The Promise Read Free Page B

sworn enemy, the French King Francis I, had struck them with little warning. Mounted knights had gone into battle still strapping their armor to their backs.
    She had trusted Günter to know the way because Martin trusted him. Reason enough, and yet she’d almost let her fear of him convince her otherwise.
    Yes, he frightened her. Günter had raised an unnamed apprehension for her the first time Martin had introduced them. He had stared at her with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, his green gaze flicking over her. Something hot, possessive, speculative gleamed in that look. Then his gaze had shifted to Martin, and back again, and his face had gone blank as a slate, as though that look had never been.
    He’d been unfailingly polite ever since, but she had never forgotten it. She would never have chosen
him,
of course, after her husband’s murder; Günter was so loyal to Martin she doubted he would have shown any interest in her once he knew of Martin’s suit in any case.
    Still, she glanced up at Günter now, unable to prevent herself.
    She shamed herself. She owed poor Martin all of her attention. When she should have eyes only for him, when she should be attending to his needs alone, yet she stared at Günter’s impassive profile, her gaze drawn to him like iron to a lodestone.
    It terrified her. It cursed him. It betrayed Martin.
    God help them all.
    His eyes lingered on his friend, and in them she saw bleak despondency.
    “Can you care for him?” Günter finally asked. “I must ride with my contingent to retake our position. It’s necessary, or I wouldn’t go.”
    “I will,” she promised. “He will lack for nothing, if it is within my power to provide it.”
    Günter looked at her. A curious series of expressions passed over his face. Longing? Denial? Resolve?
    “I knew you wouldn’t leave his side,” he murmured, his brief smile bittersweet. He turned away from her. His back straight, his reins in hand, he wheeled the horse around without a backward glance.
    The cart jolted again. Martin groaned.
    “Inés, take care!” Alonsa snapped.
    Inés’ hands tightened on the reins, and she gave a sharp glance backward. “I am sorry,
Señora,
but it seems these people have neglected to level their back roads. It makes for an inconvenient escape.”
    Alonsa sighed. The market woman did the best she could under such conditions. “Forgive me. It is just…” She looked helplessly at Martin and then back at Inés.
    Sympathy flooded Inés’ beautiful but jaded features. She sighed. “I know, I know. I will try to avoid the worst places.”
    Although two years younger than Alonsa, Maria Inés Villanueva Haraña had served so long in the service to one man or another in the mercenary company called the
Fähnlein
that Alonsa often felt clumsy and inexperienced beside her. Though they had established a friendship of sorts, outwardly they were very different women.
    Where Inés was tall with thick auburn hair, Alonsa was tiny, her hair a silky earth-brown. The tanned hue of Inés’ skin reflected the many hours she had spent laboring out of doors, marketing, washing her soldiers’ laundry, and cooking their meals. Alonsa was paler, but she remained certain this day that every year of their unforgiving lives showed on both their faces.
    Inés gazed down the long column of the baggage train where Günter had just ridden away.
    “At least the other one is safe,” she murmured, “for now.”
    Alonsa did not follow Inés’ gaze. Instead, she rinsed and reapplied the bandages to Martin’s side wound, examining it for infection.
    He had been injured in the raid protecting Günter. Günter had carried Martin from the battle and brought him to her. She had some expertise in healing, but she was no physician. Still, she knew the hail shot in his body could not stay. It would have to be removed, the wound cauterized with boiling oil. Otherwise, putrid air could infect it and kill him. Nevertheless, to remove the shot