The Promise Read Free Page A

catered to the moving army constantly in need of supplies hurried alongside the carts of the baggage train, grim-faced. In the endless territorial battles between the king of France and the Holy Roman Emperor, these people were casualties of war just as often as the soldiers who fought in it.
    The cart jolted and Martin moaned, muttering words of nonsense in his pain. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and she felt the first flush of fever on his skin.
    “Shh, Martin,” she crooned to him. “All will be well.”
    He turned his deep brown eyes toward her voice, and she saw his doubt.
    “Will I die?” he whispered.
    Her heart clutched. “I … think not.” She did not lie. Only God knew the answer to his question, and she prayed it would be otherwise.
    He closed his eyes. “I am sorry … my beloved.”
    She drew back. A stab of fear stopped her breath. He had never called her that before. The words of a lover.
    She forced herself to breathe once more. She had no cause to fear such words. The fever spoke for him, not love. She knew Martin, a mercenary soldier, admired her, but she knew also his desire for her father’s fortune was stronger than his desire for her.
    She did not mind the lack of love; indeed, she had relied upon it. Though they shared a mutual affection, she knew Martin was no threat to the curse; she thought he would be safe, and together they could continue to sell the blades despite her late husband’s untimely demise. Except…
    Now Martin lay dying, and unless she carried out the plan forming in her mind, another man might soon take his place.
    Alonsa’s gaze shifted to the imposing figure of Günter Behaim riding alongside the cart on a commandeered horse. A study in counterpoint, his dark-blond hair revealed bronze highlights glinting in the sun. It made for a surprising contrast with eyebrows dark as a raven’s feathers over emerald green eyes. A slash of high cheekbones and a wide jaw covered in beard stubble opposed the marble smooth curves of his mouth.
    He had removed his breastplate and cuisses, but had left his two-handed great sword strapped to his back. The black stones on the cross guard glittered in the sun. Mud and blood spattered his doublet, which clung to his broad shoulders like a lover. His unkempt clothing could not detract from the bearing of a professional mercenary, a Landsknecht in the service of Emperor Charles V. Despite being worn from battle, he was still the most striking man Alonsa had ever met.
    She stifled the guilty yearning that always came with his presence and forced herself to think of her vow.
    Günter contemplated Martin in the cart and turned his probing gaze her way.
    “How fares he?” he asked in German.
    “¿Qué?” she responded, startled into her native speech.
    His eyes narrowed. He repeated his question in Spanish. “Martin. How fares he?”
    Alonsa flushed and tore her gaze away from his. She removed the sodden bandages from the wound, transferred them to the water-filled bowl in her lap, and refused to look at Günter again. “The injury still bleeds. We must find rest for him soon. He cannot travel much longer this way.”
    She spoke in her best German, wringing out the bandages in the now-crimson water.
    Günter nodded and responded in kind.
    “When I rode to the rear, one of the wounded said the attacking French column has broken ranks and now moves west, back toward Pavia. We ride north to San Angelo to regroup and tend our wounded. It won’t be much longer.”
    Alonsa felt Martin’s eyes upon her. She smiled at him reassuringly, and he stared at her, his gaze intent. Then, closing his eyes, he reached for her hand.
    “Yes,” he whispered. “All will be well.”
    She nodded, though she did not agree.
    Alonsa had not known their destination until Günter spoke of it. She had not thought to ask. She knew only they fled from the unexpected dawn attack on their troops’ position near Pavia. The Swiss mercenaries hired by Charles