The Beautiful Pretender (A Medieval Fairy Tale #2)(79)

He caressed her cheek, then walked out, to his fate at the hands of Geitbart.



Avelina followed him into the corridor. He was barely limping as he walked toward the stairs.

He turned around. “Do not draw attention to yourself, or Geitbart may do you harm.”

She watched him go but couldn’t help following him a little farther. Her heart was breaking as she stood at the top of the stairs. He made his way slowly down.

The pain in her chest took her breath away as she turned and went back to her bedchamber. She ran to the window. Geitbart still stood there, and she hated him, the way his head was thrown back and his chest puffed out. Finally, Lord Thornbeck emerged and walked boldly toward Geitbart.

The two men faced each other. Avelina strained to hear but could not make out their words. Then Geitbart waved his hand and two guards came forward and captured Lord Thornbeck’s hands, holding them behind his back, and led him away.

She touched her fingers to her lips, where she could still feel his kiss. She started to sob but quickly forced away the tears, rubbing them from her cheeks.

She had a plan.





28



THE GUARDS SHOVED Reinhart into the dank cell and slammed the door.

The only light came from a flickering torch in the corridor outside his cell. There was nothing in the cell except a bare wooden bench about a foot high and four feet long. His bed, apparently.

A guard unlocked his cell door. Geitbart walked in.

Reinhart longed to wipe the ugly smile from his face by telling him he knew now exactly what happened to his brother. But he did not want to endanger Avelina, who had discovered the information.

“Come to gloat?” Reinhart asked Geitbart. “Or have you come to kill me?”

The duke shook his head. “I do not need to kill you. I will simply tell the king that you have gone mad after killing your brother to gain the margravate.”

“Were you not content with the duchy of Geitbart?”

“Thornbeck Castle belongs to my family.” Geitbart pointed to his own chest as he leaned toward Reinhart. “It was taken wrongfully, as you know very well. I intend to have it back. My daughter wanted to marry you, but when you chose a servant over her, I convinced her that we could have the castle for ourselves and we did not need you. We had intended to try to send both you and the servant girl over the side of the balcony, but that failed when you arrived at the wrong time. She hated the little pretender so much, she tried to have the wolves kill her. But she survived—again, thanks to you.”

He paced in a half circle around Reinhart. “Avelina. Such a pretty little servant girl. She told me you did not care what happened to her anymore, now that you know she is a servant and not an earl’s daughter. Is that true?”

Reinhart made his expression blank as he stared at him with half-closed eyes.

“I don’t suppose it matters. It is not as if she can tell her father to send his guards to save you since, as Fronicka learned, her father is only a former servant and a cripple.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “No wonder the girl likes you. You are just like her father.”

Reinhart would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Why don’t you kill me? Why keep me alive?”

“It amuses me to know you are here in the dungeon.” He fingered the hilt of his sword strapped to his hip. “And when it no longer amuses me, perhaps I will kill you and end your misery.”

Geitbart looked hard at Reinhart, as if waiting for him to reply. But Reinhart refused to speak.

“Or perhaps I will give you someone to keep you company here in your cell—it is the largest one. Are you impressed with my generosity? I could give you . . . ach, ja! That servant girl, the one you chose over my daughter and all the other noblemen’s daughters. You and your brother seem to have an affinity for servant girls. Must be a family trait. Shall I have my guards escort her here?”

Heat boiled in his veins and roared in his ears. One blow. Just one. Reinhart lunged at Geitbart. His fist found its mark as it crunched into Geitbart’s nose. The look of surprise on his face made it even more rewarding.

Something slammed into the back of Reinhart’s head. He fell to the floor.

“Shall I kill him, Your Grace?” Something sharp pressed against Reinhart’s throat. He assumed it was a sword point. His vision was still spinning too much for him to see anything.

Dear Jesus and Lord God, forgive my sins and receive my spirit. It was the quick prayer he had taught himself to pray in case he should be about to die in battle.

“No. I want to show the king how gracious I am to let this murderer live.”

The guard removed his sword from Reinhart’s throat as his vision started to clear. With both hands Geitbart was wiping his nose, which was dripping blood.

“Shall I break his legs, Your Grace?”

Geitbart took a cloth from his pocket and wiped his hands and nose. “Later. Later we may break both his legs and his arms. But if the king wants us to bring him to Prague to be tried in the royal court . . . We had better wait.”

They turned and left the small cell, then slammed and locked the door after them.

Reinhart touched the back of his head. His hand came away red and sticky with blood.

There was no window in the rather large cell. He felt around on the wall, searching for a loose stone, anything he could use as a weapon, but all the stones were tightly mortared and he found nothing. Then he went over to the bars that made up the door of his cell. He shook them. But every bar seemed solid.