Chapter 3
Margaretha
I flipped through the journals, catching Belinda watching me from her pallet on the floor. “Have you had another nightmare?”
She scoffed. “I never have nightmares.”
I left her lie unchallenged and ran my finger down the page of the journal.
“What are you doing?” She leaned up on her elbow.
“Research.”
Belinda’s pallet creaked as she threw back her coverlet and climbed up to my bed. “Make room.” She gave me almost no time to move before squeezing her way under the blankets, pressing her cold feet to my leg.
“Gah, your toes are icicles!” I kicked her foot away.
She nodded to the books in my hand. “What do you read?”
“Elizabeth’s journals from Brussels.”
“You’ve decided to go, then?”
“I don’t know what choice I have. I can’t sit by and leave Samuel to his fate.” I tossed the pile of journals to the foot of the bed. “Why does Queen Mary persist in inviting me anyway?”
Belinda shrugged. “It is the way of things, having noblewomen of lower rank working for their betters. It’s why I serve you.”
“Yes, but she could have maids from any territory in her brother’s vast empire. The daughter of a poor German count hardly seems worth her notice.”
“Your sister served her well as a lady-of-honor. It’s not unreasonable the queen would hope the same of you.”
“Much good Elizabeth’s service did her,” I muttered. Elizabeth had always been our parents’ favorite, earning the bulk of their attention and lofty expectations. She’d been trained to marry well, and marry well she did, though her first child had still been in her belly the day she’d died.
I leaned against the wooden headboard, the smell of it musty and ancient, just as it had been when I was a child.
All those years I’d spent away—off in Waldeck, then in the Netherlands with Uncle—and yet the room remained unchanged, as if I’d never left.
The blood-red drapes brooding over the bed; the small, smoking fireplace; the cracked looking glass in the empty corner.
Each part of the room revived memories I’d long struggled to bury.
But the searing burn of my hand trumped them all, refusing to be ignored. I tugged at the bandage, unwinding the wrappings until my burn was exposed.
Belinda pulled herself up beside me, sucking a breath through clenched teeth as she looked at my hand. “What befell you?”
My anger with the soldier had already dissolved, acknowledging my own fault in the event.
It would never have happened had I not been so entranced, so bent on understanding what pain I’d inflicted .
. . so full of guilt. “Utter foolishness,” I answered, angling my hand to study the blister in the dim firelight.
The salve I’d applied offered scant relief from the unrelenting burn.
At the bonfire, I’d been absorbed in my own guilt and suffering, but it all seemed selfish and narrow compared to the threat Samuel faced. I had to save him.
Reaching down the bed to retrieve Elizabeth’s journals, I sifted through pages till I found the one I sought.
“I may have a better idea of how to help Samuel. Elizabeth writes here of Queen Mary’s love of hunting, saying the queen’s so fond of it that she fancies herself ill if she’s kept from it for more than a few days.
And over here”—I flipped to another page—“Elizabeth describes the queen as a great horsewoman, with a seat as good as any man’s.
I’m a fair horsewoman myself, and I think, given a few months’ instruction, I could learn to hunt too. ”
“And what would that do for Samuel?” Belinda swiveled herself on the bed, pulling the blankets down with her as she sat by my feet.
“What if”—I tugged the blankets back to my chest, forcing her on top of the coverlet—“instead of marrying a man who could plead for Samuel, I concentrate on winning the queen’s favor? Surely she could speak to her brother and beg for—”
“I doubt a few months’ study of hunting would give you enough mastery to impress such an avid huntress as the queen.
Even if it did, she’s only queen regent in Brussels because the kaiser granted her the position.
It’s unlikely she’ll risk the regency or her brother’s ire by asking for the freedom of a religious rebel. ”
I blew on my hand. “Then let’s have you be the one to win a man over. Your chances of success would be much higher than mine.”
Belinda’s eyes lit up, and I knew she was letting herself imagine it: the luxury, the opulence, the attention of powerful suitors poised to raise her up in the world’s estimation.
She was an amazing friend and guide—something closer to an older sister or even a mother—but I’d never cared much for her social aspirations.
Perhaps they were a product of being raised even poorer than I. I shouldn’t judge her for it.
The sparkle left Belinda’s gaze, and she shook her head. “You perpetually undervalue your beauty. Besides, the queen’s invitation is for you.”
I grasped at another objection. “Well, what good would it do me, winning a man with the kaiser’s favor, if the kaiser isn’t even in Brussels?”
“Not yet, but he will be, come autumn. Your father said the kaiser is bringing his son up from Spain to let the people meet their future sovereign. Oh!” Belinda gasped, grabbing my knee. “You could woo the kaiser’s son! Surely a prince would have the power to free Samuel.”
“Belinda, you go too far. He would never support a Protestant. Besides, I haven’t the skill to win myself a German baron, let alone a Spanish prince.”
Her smile faltered, and she released my knee. “True.”
“I say we focus on gaining favor with the queen and see if our hunt master will teach me to shoot.”
Belinda scoffed. “Old Bernhold can’t hit a target with his tremors. You’d be better off asking the half-dead soldier in yonder room to teach you. I suspect he’s nearly as young as you.” A slow smile lifted her cheeks. “And he cuts a handsome figure besides, don’t you think?”
I did think so, but I was not ready to admit as much. I still had that nagging sense I should know him from somewhere.
“Maybe he could teach you a thing or two more than hunting,” Belinda said.
Throwing her a quick glare, I rebandaged my hand.
“You know, that’s actually a useful idea.” She pulled herself up to kneel. “It could be just the thing, in fact. You only want for some practice, some time around men to give you the confidence you need at court. This soldier could be the one to provide it.”
“He’s ill, Belinda. He’s hardly in a state to countenance my feeble advances.”
“’Tis only a fever. You said yourself his wound wasn’t deep, that he’d recover in a matter of weeks.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “And then what? I’ve no idea how to flirt. I haven’t even an excuse to spend time in his company.”
“As I said, have him teach you to hunt. And you needn’t fret about flirting. Do your best, and whenever you err, I’ll correct and tutor you. Then once you’ve procured his confession of love, we’ll move on to another man and then another, until you’re ready to conquer the courts.”
“Confession of love?” I huffed my disbelief. “How could I even . . . Despite preference, despite compatibility and taste, you expect me to make this man—no, a string of men—fall in love with me?”
Her brow rose. “That’s precisely what you’ll be doing in Brussels.”
That was true. I wouldn’t have the luxury of hoping a man would take me as I am. I’d have to choose the most powerful noble and mold myself into the kind of woman he desired. I shivered and pulled my knees up to my chest, hugging them. This all felt wrong.
“Is he not handsome enough for you?” Belinda misinterpreted my silence.
I laughed. “Old Bernhold’s looks would suit me better. A handsome man only makes me more nervous.” Already I was twisting my chemise into knots around my ankles. “But I don’t know that it’s right, toying with a man’s affections for the sake of . . . education.”
“Oh goodness, we needn’t trouble ourselves over a common soldier.
He will bear his disappointments and find a woman on his level.
No doubt sooner than he should,” she muttered.
“But don’t think of him; think of Samuel.
What’s a month’s worth of this soldier’s injured pride when compared to the possibility of saving your brother’s life? ”
I shook my head, still feeling uncertain.
“Have you considered, Margaretha, what else Samuel’s freedom would signify for you? For me?”
“What do you mean?”
She rested a hand on my wrist, drawing my eye to the bandage covering my burn. “Freedom from this haunting guilt. Saving a life to atone for the life we took.” She raised her eyes, giving me a penetrating stare. “Redemption.”
“Redemption?” As I whispered the word, a strange pressure built in my chest—a dull push, repeating slow and quiet, like a distant thudding of a drum.
It felt as though my heart was stirring, fluttering to life after years of numbed silence.
Could saving Samuel’s life truly make amends?
Could I really be absolved of the healer’s death?
All the years spent studying healing, bandaging cuts and brewing electuaries for the infirm, had never felt enough. But perhaps this . . . this could be enough to rescue our eternal souls from hell.
I straightened my back and met Belinda’s gaze. “I’ll do it.”