Chapter 6
Margaretha
Pastor Hefentreger’s final blessing was interminable.
I peeked through slitted eyelids to see him dabbing his kerchief across his brow while glancing, not for the first time, at the Spanish captain leaning coolly against the chapel wall.
The pastor stuttered through the chant, his tongue twisting over Latin words he hadn’t recited in more than twenty years.
His German hearers, ignorant of the language, yawned or drooped their heads in the overheated hall.
The realities of losing the war, of losing our freedom to follow Luther’s teachings, were most painfully clear in our Sunday worship.
So many in this chapel had endured the death of someone they loved: a brother or a son, an uncle or a cousin—men slaughtered to save our precious beliefs.
And now the bereaved couldn’t even find comfort in the pastor’s words, the Latin language being wholly indiscernible to them.
I had never been brave like Samuel, fighting for our faith, but sitting in the chapel witnessing firsthand the death of the Reformation, my regret tasted bitter.
I should have done more when there was more to be done.
Instead of wrestling for the victory of our religion, my only hope now was to do my small part to help my brother.
Belinda grabbed my bouncing knee, forcing it steady. “Don’t fret yourself,” she whispered. “You’ll do fine.”
I prayed she was right. It had been a week since Friedrich was recovered enough to begin his new position at the castle, and he had yet to approach me about commencing our lessons.
With Samuel’s situation still unconfirmed, I would wait no longer.
Today I intended to confront Friedrich. The arrogant, ill-mannered mule.
I shook my head. Never in my life had I heard a commoner make such a scathing assessment of nobility.
Had he no sense? No instinct for self-preservation?
The pastor’s prayer was finally at an end, and we came to our feet. Resting my hands on the wood railing, I let my eyes trail the chapel below for Friedrich, but instead I found the captain with a sideways smile upon his lips, his gaze squarely upon the gallery.
“The captain watches us,” I whispered.
Belinda glanced down at him, offering an elegant nod in return for his sweeping bow.
I scoffed. “You won’t discourage him?”
“Why should I?” She waited for the pastor and his assistants to leave. “Captain Carrera has power over us. I should like to tip the scales in our favor, if I can.”
She was right. It was just these calculations that proved she should be the one going to Brussels and not I.
As I turned to descend the stairs, my eyes met with Friedrich’s as he stood below. He dropped his gaze and slipped into the aisle to move out the door. He had a head start. It would be difficult to reach him if we weren’t quick.
“Hurry, Belinda.” I held my skirts, navigating down the narrow steps and into the press, which parted to allow us through. Once we were outside, I caught sight of Friedrich tucking into another street.
“Friedrich,” I barked, trotting after him.
“Be pleasant,” Belinda panted. “Remember, more flies with honey.”
When we reached him, he bent at the waist in greeting. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Yes.” My tone was impatient. “I’ve waited nigh unto three weeks for lessons. When will we begin?”
Belinda placed a discreet hand on my back, and I added, “I’m so eager for your training.”
My delivery must have been flat, for he quirked an eyebrow but answered, “I’m ready today, if you desire it.”
I looked to Belinda, who nodded minutely.
“Very well,” I answered. “Where shall we meet?”
Friedrich’s instructions were simple enough that I knew precisely where Belinda and I were to go after changing our clothes and collecting our things from the castle.
The May sun sifted through the beech leaves as we followed the spongy forest path.
With each step, my hands shook a little more, and I gripped the basket handle tightly to steady them, but the pain of my scabbed burn made me release it with a hiss.
I had to settle for deep, calming breaths until we reached the clearing.
Friedrich was already there, resting against a tree with a paper in his hands, but on seeing us, he quickly folded it and tucked it into his jerkin.
Belinda was too busy scanning the forest behind us to notice him or the questioning glance I shot her.
Upon our approach, Friedrich pushed to stand beside a quiver of arrows and a bow made with all the simplicity of a piece of wood attached to a string. Not with triggers. Not with bolts. Not a crossbow.
“What is this?” I poked the bow with the tip of my shoe.
Friedrich took it in his hands, pushing out his bottom lip as he tilted the weapon this way and that in mock examination. “It’s a serviceable bow. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not a crossbow.”
“You didn’t ask to be taught with a crossbow. You asked me to teach you to hunt. This is how I hunt. I trained with a curved limb bow, and I intend to train you with the same.”
“But no one takes a curved bow on a Par Force hunt,” I whined. “Guns perhaps, crossbows certainly, but this is primitive.”
Belinda cleared her throat. “Mistress, if I may.” She led me by the elbow out of earshot of Friedrich before whispering, “Do not forget your purpose. He could be instructing you in dressmaking, for all we care. Cease arguing, find something pleasant to speak of, and for heaven’s sake, rid your face of that dour expression. ”
I couldn’t admit as much to Belinda, but I hadn’t fully discarded the idea of gaining skill in the hunt to impress the queen. With this turn in plans, I had nothing to do but grind my teeth against the disappointment and force a cheery smile.
She patted my shoulder. “Very good. Now, if you’ll give me your basket, I’ll wander the forest a bit and see if I can’t find herbs enough for both our baskets before your lesson’s done.”
“But you said you’d be nearby to offer instruction.” I clung to her arm in panic. “What am I to do with him?”
Belinda patted my hands. “Talk. Be friendly. I shall be near enough to observe.” She pried the basket from my hand and cut her way through the grassy meadow toward the trees on the other side.
Taking a deep breath, I walked back to Friedrich, prepared to be pleasant.
“Where is she going?” His eye was on Belinda.
“Picking. We’re hoping to build up the apothecary’s store of herbs.”
He raised his eyebrow. “But what if someone came upon us? If she’s to chaperone, I think it best she stay near—”
“She’s near enough,” I interrupted. “Unless you think I have need of protection from you.” I slapped his arm and laughed a high, trilling laugh like I’d heard Belinda do. He raised an eyebrow and rubbed his arm before picking an arrow from the quiver.
Pointing the arrow at the thick trunk of a distant tree, he said, “That will be our target.”
I had to squint to see it clearly, it was so far.
“And this”—Friedrich held the bow out toward me—“will be your bow. Clasp it with the joint of your forefinger straight before you.”
I gripped the bow, twisting it in my left hand to find the proper position, but the edge of my scabbed burn caught on the wood and peeled back. Wincing, I forced myself not to let go.
He tapped the arrow against my knuckle. “This is where you’ll rest the arrow for aiming.”
Then he pointed the arrow at me and waited, as if expecting something from me.
“Should I . . .”
“Load your arrow.” He spoke with strained patience.
I swallowed my embarrassment and took the arrow. Resting it on my knuckle and the bow string, I glanced to him for confirmation that my form was correct.
“You have to push the nock onto the string. Good. Now shoot it.”
Closing an eye, I centered the arrow tip on the tree. I drew the string back, surprised by how much muscle such a simple task required, then let it go. The arrow flew wide right and clattered against a boulder.
“Again,” Friedrich ordered, handing me another arrow.
I loaded the bow and repeated the process, this time forgetting to pull the string back to its full draw, for the arrow went a mere rod’s length and burrowed into the ground.
My face was hot as I put out my hand to receive the next arrow, but no arrow came.
I turned to find Friedrich settling down against the trunk of a tree and folding his hands behind his head.
“Just getting comfortable.” He smiled. “Since we’ll be here awhile.”
I wrenched an arrow from the quiver and jammed the bowstring between the nock, drawing the string back until my muscles burned.
“Don’t forget the fletching.”
“The what?” My suspended draw made my arms shake.
“The feathers on the arrow. If you release that—”
The string slipped from my trembling grip, and the arrow made a quick dive into the dirt only a few paces from my feet. Friedrich snorted, tempting me, begging me to bring him down to my place of humiliation. “How are your new quarters?” I turned to him. “Father gave you the position, am I right?”
His smile slowly faded.
“Huntsman’s page should suit you well. I’m told it’s quite comfortable, warm even, sleeping in the kennels with the dogs.”
He dropped his hands into his lap and lowered his eyes, as if studying the grass between his feet.
My smile grew smug until he tilted his head up to ask, “Does your father know where you are now? Did you tell him these herbs you’re collecting would make medicinal tonics to help the poor, sickly people of Wildungen?
” He glanced toward Belinda, bent plucking a fistful of greenery.
“That must be nice for him, having a daughter whose devotion to Christian duty is outweighed only by her truthfulness.”
My jaw dropped. He’d struck deeper than he knew, and I refused to satisfy him with a response.
Instead, I jerked another arrow from the quiver and set it in the bow, shooting it off with such careless force that the string whipped the inside of my wrist, leaving it hot and stinging. Behind me, Friedrich laughed outright.
I spun on him. “I’m sorry. I must be mistaken. I didn’t realize you’d brought me here to make a spectacle of me.”
Plucking up a blade of grass, he settled it in his mouth as he propped an arm over his upright knee. “I brought you here so you could learn. You’re making the spectacle all on your own.”
He sucked on the grass with an infuriating smile.
“How do you expect me to learn?” My voice was loud enough that Belinda looked up from her place across the meadow. “You’ve done nothing but sit on your rump barking orders like some kind of noble overlord.”
Friedrich’s eyes flashed, and he stood up suddenly, pacing over to me with such severity that I stumbled back a step.
He picked up an arrow, then grabbed my left hand, forcing it to the center of the bow and holding it in place.
I sucked in a sharp breath as the scab of my burn split beneath the pressure.
“You put this hand here,” he said, then reached his arm around me and threaded the arrow between my fingers.
“You rest the arrow shaft on your knuckle, then twist it until the slit in the nock lines up with the string. The fletching must point outward to avoid hitting the bow when you release the string.” He covered my fingers with his own, expertly nocking the arrow.
“Balance the nock between your first and second fingers. Draw the string back toward your face until your first finger sits at the corner of your mouth.” He squeezed my hand beneath his, using his strength to pull the bowstring back to my face, his finger brushing against my lip.
I startled at the too-familiar touch, but he seemed utterly unaware of it, so focused on his target that our rather intimate situation was completely lost on him.
“When your form is right, aiming comes easily. Sight your target.” His face was so close his jaw grazed my cheek. “Now release.”
This time the arrow flew in a smooth line, sailing toward the target and landing with a satisfying thunk in the center of the tree. It was a beautiful shot, an expert shot, and I couldn’t help bestowing Friedrich a look of awe.
His face was lit by a smile as he studied his work, but when he met my gaze, his countenance fell, and he dropped my hand. Clearing his throat, he took a broad step backward, then turned on his heel.
“Again,” he called over his shoulder and settled back against his favorite tree.