Page 16 of Heart of Snow
Samuel was the key. Rescuing him could do more than save the life of my dearly beloved brother. Maybe it could finally bring a cessation to my guilt.
Chapter 8
Friedrich
I bounced the little leatherbag off my knee before catching it with the toe of my shoe, kicking it up to bounce it against my other knee. Back and forth the bag went, keeping my focus on my footwork and away from the gloves resting beside the tree. It was mere courtesy that had me seeking out a pair of ladies shooting gloves for the countess, nothing more. At our first lesson, I’d caught her favoring her burned hand, and seeing as I was the cause of that injury, it was only right to ease any pain she might have. But the idea of offering her a gift made my insides jump, worrying how she might interpret my gesture. So I bounced the leather bag a little higher, testing my skill, applying all my attention so that I actually startled when the countess offered a soft, “Guten morgen.”
The leather bag dropped to the ground. “My lady.” I lowered into a quick bow, then picked up the bag to stuff it into my pocket before I retrieved the gloves from beside the tree. Were my hands shaking? Of all the ridiculous... “I, uh, noticed at our last—That is, I didn’tnotice. It just seemed like you were strugg—” I cleared my throat. “These are for you.” Pushing the old shooting gloves into her hands, I took a step back to put more space between us. Why must she always smell of sun-warmed lilacs?
For a time, she simply stared at them, shock evident in her wide eyes, but then a smile graced her lips, growing until it brightened her whole countenance. “My many thanks,” she whispered. Her gaze lifted to meet mine, and I was struck by the force of her beauty. Her porcelain skin setting off the sky blue of her eyes, her smiling red lips drawing my attention down to her mouth.
I pulled off my cap, strangling it between my rough laboring hands as I muttered some kind of reply. This was precisely why I had to keep my distance from her. I didn’t need her gentle smiles, her nearness confusing what I already knew about her: as a noblewoman, she was not to be trusted.
Tugging my cap onto my head, I circled the tree to pull the bow from the hidden hollow. The countess followed me.
“You keep these here? Won’t the armory miss them?”
“Hardly.” I handed the bow back to her while I dug out the quiver of arrows. “I made them myself.”
She ran her fingers over the smooth wood. “You made this?” Her eyes displayed her awe, but she straightened her features when she caught me watching. “Impressive. Where did you gain the skill?” she asked, returning the bow to me.
“I lived with a bowyer for a time.” I carried the bow and quiver to her shooting line before settling myself down against the tree.
She finished tugging on her gloves and picked up the bow, getting into her shooting stance. On her first attempt to draw the string back, she sucked in a sharp breath. Lowering the bow, she shook her arms to loosen them, then got back into position. It was strange that after a week of recovering she was still sore, but the tremble in her shoulders proved that she was. I supposed for a woman who spent her days sitting in chairs reading or weaving, it should not have been too surprising.
With the countess’s arms too tired to make the string decently tight, her shot was weak and aimless, diving headlong into a thicket. I folded my hands behind my head, resting back against the tree. It would be a short lesson today. She wouldn’t last long with those aches.
I expected it when she drew the second arrow and loaded the bow. She had to at least put on a show of determination. But when she drew a third and a fourth despite her terrible success, I began to wonder how much longer she could keep going.
As Countess Margaretha reached for her fifth arrow, she asked, “Were you the bowyer’s apprentice?”
“What?” We were going to chat now?
“You said you lived with a bowyer.” She took aim, her arms trembling so much I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “As his apprentice, no doubt. Yet your speech is more elevated than the other locals. Did you not attend the same school as they?”
I kept my lips tight, frustrated that my education showed so easily.
The string twanged with her next release. “Self-taught then.”
I still made no answer.
“Was it your excellent skill with conversation that convinced Samuel to enlist your aid in Mühlberg?” she asked, a playful smile lighting her face as she reached for another arrow.
Pressing back my own smile, I leaned forward and plucked at the grass. “Count Samuel didn’t enlist me. Mine was more of a compelled service after foresters caught me poaching on your father’s lands. I was given the choice to serve the count’s son or hang from a gallows. Bondage seemed the wiser option.”
“So that’s what you meant about running afoul of Father. But why were you poaching? Didn’t you know the consequence if you were caught doing wrong?”
“Of course I knew.” I tossed the blade of grass. “But the greater wrong is to let men go hungry when your lands are full of game.”
The countess tucked a golden curl that had escaped its plait. “You don’t much care for nobility, do you? Perhaps I can improve your estimation of us.” She offered a gentle smile.
“My mother was noble.”
Her quiet gasp was expected.
“That is how I learned to speak and read and write. She even taught me Latin so that I could one day be a scholar.” My lips turned up at the memory. “She was brilliant and kind, but whenher love for a blacksmith led to my birth, her family cast her off and refused to see her again, leaving her a beggar.”
“Shewaskind? How did she... pass?” The countess was almost whispering.
