The Deserter I Saved Turned Out To Be A Royal Duke — But I Refused His Proposal
Part 1
Blood dries stiff like rusted iron flaking into wool.
I learned this washing the village’s linens, long before I found a half-dead deserter bleeding into my turnips.
He smelled of gangrene, gunpowder, and wet dog.
I should have left him for the magistrates.
Instead, I dragged twelve stone of deadweight through the mud to my root cellar.
I pitied the wretch.
I wouldn’t have if I knew his blood ran bluer than the frozen river.
Frost gripped the soil like a vise, turning the potato patch into a graveyard of hard clumps.
I chipped at the earth with a rusted trowel.
My knuckles were split, crusted with dirt and old scabs.
Hunger was a dull, persistent ache behind my ribs.
Something groaned low and wet from the bramble thicket.
I tightened my grip on the trowel.
A mass of dark fabric lay tangled in the thorns.
At first glance, it looked like a dead deer.
Then a mud-caked hand twitched.
His coat was a wretched color, soaked through with swamp water and dried blood.
A ragged rattle tore through his throat.
Turning my back, I tried to ignore him.
Barely three steps toward my drafty cottage, a sharp intake of breath snagged my conscience.
It sounded exactly like the noise my father made when the logging cart crushed his chest.
Pivoting on my worn heel, I grabbed the man by his shoulder and heaved him over.
A deep gash tore through the fabric of his side.
The metallic stench of old blood mixed with the odor of infection.
He cracked a single, fever-bright eye.
He croaked for water.
I calculated the distance to the cottage.
If the king’s men found a deserter on my land, they would hang me from the ancient oak.
My hands were already gripping the collar of his ruined coat.
I dragged him to the trapdoor in the corner of my kitchen.
Getting him down the wooden ladder into the root cellar was a nightmare.
He let out a sharp cry of pain before passing out again.
I lit a tallow candle and sliced through the hardened wool of his coat.
The gash was ugly and jagged.
Raw spirit splashed as I poured it directly over the wound.
His back arched violently, a primal scream tearing from his throat.
My hand clamped down hard over his mouth to silence him.
His gray eyes flew open, wide and clouded with agony.
Threading a thick needle, I pierced his skin.
It was awful work.
When I finally finished, eleven ugly stitches held the gaping hole shut.
Three days passed.
He muttered incessantly about flank maneuvers and cavalry charges.
A sharp knock hammered against my front door.
Two men in scarlet coats stood on my stoop.
They were looking for stragglers from the regiment.
I leaned against the doorframe, letting out a long, slow exhale while crossing my arms.
I told them I hadn’t seen anyone but crows.
They left, promising a hanging if I harbored a traitor.
I descended the ladder to the cellar.
Greg’s fever had broken.
He looked hollowed out and gray.
I told him I lied to save my own neck.
He asked my name.
I asked his.
He hesitated before offering Greg.
I didn’t believe him for a second.
Men who carried themselves like that were never just a private.
Winter arrived with a howling assault.
Snow piled in drifts against the door.
The peat was burning too fast.
Greg stood up, wrapping a thin scarf around his neck.
He insisted on fetching wood.
He pulled on his stiff coat and shoved the back door open.
The wind howled into the kitchen.
I found him at the wood block with an iron axe.
His swing was all wrong.
It pulled violently at his right side, and he collapsed into the snow.
I grabbed the axe handle and chopped six heavy logs.
I hauled him back inside.
He had broken a stitch.
I called him a useless burden.
He stared at his uncalloused hands, his jaw rigid as he wiped a smear of dirt away.
His voice dropped to a bitter whisper, admitting he spent his life commanding men to do things he couldn’t do himself.
I wiped away the fresh blood with a warm rag.
I asked why he deserted.
He said he realized he was fighting for a man who only cared about pretty maps.
I didn’t see a burden anymore.
By the fifth day of the storm, the turnip sack was completely empty.
We were surviving on weak pine needle tea.
I trudged up the ridge to my snare line.
At the fourth snare, a massive winter-fattened hare hung from the copper wire.
We skewered the meat on an iron spit over the coals.
Hot grease dripped down my chin.
Greg stripped a small rib bone clean with animalistic intensity.
When the last scrap was gone, he leaned back against the stone wall.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a smudge of soot from my cheek.
He pulled me closer, his fingers tangling in my hair.
The kiss was desperate, tasting of roasted meat and pine smoke.
I woke before dawn.
He was asleep beside me on the hearth rug.
I picked up his ruined coat to patch the frayed shoulder.
My fingers brushed something hard hidden deep within the padding.
I snapped the fine threads with my paring knife.
A heavy gold signet ring wrapped in oilcloth slid into my palm.
It bore a sprawling crest with two falcons and a crown.
An officer was one thing, but this was ancient wealth.
I was hiding a deity in my root cellar.
He woke up and saw what I held.
Mud replaced the snow in late March.
I stood in the yard, digging for surviving carrots.
The heavy thud of hooves cut through the rain.
Six men on horseback wearing the king’s scarlet rode up the ridge.
I sprinted into the kitchen.
I screamed for Greg to get into the cellar.
He refused to hide.
The door exploded inward, the iron latch tearing from the wood.
Lieutenant Craig stormed in, a heavy flintlock pistol aimed at Greg’s chest.
Four soldiers crowded behind him with raised muskets.
Craig called him a traitor and ordered him to his knees.
Greg didn’t move.
He reached into his ruined coat, and what he pulled out made the king’s guard drop their weapons.
