He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there. He tried to grasp all that had happened. Moncore was dead—that was for certain—and could never harm her again. But…why would Moncore want to harm Rose?
Wilhelm fastened his eyes on Frau Geruscha, who stood behind him, watching Rose. He slowly got to his feet and faced Frau Geruscha, forcing her to look up at him.
“Is Rose my betrothed?”
Her lips parted as she stared back at him.
“Is she? Is she the daughter of the Duke of Marienberg?”
“How…how would I know?”
He wrapped his hands around her frail shoulders, willing himself not to shake her. “Tell me the truth. Do you know who my betrothed is?”
Distress deepened the creases around her eyes and forehead. She shook her head. “I cannot tell you,” she whispered desperately. “I swore an oath.”
“Then it is Rose.”
“Please, Your Grace. Have mercy on me.” A tear slipped down her cheek.
Wilhelm let go. He turned to look at Rose. His heart seemed ready to leap out of his chest. Could it be? Rose? His Rose. It was too good to be true.
He knelt by her side, watching her breathe, watching her chest rise and fall. Frau Geruscha knelt beside him and, with her shears, she cut his sleeve at the rip.
“Leave it. It’s nothing.”
“It must be tended to, my lord. Your whole sleeve is soaked in blood.”
Wilhelm looked at his arm for the first time and saw she was right. “You’re cut too.” He had to bend down to look at her neck. The blood had dried in a thin line under her chin.
“Merely a scratch.” She smiled as though she had just been in a fist fight and won.
Frau Geruscha probed his cut with her fingers. The pain in his arm suddenly intensified.
“Take off your shirt.” Geruscha stood and walked to the shelf where her bandages were stored. “I’ll need to tend to your wound.”
“What about Rose?”
Geruscha went into the storage room and came back with a bowl of water. “I will keep giving her water, which should help the poison move out of her body. But it is good that she sleeps. We must pray and hope…Now take off your shirt.”
He didn’t move from his spot by Rose’s bed, but removed his doublet and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing with the movement.
Frau Geruscha cleaned the cut on his upper arm. “It’s deep enough that I’ll need to close the wound. Do you want to lie down while I sew it up?”
“No.” As Geruscha stitched up his arm, he held Rose’s hand, stroking her fingers and gazing at her face, which helped take his mind off the pain.
Frau Geruscha finished stitching up his wound. As he was putting his shirt back on, he heard someone at the door, which was dangling open on its broken hinges, letting in the freezing air.
“I have a message for His Grace, the Duke of Hagenheim.”
A man dressed in the purple and gold livery of the Duke of Marienberg stood in the doorway.
Reluctantly, he got up from Rose’s bedside and faced him. “I am he.”
The messenger bowed. “Your Grace. A message from the Duke of Marienberg.” He stepped forward and handed him the folded piece of parchment. Wilhelm broke the wax seals and quickly scanned the message.
The duke was less than a day’s ride from Hagenheim. He had decided to come early, not having heard any word about his upcoming introduction and subsequent wedding of his daughter, Lady Salomea.
Not now. Why now? Wilhelm closed his eyes. He had forgotten to write to the duke. That’s why he was angry and coming a week early, practically unannounced.
Not wishing to portray any negative feelings in front of the duke’s servant, but still trying to think what to do, Wilhelm looked up and said, “Pray, give my heartiest welcome to the duke. I shall…prepare a feast for his arrival. Convey my sincere wish to find him in good health and spirits.” He frowned. Unwise to trust the servant to remember his message word for word. “Wait.”
He glanced again at Rose. She lay still, her eyes closed.
“Frau Geruscha, may I trouble you for some parchment and a quill?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She hurried into the storage and came back with both, as well as a pot of ink.
He sat down at Rose’s desk then asked over his shoulder, “Do you have any beeswax?”
He dashed off the note as fast as he could write. In his haste, he splattered two spots of ink. He quickly blotted them with the heel of his hand, waved the letter in the air a few times to make sure it was relatively dry, and folded it. He held the beeswax candle in the fire for a few seconds and then pressed it against the parchment to seal the letter closed. Wrenching his father’s signet ring from his finger, he pushed it into the soft wax.
He handed the letter to the messenger. “Take this to the duke. I thank you.”
The man took the letter and was off.