Clara

by Suzanna J. Linton

  “You can't let her stay,” cried Gavin.

  “Sit, Lady Clara.”

  Startled at the title, she sat.

  “Gavin, do you need to be dismissed?”

  Gavin's face mottled, his hand dropping to his sword. The other captains tensed and the moment poised on the edge of violence. Finally, he shook his head and sat.

  And Emmerich unrolled a map as if nothing happened.

  After the meeting, Emmerich said, “Gavin, you may go. I’ll escort Lady Clara to her rooms.”

  With a curt bow, he obeyed, leaving the door open behind him.

  Emmerich worried about him. He wasn’t the same person–anxious and worried, not carefree at all anymore. He felt it was time to separate the two a little bit.

  Emmerich turned to her and offered his arm. She cautiously slipped her hand over his forearm. “You don't need to fear me. I suppose not many people show you courtesy, my lady.”

  She seemed surprised and a little pleased. Together, they left the room and went up to the old lady’s maids’ chambers. No one could persuade Clara into taking late Lady Dwervin’s quarters.

  They entered the sitting room, and here, Clara’s body language changed. She grew tense and began playing with her belt. She edged away from him and sat in one of the armchairs, her back rigid.

  He sat across from her, in another armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped. “Are you worried I'm going to discipline you for sneaking into the meeting?”

  She nodded with downcast eyes.

  “Well, I won't. And don't worry about Gavin. I suppose he means well. Anyway, I think it's time for you to stop skulking around me as if afraid of me. I can be a harsh man but I need you to be able to come to me. I wish you had come to me with your request to be at the meetings. Gavin and I aren't always of one mind.” He sat back. “You showed a lot of fire tonight. You really want to be a part of this war?”

  She took her slate off and looked down at it. Some of her hair had fallen loose from her braid. It hung around her face in wisps in a pretty way. Taking up her chalk, she slowly wrote and held it up. It read, “I have no choice but to help you.”

  “That is true. A lone woman wouldn’t last on the roads. You could stay in the castle but I don't think you would want that.”

  She shook her head and they sat in silence for a long moment. The way she sat up straight and proper, intelligent eyes lost in thought, reminded him of someone else. He scrubbed his jaw to distract himself. Finally, she wrote, “Is this why you wanted to talk to me in private?”

  “Well, that and I was wondering if you’d be interested in learning how to fight? I mean, I’m not expecting you to become a master swordswoman or something. Just, to know enough to protect yourself.”

  “Why were you taunting Gavin earlier?”

  The sudden question surprised him, turning the conversation down a much too personal route. He stood. “I’ll leave you to your rest. If you want to learn how to fight, meet me by the stables at first light. That will be my only free time, as it’s when I usually practice anyway.”

  Clara nodded but, before she had a chance to write anything on that blasted slate, he left.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clara dressed with nervous, cold fingers, the fire casting large, malformed shadows onto the walls. On her table sat the remains of a light breakfast.

  “His lordship told me to bring it, as well as to wake you,” the maid had whispered. She set out her clothes with a look of disdain. Clara found out why quickly enough: they were a dark brown boy's tunic, shirt, and trousers. She managed to find suitable boots in the bottom of her wardrobe.

  Outside, her breath puffed white vapor as she crossed the flagstones in the early morning light, the sun barely cresting the tree line. She walked with long strides to the stables, ignoring the stares of servants and soldiers, and found Emmerich already at his sword exercises. Holding his sword carefully, he slowly worked through forms and stances, then repeated them more quickly, over and over, until he became a blur and his blade sang through the air, the sun glancing off the metal. She watched with awe.

  When he finished, he turned to her. “You're late,” he said. Today he wore the uniform she first saw him in and the way the sun cast its light around him made her feel shy and exhilarated all at once. But remembering what he said of her yesterday tossed cold water on her feelings.

  She reached for her slate, only to find that once again, in her excitement, she left it in her room. She settled for a glare.

  He grinned and waved her over, sheathing his sword. When approached, he held out a wooden practice sword. “We'll start with this.”

  She held it as if she expected it to bite her. With a sigh, Emmerich came up behind her, reaching around her to arrange her hands and fingers on the hilt. She tensed.

  “Clara,” he said softly, “I am your teacher this morning. When we meet at this time, that is what our relationship is: teacher and pupil. You have no reason to fear me. Now. Part of fighting is being loose. You have to be relaxed; it makes it easier to respond. Take a deep breath. Fill your lungs. That's it. Now, let it out. Again. Take in your tension. Now, let it out with your breath. Again. Good.”

  He smelled like leather, soap, and musk. Clara would admit to herself much later that it was mostly his smell that made her stomach unloose and her shoulders relax. But that morning she only credited his good teaching skills. He placed his hands lightly on her hips and turned them slightly.

  “Bring your right foot back. No, too wide. Your feet can be no wider apart than your shoulders. Good. Bend your knees a little. Very good.” He reached up and tilted her forearms up. “This is your defensive stance. Now, I'm going to guide you through some forms.”

  They worked until the sun came over the tree line. Steward Warren interrupted them with a cough. Emmerich frowned, but let Clara come out of her stance. Her legs and back ached. She thought longingly of the bathing room.

  “We'll meet here tomorrow at the same time,” he said. Turning, he strode away, the steward hurrying to keep up.

  “I think you did well,” said a voice suddenly. Clara whirled, jerking the sword up into a defensive pose without thinking. Gavin leaned against the stable wall. Blinking, she smiled shyly and dropped the pose.

  “I don't like that you need to learn this,” he continued, “but you did well.”

  He straightened and walked away. Clara opened her mouth, trying to make herself call out to him, to ask him if he really did think she was learning well, to perhaps explain everything he said yesterday, but nothing came. She watched helplessly as he turned the corner out of sight.

  Low clouds cast red light at dawn as the army assembled outside the village. Clara felt unsteady as she perched sidesaddle on her bay gelding. She looked enviously at Gavin's trousers. Sitting with one leg on either side of the horse seemed so much more stable. And it wasn't as if she had had much practice. The day before, when she admitted she'd never ridden before, Emmerich all but threw her into a saddle and wouldn't let her go until she could ride one circuit around the paddock without falling off. She rubbed a bruise on her shoulder.

  Emmerich cantered up the line of soldiers and supply wagons. He stopped beside her, looking quite dashing in his dark green tunic and trousers as he turned in his saddle to give the line one more look. Over his chest he wore a heavy leather vest with the blue and white starburst worked into it over the heart, and from his hip hung his sword.

  He faced the road and held up his hand. The trumpeter raised his horn and, when the general dropped his hand, winded a long note, which was repeated along the line. They lurched forward. Clara grinned nervously at Gavin, who smiled back. Before her may be war and blood, but behind her was the place of her captivity. She felt she had a reason to smile.

  That night, they camped in a large fallow field. Men erected Clara's tent between Emmerich's and Gavin's. As they did so, with Gavin overseeing, Emmerich casually strolled up.

  �
�When you have a moment,” he said, “gather a few soldiers to act as the lady's guard.”

  “I already have some men in mind.”

  “Good.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder and walked on, barking orders at someone.

  Gavin walked away in the opposite direction, angling for a company of men on the far side of the camp. Four soldiers laughed and bantered as they set up their tents. One of them saw Gavin approach and greeted him with a friendly, “Hullo, Gavin!”

  The other three turned as he came to a stop before them. “I have a job for you all,” he said. “Guard duty.”

  “Ya need someone to watch yer back?” asked a redhead with his front teeth missing.

  “No, Lorne. This is for a lady named Clara. She's staying in the tent between mine and General Emmerich's.”

  “Must be a mighty fine whore,” spoke up a bald man with a scar bisecting his scalp. The others snickered until they caught Gavin's glare.

  “What she is,” he said, “is none of your business. She's very important, though, and she needs constant guard. You four can split it up however you like; I just need two of you with her at all times, starting this evening. Understand?”

  The men saluted half-heartedly and he left to tell Clara about her new shadows. He found her helping the horse master. He paused to watch her.

  Mud and dust stained her dark red riding dress and her hair fell loose from her braid. A little dirt smudged her cheek. Fatigue slumped her shoulders but a small smile curved her face as the horses bent to eat the hay she sprinkled before them.

  He came up beside her and touched her arm. “You don't have to do that anymore,” he said gently.

  She looked up and formed a question with her large eyes and sweet mouth. He took the food from her hands and scattered it in a quick motion.

  “You're not a slave, anymore,” he said. “Neither are you a servant. You are a free woman.” He lowered his voice. “In fact, you're the general's Seer. You are the most important of his advisers. You can tell him to not pitch a battle and, unless he's feeling really stubborn, he'll follow your advice. Such a woman does not scatter hay for horses. Come.” He took her hand and led her back to her tent. “We really ought to get you a lady's maid and a title of some kind, so that no one will doubt your purpose.”

  She took up the slate and wrote, “But I like to help. I like to work.”

  “It's all you've known. How can you say you like it? You don't know anything else to know if you don't. Like it, that is.”

  “When I was with the lady's maids, I did very little besides sew and I spent most of the time being bored.” She tripped a little as she wrote and Gavin steadied her.

  “Appearances have to be kept up. No one will know what to think of you if Emmerich holds you in high esteem but you help the horse master. But let’s not argue about this. I've found guards for you.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “You're very important and we can't risk something happening to you. They'll come by in the evening; they're good men and I trust them with my life. You'll be safe with them.”

  She nodded slowly, then wrote something quickly on her slate. She held it up and it read, “You worry about me too much.”

  “Sweetling, I wonder sometimes if I don't worry enough.” As they approached her tent, he noticed the four bodyguards were already there. “Ah, your guards are here. Perhaps they wanted to take a look at you before later this evening. Let me introduce you. They're all good, loyal men.”

  But before they got much closer, one of the men turned around, and Clara stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, laying one hand on her arm.

  The man, a new recruit with one eye named Haggard, took a tentative step forward. “Clara?”

  Clara turned and ran away as fast as she could. Gavin yelled her name but she ignored him. He took off after her with the bodyguards close behind.

  Her lungs and legs burned as she pelted through the tents at full speed, fear burning in her gut. Some of the soldiers shouted, wanting to know what was the trouble, and she collided into one, knocking him down and scattering the supplies he carried. Catching herself, Clara kept going. Up ahead, Emmerich conversed with the horse master. He looked over when he heard her coming, his hand falling automatically to his sword when he saw her face.

  She stopped in front of him, shaking and gasping, tears rolling down her face.

  Emmerich put his hands on her shoulders. “What's wrong? Have you had a vision?”

  She shook her head. Behind her, she heard Gavin cry, “Clara!”

  A fresh surge of fear drove her behind Emmerich, gripping the sides of his left arm with both hands as she looked around him. He brought his left hand back to hold her side as he faced forward. His right hand clenched the grip of his sword.

  Gavin stopped in front of them, the four guards coming to a huffing stop with him. Those standing around watched with interest.

  “What the hell is going on, Gavin?” Emmerich asked.

  “I don't know,” he replied. “I was about to introduce Clara to her guards when she ran.”

  “I can explain,” said Haggard, his voice rougher than she remembered. “But perhaps we ought to talk in your tent, my lord?”

  Emmerich turned toward Clara. “Is that all right with you?”

  She slowly nodded, feeling safe with Emmerich standing there. As they walked toward the tent, he put an awkward arm around her shoulders. She kept a healthy distance from touching his side with hers.

  Emmerich's tent was sparse and utilitarian. Boxes and bags sat against one cloth wall. Opposite from it stood a small cot and in the center stood a larger folding table. He stood in front of the table with Clara at his side. The three other guards lined up next beside the entrance while Gavin and Haggard stood before them.

  “All right,” he said. “I'm listening.”

  Haggard looked down and away. For Clara, now that some of the fear had leaked away, a great amount of rage filled her. She had the sudden fantasy that Emmerich, on hearing the story, would summarily have Haggard executed. Clara felt a good bit of pleasure at the thought.

  “My Lord General,” Haggard said, “'bout a dozen or more years back, I was friends with a man who couldn't provide for his family. He was about to be forced out of the land he had worked for seasons and seasons. His wife came to me. Said she wanted me to sell her child so they could pay the landlord his rent. I didn't want to do it was trying to get out of the business, myself. But she was desperate. And I thought–”

  “You thought,” Gavin interjected, his face going cold, “that she would have a better life somewhere else.”

  “Aye. Told the slaver not to sell her to a brothel or anything like that.”

  “Well,” said Emmerich, “he didn't. He only sold her to one of the crueler bastards this part of the country has to offer. You said you don't deal with slavery, any longer?”

  “No, sire. Young Clara was my last sale.”

  “And you'd be willing to swear that before a presbyter?”

  “Aye, sire. A thousand times over.”

  “Gavin?”

  Gavin looked at Emmerich with more than a little anger in his eyes. “You can't possibly be still considering having this man guard Clara.”

  Clara turned to Emmerich, who studied Haggard closely with a clenched jaw. Finally, he said, “Clara, would you be willing to let this man guard you?”

  She gaped at him. This was the man who sold her into slavery and he wasn't going to have him killed? Or at least beaten?

  Emmerich said, “Leave us.”

  “Emmerich,” Gavin choked out.

  “Must I begin repeating myself with you, Gavin?”

  For a long moment, the two men sized up the other. Finally, Gavin said tersely, “No, my lord.”

  The men left, leaving Clara and Emmerich by themselves.

  “You really hate him,” said Emmerich. His hands dropped away from her.

  Taking her slate, she wrote, “Wouldn't you?”<
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  “Aye. I would. Do you know why I accepted an old, one eyed man into my army?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because he is one of the best swordsmen I have ever seen. Aye, he's old and his reflexes aren't what they were. But he has taught my men more about the sword in the last month than most have learned in a lifetime. I trust him. I ask that you do the same.”

  Clara glared up at him and then down to her slate, writing, “He sold me into slavery.” To her horror, tears filmed her eyes.

  “He did. But that was a long time ago. I'll have the other guards keep a close eye on him but I don't think he'll be bothering you. And he'll only guard you during the day. Not at night. However, if you don't want him, I'll get someone else.”

  She stared at her slate for a long time. If she said no, would Emmerich be disappointed in her? And to have his good opinion spoke volumes about the person. Finally, she wiped it clean and in slow, careful letters, she wrote, “He may remain.”

  “Good.” He paused, as if about to say something else, but changed his mind. “Come. Let's let them know what we decided.”

  More like what you decided, she thought, but she took his arm and let him lead the way.

  That night, a figure was seen slipping into Haggard's tent. The next morning, his one good eye sported a bruise and he favored his left side. No one asked any questions.

  Clara began to hate traveling. She ached in places she didn't know existed. The general's fighting lessons left her exhausted before the day even begun. After a time, she began to stink of sweat, horse, and leather and there was no way for her to bathe properly. It would take too long to heat water and the thought of bathing in a stream near a camp full of men made her blush red all over. So, she settled for sponge baths in her tent.

  A few days before arriving at Orlind, the morning lesson ended with Clara being tossed into the mud. She glared up at Emmerich as he offered her a hand. She was very tempted to smack it away. Grimacing, she took it, and he pulled her up.