Clara

by Suzanna J. Linton

  “Apologies,” he said. “I didn't mean to be so forceful.”

  And for the first time since the incident with Haggard, Clara looked at him more closely. Dark circles smudged the underside of his eyes, and his hair, usually neatly brushed, was tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed and shoved his hands through it. Forgetting they were in full view of everyone else in the practice area, she touched his arm, forming a look of concern with her eyes.

  Emmerich hesitated for a moment before pulling away. “I'm fine. Only anxious.”

  Clara didn't believe him but nodded anyway.

  He took a deep breath and let it out gustily. “Would you like to have dinner with me, tonight?”

  She raised her brows and gestured toward the large dining tent where the people of rank gathered.

  “Aye, I know. We eat together in the evenings but, what I mean is, would you like to dine with me in my tent? We haven't had a chance to really, ah, talk.”

  He looked so uncomfortable, Clara wished she could laugh. Smiling, she nodded her acceptance.

  “Well, then.” He saluted her with his sword and walked off, Clara watching him as he went.

  Clara dressed with a little more care than usual before dinner. She put on a pale green undergown and a yellow tunic, belting it with a brown cord. The gown had small, trailing sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline, which the tunic matched. She honestly didn't know what to do with her hair, so simply plaited it as usual. She was just pulling on her slippers when one of the guards called, “Lady Clara, Sir Gavin to see you.”

  With a plunge of her heart, she heard again Gavin's desire to have her heart, something she had been avoiding thinking about since hearing it in that meeting. Snatching up her writing things, she went to the entrance and pushed aside the flap.

  “Oh,” said Gavin, when he saw her. “What's the occasion?”

  Blushing, she wrote, “General Emmerich wants me to dine with him.”

  And, as if on cue, Emmerich came out of his tent and looked toward them. He had changed clothing as well. Instead of his travel-stained uniform, he wore all black, with the starburst embroidered on the left side of his chest. The color made him more severe, but Clara liked it.

  “I see,” said Gavin, his tone almost strangled. One of the guards snickered and he shot him an ugly look.

  Clara started to write an apology but Gavin waved his hand. “No. I understand.” He walked off just as Emmerich came to stand beside Clara.

  “It's all right. He'll get over it,” said Emmerich. He offered his arm. “Ready?”

  Slowly, Clara slipped her arm through his and let him lead her to his tent, all of five feet away.

  Once inside, he said, “You look very lovely.”

  She smiled her thanks. A small table had been set with the night's meal. A candelabrum burned in the center and two place settings were out. Because it was Emmerich, being the general, all the items were fine gold, silver, and porcelain. How they transported the stuff without injury, Clara had no idea.

  Emmerich gallantly held out her chair before sitting across from her. A servant came forward and poured wine.

  “I thought,” he said, “that is, ah. How are your guards working out? I'm sure they obey you.”

  She wrote, “They're fine. I don't like having Haggard, though.”

  “I know. But I trust him. I ask that you do the same.” He shifted a little.

  Anger bubbled up in Clara and she sipped wine to cover her grimace.

  “If he really does bother you, I can get someone else. But, I would really like for you to give him a chance. Will you do that for me?”

  Clara studied him for a long moment before nodding a grudging yes.

  The meal advanced in awkwardness. If making conversation had ever been Emmerich's strong suit during his days at Court, he had lost the knack from lack of use. Somehow, they managed to spend an hour talking without actually saying anything.

  As the dessert was set before her (blackberry jam cake), Clara's impatience got the best of her. Taking up her slate, she wrote, “Why did you want to have dinner with me like this?”

  “Ah. Well. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She fiddled with her chalk as she considered her next words. “What did Gavin mean, about trying to have my heart?”

  Emmerich grew still as he read her words. For a long moment, he said nothing, only ate some of his cake. Finally, he said, “He cares about you. He probably wants to eventually ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Clara set down her fork as she took that in.

  Emmerich cleared his throat. “Would you accept him?”

  Would she? Could she? Slowly, she shook her head. She barely knew him, really.

  He nodded and looked away. “You should probably tell him that.” He carried on eating.

  After a moment, she picked up her fork.

  After seeing Clara back to her tent, Emmerich retired to his own, feeling like a fool. While he felt both glad and selfish that Clara held no real interest in Gavin, he almost wished she had. Because then she would be less of a distraction. He was on campaign, for the Child's sake. He had no business becoming interested in a woman.

  But that night, the old dream came back of blood and accusation and when he woke with a start, his first thought was of a name he hadn't dared to utter in a long time. And he knew that the only reason why he thought of it at all was because of Clara.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the darkness before dawn, Clara sat up in her cot, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. A fire flickered outside her tent, throwing a little light through the small gaps around the flap; she could barely make out the shadowy outlines of her guards.

  Garments sat neatly folded on a nearby trunk, laid out by a servant just last night, and she got out of bed to put them on. More and more people began moving outside her tent as she dressed and she distantly heard orders being snapped or shouted. If she hadn't wakened on her own, the noise would have roused her.

  Once dressed and her hair braided, she scooped up her slate, chalk and a bag, and stepped outside. The two guards bowed to her. Pointedly ignoring Haggard, she gave a smile to the other guard, whose name she hadn't caught. The flap to Gavin's tent was folded open and she went inside.

  Gavin stood in the center of his tent, two men buckling on a combination chainmail and plate armor that covered his chest, shoulder, arms, and legs. The links made soft chinking noises as the men tightened straps and adjusted. Gavin, his arms spread as if he were about to take flight, stood patiently under their hands.

  Clara came to stand in his line of sight, forcing herself to smile at him. She had been awkward around him ever since that night with Emmerich, but it wasn't only that. Chainmail made her nervous. She scribbled a good morning on her slate and held it up for him to read. He responded with a tight-lipped smile.

  Digging into the bag, she took out a spare handkerchief. The men, their work done, stepped back. Gavin swung his arms, testing for anything too tight or too slack. He nodded to the men and they left.

  Stepping forward, she proffered the handkerchief. He took it. “Is this a favor?” he asked, a smile beginning to tug on his lips.

  Shifting uncomfortably, she gestured for him to unfold it.

  He did so, revealing a small, round medal with the image of a sword-bearing archangel. “Ah.” Some of the humor went out of his face. “A good luck charm.”

  She shrugged, not wanting to give words to her fear that he might not come back and therefore needed protection.

  “I will bring it back to you.”

  She shook her head and pushed his hand toward himself, indicating he should keep it.

  He refolded the cloth around the medal and tucked it behind the chainmail shirt. With a nod, he turned and began pulling on the spiked gloves lying on the table. “I think Emmerich wanted to speak to you. You should go to him now. I have to make sure the Captains are getting everyone lined up. We'll be quick-marching to Orlind. Hopefully, we won't be t
oo ragged by the time we get there.” He gave her another smile as he left.

  Feeling vaguely as if she had done something wrong, she left the tent and crossed over to Emmerich's, trying to ignore the two guards following her. Emmerich's tent bustled like an overturned anthill. Several men stood around, taking turns lobbing requests and information at him while more men outfitted Emmerich in his armor. She felt lost in the clamor and watched as two men buckled on the general's chainmail and armor.

  Gavin's had been elegant in its simplicity and showed obvious signs of repeated mending. Emmerich, however, was resplendent.

  Highly polished, the pieces caught and held the light. Gauntlets with spiked knuckles and forearms were pulled onto his hands. Spiked greaves went onto his shins. Even the boots bore deadly steel toes. On his shoulders and arms went plate armor embossed with swirling details. His face grave and solemn during the process, he calmly issued orders, answered questions, and took in information with all the ease of an experienced lord planning a dinner party. But a look of calm fierceness filled his eyes and his body contained a violence controlled by cunning and discipline.

  He had become death.

  His eyes fell on her and Clara shrank back without thinking.

  “My lord,” said a servant.

  The moment broke and he turned to take his sword from the servant. He buckled it around his waist with practiced ease. The well-worn and familiar belt and scabbard seemed to anchor him in the present and Clara saw some of the Emmerich she came to know over the last se'ennights. But the Death-Man still shimmered just beneath the surface.

  Another servant held up his helmet, which he took, and that seemed to be the signal for all the men to disperse, bowing. Clara stood to the side while they left.

  “I see you rose early,” he said after the flap closed behind the last one.

  She nodded, holding her slate and unable to think of something to write. “Good morning” suddenly seemed inadequate.

  “Have you seen Gavin?”

  Another nod. She hurriedly wrote, “He's gone to check on the Captains.” She held up the slate.

  “Come closer. My eyesight isn't that good.”

  She did, stopping barely a foot away as memories of her time with the mail-wearing slavers skirted around her mind.

  “Ah. Good.”

  She lowered the slate and eyed the armor again, trying to convince herself it was only Emmerich.

  “I'm told the ladies find this equipage dashing. What do you think?”

  She shook her head.

  “You look afraid.”

  Clara shrugged, not wanting to talk about it.

  He reached out and she tensed. Slowly, he cupped her chin and lifted her face. Her heart sped up as he looked at her.

  “Never fear me,” he said. He started to lean a little closer and her stomach tightened.

  But he hesitated, the moment passed, and he carefully dropped his hand away. Hand shaking, Clara reached into her pocket and pulled out her other handkerchief. She held it out to him.

  “What's this?” he asked, taking it. He unfolded it, revealing the same medal she gave to Gavin. “Oh. Where'd you get this?”

  “The presbyter,” she wrote.

  “Thank you. It's been a long time since a lady gave me something before battle. Not since–” He shook his head, folded the cloth and tucked it behind his mail. “Do you mind helping me into this blasted helmet? I usually manage fine by myself but I don't mind a little help.”

  She hung her slate back around her neck and took the helmet from him. Spikes crawled in a line over the center and swirls were etched on the plates curving around to protect the face. He bent as she lifted the helm and pushed it onto his head. He reached up and helped. It fitted tightly. Standing so close to him, she felt awkward and clumsy but the stupid piece eventually slid into place. She buckled the chinstrap.

  Only his eyes, nose, and mouth were visible. More chain mail hung to protect his neck. Something alien and strange looked down on her now and Clara had to remind herself that it was only Emmerich. Emmerich who swore he would never hurt her. One day she would believe it. Maybe.

  “Clara,” he said, taking her hands and holding them, “I've left orders for you and some men to go to a camp a day's ride from the castle, separate from here, in case a raiding party comes or something like that.” He must have seen the mutiny rising in her eyes because he gently squeezed her hands. “I only want to protect you. Gavin will come fetch you when this is over.”

  The flap behind her rustled and he let go. She turned. Gavin, wearing a plain helm, came into the tent.

  “All is ready, Emmerich,” he said.

  “Good.” He walked out without sparing Clara another glance.

  Gavin said, “Emmerich told you about the arrangement?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Your things are being packed now.” He walked up to her. “Can I have a kiss for luck?”

  Blushing, she gestured toward where he had put the handkerchief and medal.

  “Aye, I have that, but I would rather have a kiss.” He pulled the helm off.

  Why didn't Emmerich ask? she suddenly wondered. Pushing the thought aside, she leaned forward to give him a quick peck on the cheek. At the last moment, he turned his head and stole it from her lips. When he pulled away, she wasn't sure whether to smile or hit him.

  “Just in case,” he said. “A man finds he doesn't want to leave behind any regrets, before he rides into battle.” He cleared his throat. “You mean a lot to me, Clara.”

  Turning, he walked out and she trailed behind, stunned. The men were bustling around as they arranged in neat companies outside the circle of tents. Gavin jogged over to saddle up with them, yanking on his helm as he went. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, throwing pale, watery light over the tree line.

  Clara joined the throng of those staying behind and watched as Emmerich and Gavin hauled themselves into their saddles. Gavin gave her another smile as silence descended upon the army. Finally, Emmerich raised his hand, horns blew, and the army marched out. Clara stood and watched until they were all gone.

  The chosen hiding place was a secluded dell and the men pitched her tent on the lee side of a boulder. A knot of worry gnawed a hole in her stomach but when supper came, she forced herself to eat. It could have been poison for all she tasted it.

  The apprehension only grew and Clara slept fitfully that night. She woke several times, body tensed and drenched in sweat, listening for something. What, she didn't know.

  Finally, somewhere near dawn, she woke as waves of tingling sensations swept over her body. Sitting up in her pallet, she suddenly Saw, as if through a misted glass, Emmerich giving the finally orders to the captains. As the men turned away, he touched his chest, where the medal laid by his heart.

  She saw the men lining up in their ranks. She saw the trumpeters raising their horns. It felt as if her body was only a bottle of thin glass and her spirit pressed against the stopper.

  Half-blind to her surroundings, she stood and stumbled out of the tent in her shift. The men breakfasting by the fire stared at her. She ignored them, dropping to her knees.

  The flames of the fire leapt up and surrounded her, consuming her, becoming her. Heat filled and flushed her, breaking the bottle and she soared up and up. She came to stand in a sun's center. But that even faded and she rode pillion with Emmerich as he crossed the field on his black battle charger, her hands gripping his sides. The edges of his chainmail bit into her skin and she could hear his labored breath. She could smell his particular scent: horse and leather, sweat and musk. Men roared like the ocean and rushed like waves to slam against the opposing force meeting them outside the walls.

  Only for the scene to turn on itself and the force was smaller, then it was bigger. Another shift and Emmerich rode a white horse. But didn't he mount a black just the other morning? She squeezed her eyes shut but she still Saw.

  Beside her, Gavin went down with a cleaved skull
only to stand and fight again. Emmerich died a thousand times in her arms (arrow in the eye, battle axe to the chest, dagger to the throat) and lived a thousand more. The wizard, from his tower, killed hundreds that lived again, and he died many times only to strike out once more. Blue tongues of magic rent the air. She was drenched in blood one moment only to be clean another.

  Screaming soundlessly, she fell back, reaching for darkness, but even there she did not find solace. Even there she Saw.

  “Sire,” said Haggard, “there's something wrong.” He scowled up at Gavin as he dismounted.

  “What is it?”

  “She won’t come out.” He gestured to the small tent. The other five guards stood around it with grim looks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She started havin’ a fit of some kind and when she came out of it, she went into her tent and won’t come out. She hasn’t eaten, either.”

  Frowning, he strode over to the tent and swept into it. Clara looked up at him from where she sat in a corner, in a soiled shift, hugging her knees against her chest. She studied him with wide eyes, which, after a moment, drifted away to something else. She rocked slowly back and forth.

  “Sweetling?” He knelt in front of her. “Can you hear me?” She squirmed away when he reached for her. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.” He eased closer to her, keeping his hands visible. “Let me hold you.” He tried again. This time, she let him pull her to him. “You’re trembling. It’s all right.” He made soothing noises as he hugged her close to his chest.

  For several minutes they sat there as he stroked her hair and whispered sweet assurances. Slowly, the tremors eased from her body, though her eyes still stared vacantly. Continuing to whisper to her reassuringly, he stood and carried her outside.

  “Take down the campsite,” he directed the men.

  “My lord.” Evan, the tallest of the bodyguards, approached him. “There’s still a bit of breakfast by the fire.”