Clara

by Suzanna J. Linton

  “Why? What's the purpose?”

  “You don't need to worry about that.”

  He frowned. “And we'll be free to go? After the war?”

  “I give you my most solemn word.”

  Gavin knew he couldn't trust Marduk, but the thought of Clara dying ate at him like fire. If there was any way he could protect her, he had to take it. Besides, maybe he could hint to her that something was wrong. Or maybe he could escape and take her with him.

  “Very well,” he said. “I'll do it.”

  “Good man.”

  The main door opened and a page approached them, stopping a respectful distance away. Marduk watched the boy bow and said, “Yes, Thomas?”

  “A message for you, your Majesty. From the Farseers.” Thomas walked up to him and held out a rolled missive.

  Marduk took it, unrolled the paper, and read it, a small smile teasing around the edge of his lips.

  “Very good. Thank you, Thomas.” After the boy bowed and scampered out, he turned to Gavin. “Now that we're done with generalities, let's get down to the specifics of the story you're to tell.”

  It took a little over two se’ennights before they reached Candor City, making camp under star and torchlight in one of the large fields used for the annual spring fetes held outside the city walls. A sudden storm that washed out part of the road had slowed them and there were rumors that rain further south had obliterated more roads. To top it off, a few platoons were ill with a summer fever.

  “All the more reason, my lord,” said Captain Asher, “for us to remain at Candor for the remainder of the year.”

  They stood in Emmerich’s tent, gathered around a folding table on which laid maps of Candor City and the countryside.

  “He is right, my lord,” said Captain Herne. “We can make it to Bertrand before the winter snows, aye, but there’s wisdom in recuperating here. And the men will have time to come to trust the Tieran King's reinforcements.”

  “What does the Seer say?” spoke up Captain Wilhelm.

  Emmerich looked up from the small map in his hands. “She has had no visions of our impending battle.”

  “Why hasn’t she ridden with us, though?”

  The tension in the room tightened.

  “The men are beginning to talk,” said Captain Owen. “They blame the roads and the fever on the Seer’s absence. They say she knows we’re going to lose and that’s why she wouldn’t come.”

  “The Seer,” said Emmerich, “chose to stay behind because the journey from Dwervinton to Orlind was too hard on her. She is resting and will join us in Candor City.”

  The captains nodded but looked unconvinced.

  “But what we must focus on now,” he continued, “is how we’re to gain entry into Candor. Still no word from Gavin?” He looked at Asher.

  Asher shook his head. “It’s a safe assumption, my lord, that he is either dead or captured. But we have no word of either.”

  “Any chance of us sneaking in a last minute spy?”

  “Our scouts report that the lord of Candor has sealed the city.”

  “Damn.”

  “We could offer terms of surrender,” said Owen.

  “Asher, are you familiar with this lord?”

  “The Northern lords do not often come to Bertrand, Lord General, save for one or two, and if this one ever did, I never met him.”

  “But what did people say about him at Court?”

  “They considered him as backward and barbaric as all the other Northern lords.” Asher shrugged. “I find it difficult to believe that he will surrender to us. Candor has withstood many invading armies. No doubt he believes he can simply wait us out. He has a nearly unlimited supply of water, thanks to the rivers, and large stockpiles of food, not only ones he has collected but also what wares fleeing merchants have brought.”

  Emmerich stared down at the map, Clara’s prediction of his death rankling in the back of his mind. Death had always been this vague concept, something that happened to everyone but wouldn’t happen to him. At least, not yet, that is. He still had so much to do.

  “Send a rider,” he said, “in the morning with terms. I leave you to write them, Asher. Bring them to me for approval, of course. But we must still discuss a plan of attack. As Captain Asher points out, the lord will most likely choose to wait us out.” He grimaced. Gavin was supposed to have been their way in again, and, like a fool, Emmerich didn’t bother to make a back-up plan. Gavin had never failed him before. Worry and fear roiled in his gut.

  “What are these?” asked Owen, pointing to hash marks on the map of Candor's perimeter. “These can't be gates. They're on the river.”

  “Those are the water gates leading into the ports. Candor has two, for either side. The lord of Candor has no doubt had the gates closed now that we're here.”

  “And I suppose the gates go all the way down to the riverbed?”

  “Aye, I–”

  “Actually,” said Asher. “I don't believe they do. Not this one, at least.” He pulled the map to him and pointed at the gate on the far side of the city.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I have a cousin who worked in Candor's ports some years ago. He said they had constant trouble with that gate jamming. The teeth would go just under the water's surface, but not all the way down.”

  “That was years ago, though. How do you know they haven't corrected the problem?”

  “I don't, my lord. But it wouldn't be difficult to send one or two men to check it out.”

  “Do it. Any other ideas?”

  The men studied the maps in silence for a few minutes. Emmerich glanced over at Asher, who looked away when their eyes met. However, for a brief moment, he saw concern there.

  Herne said, “Our greatest concern is what will happen when the men get on the bridges. They'll be sitting ducks, vulnerable to whatever the Candor army decides to drop on them. We can order for shields to be raised to guard the ram bearers but that will only offer marginal protection.”

  “Our best option,” said Captain Turin, “is to get men on the ramparts as soon as possible. Make that a priority over the ram, in fact. We can try the catapult but the distance between the city and the riverbank will be a major problem. We should get a tower on the bridge.”

  “That's a disastrous idea,” interrupted Owen. “The tower is wooden. If the enemy sets it alight, we won't be able to get past it to the city.”

  “They aren't going to set something like that alight so close to their walls.”

  “It's still a mad idea.”

  The other captains began to speak up and the meeting dissolved into a shouting match.

  Emmerich banged his fist on the table and shouted for order. When the men quieted, he said, “Prepare the tower and the ram. Have the men work all night if they have to. Captain Asher, send the spies. This meeting is adjourned. Captains Asher and Herne, remain behind.”

  After the men left, and it was just the three of them, Emmerich went to a small chest and from it took a rolled parchment. He brought it back to the table, laying it flat and pinning down the edges with small stones.

  “Asher, Herne,” he said. “This will be our most difficult battle. It would behoove us to be prepared for every eventuality. With that in mind, I wish to appoint Captain Asher as my successor and, Herne, for you to be witness to it.”

  “My lord, I can't-” began Asher.

  “You cannot be serious-” said Herne.

  “I am very serious,” Emmerich said. Taking out an inkwell and pen, he signed the document. “This is certifying that I am appointing Asher as successor and heir.” He held out the pen to Asher.

  Asher looked from the pen to Emmerich. “My lord, I'm sure you will live through this.”

  “As am I. But we need to be prepared. I didn't expect to lose Gavin, after all.”

  Slowly, he took the pen. “I'm not worthy, my lord. I'm just–”

  “What? The son of a minor baron?” Emmerich cracked a small half
-smile. “I'm the son of a wandering trader. If anything, you're the more proper choice.”

  Asher smiled faintly, hesitated, and came around, dipping the pen in the well and signing with a flourish.

  “Now, Herne, as witness.”

  Herne, without a word, signed the document, bowed and began to leave.

  “Herne,” said Emmerich.

  The captain stopped and turned, his expression unreadable.

  “You will keep this to yourself.”

  “Of course, my lord,” he replied. And he left without another word.

  “They're all fearing disaster,” said Asher. “Gavin's gone. Lady Clara refused to come with us. And now you've just appointed me your successor?” He grimaced. “My lord, what did the lady see, that day in the practice ring?”

  Emmerich turned away, sprinkling sand over the ink to dry it. “It isn't important.”

  “I believe it is, my lord. As your successor, I feel that I should have a right to know.”

  His hands stilled in the process of tapping the salt off the parchment. Silence filled the tent as he thought about Asher's words. He trusted Asher as much as, if not more so, than Gavin, though not even Asher knew all he had done.

  “She saw my death,” Emmerich said.

  “Did she say when?”

  “No.”

  “Then it may not be tomorrow.”

  “No. It may not.”

  “We all die, my lord.”

  “I'm aware of that.” He rolled up the parchment. “But I'd be a fool to not be prepared, aye?”

  “Very true, my lord.”

  They fell quiet as Emmerich placed a wax seal over the roll. When he had done that, and carefully placing it aside to dry, he turned back to Asher.

  “That doesn't explain it,” he said.

  “Explain what?” Emmerich asked.

  “It doesn't explain why she didn't accompany us.”

  “I gave the reason at the meeting.”

  “She seemed more than fine when I sparred with her, my lord.”

  “You don't need to concern yourself with that.”

  For a moment, he thought Asher was going to argue. But the captain only studied him a moment longer before bowing.

  “I will go see to my tasks, now, my lord.” And he left without another word.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Emmerich had been gone barely a day when Clara was more than ready to leave her rooms. She had tried to keep herself occupied with sewing but found quickly that her newfound knowledge refused to leave her alone.

  She was pacing the balcony, wringing her hands, when Cassie came to her after taking the breakfast tray downstairs.

  After watching her for a moment, Cassie said, “My lady, I wish you would tell me what troubles you. Why have we not ridden out with the army?”

  Clara stopped, looking out over the forest and to the mountains beyond.

  “Does it have something to do with what that soldier, Haggard, said to you?”

  She hunched her shoulders but made no move to answer.

  Cassie came to stand beside her. “My lady, whatever troubles you, I am sure it will all come out right in the end.”

  Clara smiled bitterly. Taking up her slate, she wrote, “I doubt that.”

  “Why? My lady, please tell me.”

  Clara looked at her, feeling the need to talk to someone, anyone, about the truth that was burning a hole through her heart. Finally, she wrote, “What do you know of the Princess' death?”

  “Princess Monica? I heard what everyone else has, that Marduk murdered her. Is that wrong?”

  “Haggard told me that Emmerich killed her.”

  The blood drained from the woman's face. “No. That can't be true. My lady, Haggard must have-had to have-been lying to you.”

  “He warned me to not do anything to anger Emmerich, or I could meet the same fate.” Her hands shook as she wrote the words.

  Cassie grasped her hand, as if to keep her from writing more. “My lady, I have known many men in my life, but Lord Emmerich is a good man, he–”

  Clara wrenched her hand away and wrote, filling the slate, “Emmerich said it was true.”

  She shook with the need to cry, to scream, to throw something to let out the pain shoved deep inside of her. Emmerich was going to die, leaving her with the irreconcilable images of the good man she thought she knew and the murderer.

  After a long moment, Cassie asked, “Did he explain why?”

  Clara shook her head.

  “That was the question, wasn't it? On the day before they were to leave? You were asking him why.”

  She nodded.

  “My lady, I can't imagine why, either, but there has to be a reason. Lord Emmerich is a good man. You must see that.”

  Taking her slate, Clara cleaned it and wrote, “My deepest fear, Cassie, is that more has been hidden from me, that I have not been on the right side after all. But how can I know the truth?”

  They stood in silence for a long moment. Clara blinked away tears. She had cried enough over the last dozen days.

  Cassie said in a low voice, “I think her ladyship has been indoors for too long. Perhaps you will care for a walk in the gardens?”

  Numb, Clara nodded and followed her maid out of the room, barely noticing her guards falling into place behind them. As they walked, she idly watched servants and soldiers going about their daily business, nodding whenever someone bowed or curtsied as she passed. It seemed so strange, how accustomed she had become to such courtesies.

  As they entered the Great Hall, they heard, “Damn cur!”

  The Steward slapped a young boy, knocking him to the floor.

  “You will scrub this floor again!” he cried.

  The boy, whose face was already purple from an old bruise, covered his head with his arms as the Steward kicked him.

  Clara didn't even think. She strode up to the Steward, grabbed him by the arm as he swung his leg back for another kick, and, twisting her body, threw him to the floor.

  The man scrambled back to his feet, raising his fist, but stopped when he realized who she was.

  “M-My lady.” He bowed. “I apologize. I didn't realize. How may I help you?”

  She scowled at him before bending to help the boy to his feet. Touching his cheek with gentle fingers, she turned back to the Steward and raised her brows.

  “I'm afraid I don't–”

  “Her ladyship,” spoke up Cassie, coming to stand beside Clara, “wishes to know why you have abused this boy.”

  “Oh.” A slight flush began to creep up his neck. “He's lazy, my lady. I was simply applying discipline.”

  Clara looked around the hall. The floor gleamed. She bent again, swiped the wood with her hand, and, straightening, held it up.

  Cassie said, “Her ladyship does not find anything wrong with the floor. It appears that the boy has done his job well.”

  Taking up her slate, Clara wrote a few lines and gave it to Cassie, who read, “You will not strike another servant or slave again. If you feel that punishment is necessary, then bring the matter to me.”

  “Her ladyship,” said the Steward in an overly patient tone, “is very kind, but it is my duty, as the one left in charge of his lordship's household, to dispense discipline as I see fit.”

  Anger rose up in Clara and she snatched back her slate. After writing on it again, too furious to feel embarrassed at the small crowd gathering around them, she handed it back to Cassie.

  “Then,” read the maid, “from this moment, I shall assume the role as lady of this demesne until such a time as when his lordship returns or when I go to join him. And when I leave, I will choose someone to take my place.”

  “Lady Clara, forgive me, but you are not Lord Emmerich's wife or betrothed. This is not proper.”

  Cassie handed over the slate but as Clara wrote, the Steward began to walk away. One of the guards grunted, blocked his path, and grabbed him by the arms, turning him to face the women.

  “
What is the meaning of this!” he cried. “Release me.”

  “Her ladyship,” said the guard, “ain't done speaking yet.”

  Clara smiled smugly as Cassie read her new message. “Neither is it proper to heap punishment where it is not deserved. I understand the day-to-day duties a Steward performs while the lord and lady are in residence, and you may assume those, but I will make the final decisions, including those regarding punishment, as is proper for a lady of the demesne. If you feel you must fight me on this, I will go to the falconry to send word to Lord Emmerich, and you may explain to him why he was disturbed with domestic troubles while on campaign.”

  The Steward stared at them in disbelief and, for a moment, Clara thought he would call her on it. But he bowed as best he could. “Of course he should not be disturbed, my lady. I will gladly cede to you these responsibilities. I will inform the Cook and head maid.”

  She nodded at the guard, who released him. The Steward bowed again and walked away.

  Taking her slate back, wiped it clean and wrote one last message. Cassie glanced at it before turning to the boy and saying, “Tell the other servants and slaves that they may come to me—ah, to Lady Clara—with any grievances they may have. She will always treat you fairly.”

  “Thank you, m'lady,” he said, bowing.

  Clara smiled at him and waved at him to dismiss him. He grinned at her as he gathered up the bucket of dirty water, taking it outside to be dumped. Slowly, the crowd began to disperse.

  “Well, then, my lady,” said Cassie as she gave back the slate, “we seem to make a fine pair, if I may say so.”

  Clara grinned, wishing she could laugh.

  Emmerich slept fitfully, waking every few moments as if someone had called his name. His dreams were muddied and confused. One moment, he would be in Monica's chambers, and the next, standing over Clara's bloodied corpse. Other times he dreamed of fire and screams.

  Finally, he got out of bed, yanked on his trousers from yesterday, and went to the front of his tent, throwing back the door to let in the cool, early morning air.

  His guards saluted him, which he returned absentmindedly. The camp was already busy with preparations. At the edge of the camp, men were putting final touches on the siege tower.