Page 49 of The Noble Servant

“Please wait.” He let go of her hand. “I shall come up with a plan. There is no need to rush into something. It will be better to be patient. Please, Magdalen. Trust me and wait.”

She bit her lip. “Very well. I shall try not to endanger myself or you.”

“Thank you.” He turned away.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

Her eyes were wide and her brows were drawn together. “Please be careful. I am praying for you.”

How long had it been since he’d felt someone truly cared for his welfare, enough to pray for him? Not since his grandmother died and he left for Prague. His sister, Gertrudt, married a prince a year ago and went to live in Burgundy, which was many days’ journey on the other side of the German regions. Most people only cared what Steffan could do for them. Since Jacob was gone now, too, Steffan was truly on his own.

He continued down the steps, biting back a groan. He did not wish her to know how much pain he was in. Not only were his ribs sore from getting punched by the guard but he was also in pain from carrying firewood and buckets of water.

Steffan had befriended Magdalen, had bought her food and paper and ink, but he had also deceived her by not intending to find a courier for her letters. And yet, she could still look at him with great concern in her eyes, had carefully bandaged his head, and rose early to check on him.

She deserved a husband who would cherish her. Was Steffan even capable of cherishing a woman? He’d seen the way his father loved his mother, so much that when she died he was a broken man. Anger welled up at his father for the kind of weakness that would cause him to leave Steffan and his sister with no one but his grandmother, servants, and a less-than-honorable uncle.

But perhaps what he was really feeling was fear, fear that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. He never wanted to feel that kind of devastation.

That old familiar emotion—fear or anger, they felt about the same—rose inside him. It was as if he’d fallen into another abandoned well—trapped, in danger, and helpless.

No. He was not helpless. He would defeat his uncle and cousin and would once more feel powerful, calm, and content.

Steffan just had to stay away from Magdalen until he could get back his rightful power and send her home. Perhaps he would even find her a husband among his peers.

He finally reached the kitchen where Magdalen went to fetch the food for Agnes and Alexander. Meanwhile, he carried in two loads of wood and then several buckets of water, as the cooks were already preparing the day’s food, beginning with several loaves of bread.

After picking up the second load of wood, he noticed an older man standing at the edge of the trees that bordered the bailey around the castle. The man’s face was familiar. Could it be? He looked very much like the horse groomer Ansel.

Steffan pretended not to stare at the man, but he was certain he was Ansel. His clothing was ragged and patched, and he looked much thinner than the last time Steffan had seen him.

His heart clenched. Poor Ansel. But Steffan had no choice but to ignore his old servant and go inside with his load of wood.

Soon the smell of warm bread filled the air. The cooks removed the loaves from the large brick oven, and Steffan stoked the fire with more wood.

He started out the door to get another load of wood. The bread loaves were sitting just inside the large window casing, and Ansel was there, staring at the cooling bread. The gray-haired man snatched a loaf and stuffed it inside his shirt. But as soon as he turned around to flee, a guard grabbed the back of his neck.

“Thief!”

Steffan hurried outside.

“That is the Duke of Wolfberg’s bread!” the guard yelled. “How dare you steal from the duke?” He raised the hilt of his sword to strike him.

“Wait!” Steffan leapt toward them, throwing his arm between Ansel and the guard.

“Get out of the way,” the guard growled through clenched teeth.

“Will you injure this poor old man over a loaf of bread?” Steffan’s blood was boiling up inside him, especially to think he would do this in the name of the duke—in Steffan’s own name.

“No one steals from Wolfberg Castle.” The guard, whose face was twisted in a menacing scowl, still held on to Ansel’s neck.

“Let him go. It was only bread.”

“Will you take his beating for him?” The guard tightened his grip on Ansel, the older man’s eyes widening. He looked so frail, as if the guard could easily break him in two.

“If you let him go, then yes, I will take his punishment.”