first open door to the trade unions and merchant class. His popularity among the lords also allowed him to introduce the set of laws that served to protect the common folk and peasants from undue hardship brought by a once brutal feudal system.
Presently, Jonpaul leaned back, surveying the large room full of people. After allowing the lords to exhaust the other possibilities before presenting the risky venture, he at last saw it was time to introduce his plan. He needed agreement of one and all, but it could not be presented in front of the ladies.
A half dozen servants arrived and began clearing the huge table, leaving only the bowls of fruit and the pitchers of ale and water. "Adline?" Jonpaul addressed Bruno's wife of many years.
"Yes, milord?"
He cocked his head with a telling grin and asked, "Do I hear young John crying for you? And why yes . . ." he pretended to listen for distant sounds, "there goes Frank and Hecktor—"
"My God," Bruno himself took up this game. " ‘Tis a virtual chorus of distraught babes out there!"
The ladies all glanced at one another before rising amidst relieved smiles and laughter. Things could not be so bad if Jonpaul himself was teasing them, could they? None minded being banished either, for though the most interesting things were said in their absence, each knew they'd hear it in the quiet hours of the night as they lay with their husbands.
The ladies adjourned to the relief of the men, who were further spared the hour of endless goodbyes and curtsies. The musicians and servants rushed to follow, leaving only individual squires to wait on the lords, their stewards and their knights, and the half dozen representatives of the free cities, should the need arise. The hall grew quiet as Jonpaul stood to his full height, like Bruno, an unusually tall man. He leaned his strong, battle-scarred arms on the table. "To answer your question, I say, indeed. Indeed the outrages must be stopped and I intend to stop them. Yet my plan is for peace, peace so rarely tried, so desperately longed for. I am tired of fighting and blood-letting. God knows," he whispered solemnly, "there has been enough. And a battle with the Lucerne canton would be a bloodbath— on both sides. They are, after all, our brothers, raised on the same land by the same mothers and fathers. Unlike our French neighbors, they have our same skill and fierceness, and who can say if they might not find their courage someday?
“This makes me wonder if it is the men of Lucerne who provoke us into war?" The intensity of his gaze found each face in the way that he had, each man personally invited to answer the question. "Nay." He shook his head. "These men are like us; they long to go about their lives and work in peace. It is not the men of Lucerne committing these atrocities, but rather the result of one man's grandiose ambition."
Jonpaul's point was rarely made in any of the Swiss cantons and alliances, for the people of a given state had always been held culpable for their lord's actions. Yet once he presented the idea, the men all aye-ayed it, though with some hesitation, not knowing where it would lead.
"I do not have to name him, for you know of whom I speak. I have been asking myself what does the tyrant wants? He already burdens his own people with the highest taxes in the Swiss cantons, tearing the heart and drinking the blood of his people as voraciously and viciously as a snow wolf. I hear it said that children—the very children of his own people!—starve after the lot he steals, these taxes of his. Where do these riches go? To pay his standing army!"
"What? A standing army still?" more than one of the lords questioned, no one understanding until Lord Bruno having discussed this with Jonpaul at length, stood to explain.
"Aye!" He slammed his fist on the table. "A standing army of a thousand still! A thousand men paid to wait! We kept the knowledge till now, when we were all gathered to do something about the menace brewing on our borders."
Disapproval raced through the men. This at last was news. It was unheard of in Switzerland to pay an army without a war or battle or threat! Men had homes and families, wives and children to support and protect, land to farm or goods to produce. Of all the countries in the world, the Swiss alone needed no standing army and never did. The Alliance, indeed all the Swiss cantons, disbanded men immediately upon their return home, for each and every man—the poorest peasant to the wealthiest merchants and the very lords themselves—could be counted on to return the very day a call to arms sounded. The idea of paying men to do nothing was an outrage, even more that a lord would need to pay men to protect their homes and families.
Jonpaul's own anger showed now as he continued. "And I ask you, what does that tyrant want with his standing army? Our tilled soil and rich farmland? The unsurpassed wealth of our harvest? Our trunks of gold and silver? The labor of our people? Our wives and daughters? Aye! Aye to all. This greed-crazed bastard would have all of it, and he will kill thousands of men to get it. Thousands, for, I—as you and each one of our men—will die a thousand deaths before we let that man claim an ounce of what's by right ours."
The collective agreement came in a loud chorus of ayes, and Jonpaul waited patiently for the quiet. When it came he said simply, as if it were now the obvious solution. "So I propose we wage war on Charles the Bold, that we destroy him and the menace posed by his greed before we take arms against the men of the canton of Lucerne. I am convinced if we destroy Charles the Bold, we will not have to war with the men of Lucerne."
Hearty exclamations of surprise broke the silence as the lords digested what had been said. How could they destroy Charles without engaging his men, or for that matter, the Church? This concern was voiced by Ulrich, civic leader of Basel, who shook his neatly cropped head of pale-gold hair, his eyes questioning, uncertain, as if he had missed something. "Fine ideas, but how say you to destroy Charles without engaging his men—"
The hall trumpets sounded outside, interrupting Ulrich midsentence. Two pages pushed open the great wood doors as the hall servant stepped inside to announce the appearance of Kurtus, a man of Jonpaul's personal guard. As always, Kurtus arrived in the center of a whirlwind of energy, entering the great hall in muddied traveling clothes and with his arms outstretched as if fully expecting to receive thunderous applause. Though he stood shorter and more slender than most men, he was made of steel and owned a speed of reflex and a quickness of mind that put him on equal footing with the best warriors. Sometimes, such as in war, he took the world seriously, but now was not such a time as, with a mocking bow and a reckless twinkle in his lively blue eyes, Kurtus beseeched the lords not to rise on his behalf. The lords greeted the outrage with groans and, unwillingly, a few chuckles. The young Kurtus's mockery of protocol was famous, what to do about it often discussed. Only his favor with Jonpaul kept the solution offered by decapitation from coming up too often.
Seeing Jonpaul with a hand to his head, looking as if he was in the sudden throes of a gripping headache, Kurtus erroneously concluded it was less than perfect timing, but rightly saw not to waste any more of His Lordship's patience. His calloused fingers pushed through his dark curls, but a grin spoke of his success and, as he bent down to pet Hercules, he announced, "My mission was a success, milord. The wench you seek waits in the hall."