The War, page 34
“Where were you?” asked Peony dully. Her hands moved with rapidity over the loose beanstalks, as though they were the only thing that mattered.
“I went to see Marianne.” Fiona sat and took a handful of the beans, twisting away the tops. “She is so lonely; she was lonely ever since Kenneth left, but now that he will never come back—I think that she and I understand one another.”
The tears began to roll out of Peony’s sea-blue eyes, dripping on the end of her nose as she bent her head forward, but she continued to work steadfastly. Fiona, wishing she had left the sentence unfinished, emptied the beans into the bowl at their feet and reached for another handful from the tangle.
But she never took it, for the door flew open without a knock, and as Fiona leapt to her feet, terror striking her mute—Marcus, was her thought—Laufeia stood on the threshold, her eyes wide and wet, tear-tracks on her cheeks.
“Laufeia, what is it?” exclaimed Peony in a gasp, knocking the bowl over in her haste as she rose.
“Fiona,” said Laufeia, her eyes fixed on Fiona’s. “A man—a man, with a message sent by the general—”
“Marcus,” said Fiona, scarcely knowing that the word even left her lips, her hands cold and shaking.
Laufeia shook her head. “No—no. It’s Fred, Fiona. He was wounded last night—gravely.”
“In what way?” her voice asked, blank and strange in her ears. She buried her face in her hands. It was too much to take in at once.
“The messenger did not know. He only said there were many wounds on him.” Laufeia took a breath, and seemed to gather more command over herself. “Fiona, Mordred was hurt as well; that is how I had the word, for the general sent the man to deliver the news to me. He asks me to come down to the hospice, for Fenris’ sake, he says, because he needs me—oh, he will! But Fiona, come with me. I shall be glad of your company, and you can see Fred for yourself, and maybe he will not be as bad as the messenger seemed to think. You will come, Fiona?”
Fiona lifted her head, still wrestling with the import of the tidings. “I will come.”
~
“A Mordred Kenhelm, you said?” The nurse looked tired. “Aye, he was brought in last night. Nay, he isn’t in any of the wards. We’ve no room to spare. He was put in a little chamber off on the side—one of several such that the surgeons used to sleep in. Come, this way.”
“Would you know of a Fred Thorne as well?” Laufeia asked further.
The nurse shrugged. “I don’t know that I remember the name, but if he was brought in it’s likely he’s in another of the small rooms. You might ask Miss Irene Grey, she’s bound to know.” She hustled them down a hall.
“And where is Irene Grey?”
“I’m not the one to tell you that. You never do know with Miss Irene. She’s been in your Mordred Kenhelm’s room half the night, skittering back and forth between him and other patients, but she got him to sleep, or something like, this morning. She’s not likely to be there now, unless he’s woken from that.”
“If he’s still asleep, then—” Laufeia hesitated. “We shouldn’t go in to see him, I expect.”
The nurse, tired already, looked distraught. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I should have thought of that. You’re right, of course. Miss Irene wouldn’t allow it for a minute, but now I’ve taken you and your friend all this way for nothing.”
“Oh, Fenris!” gasped Laufeia, and ran forward.
Fenris’ head was leaning on the door; he seemed to almost be asleep on his feet. As Laufeia grasped his arm he shook himself awake and stumbled against her.
“Laufeia,” he murmured wearily.
“Fenris, you ought to be in bed!”
“Laufeia, Mordred . . . ”
“Hush, not now.” She put her hand gently across his lips, in case he should miss the message. “You’re going to bed, Fenris, now. You need to rest.” She shot a pleading glance at the nurse for help. “Forgive me, you’ve done so much for us and you are so busy, but if you know of anywhere that he could lie down . . . ”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. There’s a little closet off his brother’s room—we might be able to fit him into that.”
“Could you do it without disturbing Mordred?” asked Laufeia.
“I think so. I’m accustomed to moving about sick people.”
~
The kind, tired nurse had just led Fenris into the room where she had made a bed ready for him, when Irene Grey came briskly upon them, startling Fiona with her sudden appearance.
“You’re here, I see,” she said. “I hope you got that boy to bed.”
Laufeia nodded.
“Absurd.” Irene’s dark locks swished about her face as she jerked her head in disapproval. “I told him to lie down, but he would wait for you, even though he must have not slept since the night before last and he could barely stand. I wash my hands of any ill that comes of it.”
She glanced at Fiona. “I expect you’re here to see Fred Thorne.”
Fiona took an impetuous step towards her. “Then I could?”
“If you want to,” Irene assured her, “I won’t stop you.”
Fiona wavered at the words, and the tone in which they were uttered; vivid pictures played through her mind. Then she rallied. “I do.”
“Come along then.” Irene walked rapidly to the end of the corridor, turned right, and stopped in front of a door. She turned to Fiona. “You don’t know yet, I expect.”
Something in her voice made Fiona feel cold, and very ill. “Know?”
Irene’s dark-fringed, stern eyes were touched with gentleness. “There’s no use in giving you false hope, my dear. His concussion alone could kill him, and his body is bled nearly dry; since he was first found on the battlefield he has not moved nor spoken once. He is as lifeless as anyone not dead can be. We cleaned and bandaged all his wounds; we put him in a bed; there isn’t anything more we can do for him. In his state, he may last another few days. No more.”
She was saying that Fred would die. The room spun, and Fiona’s head felt light. “Another few days,” a voice echoed in her head. “No more . . . No more . . . ”
“Now,” Irene was saying. “In we go.”
Fiona followed mutely.
She had expected to see something terrible—ugly—what exactly, she did not know. A hideous disfigurement ripping across Fred’s gentle features; limbs twisted out of shape; the red of blood all over his body.
But as he lay there in the darkened room, sunlight seeping through a crack in the heavy curtain across the window, it was the old Fred she saw. And her first thought was, he looked asleep.
Then she came closer and saw how pale his face was, how his breathing was faint and irregular, how very still he lay. She saw the cloth bound about his head, stained with blood, and she knew that the coverlet over him hid many, many more bandages like it. With a shudder she drew the quilt aside, knelt, and took Fred’s hand in hers.
It was cold.
She held it between both of hers, chafed it, breathed on it, knowing that it could not help, but wanting to do it all the same. She thought Irene would say at any moment to stop that nonsense and let him alone, but no reproof came.
A man’s voice spoke behind her, impatient. “Who is she? There is nothing she can do for him; she may as well let him alone.”
“She isn’t hurting him,” replied Irene, and the man made no reply.
Fiona clasped Fred’s hand again, remembering time after time when he had reached out and taken her hand with his firm, strong grip, willing it to do so again; but there was no movement, no pressure. The hand hung limp in hers—not dead—not yet—but barely alive.
The tears welled, brimming, spilling over. She did not try to stop them.
CHAPTER 32
LAUFEIA TWISTED A PIECE OF cloth in her fingers. It might have been a bandage. She neither knew nor cared. She did not know what to do with herself; so much was banging irrationally against her mind that she was tired from it. Fenris; Mordred lying behind that door, in a bed that had belonged to a surgeon before the hospice overflowed; Fiona walking with Irene down the hall to see a Fred who Laufeia knew, in her heart, was dying; she could not stop thinking about any of them and nothing else existed in her helpless, frustrated head.
“Laufeia!”
The light, familiar voice made her look up, and with a sob she rushed into Mirda’s arms. Suddenly the daze of vicious, circling thoughts was gone, and she let herself cry again, a little, on Mirda’s shoulder, while Mirda’s comforting hands stroked her head and her back. No questions, no words between them.
Laufeia stepped back, dashing a hand across her eyes. “Oh, Mirda. I have missed you.”
“Is it for Mordred that you came?” said Mirda, taking her hand earnestly. “I heard he was brought in.”
“Yes; do you know how he is, Mirda?”
“I haven’t seen him. They said a dragon fell on him, but Irene speaks as though he will pull through. I would not worry for him, Laufeia. Come, I am as busy as everyone else, but if it’s company you’re needing, you can talk to Braegon and Grant. Braegon will be so glad to see someone from home.”
“Of course,” said Laufeia, eager to do something useful. She began to feel like herself again.
~
Laufeia had been anxious for Mirda at hearing that Braegon, too, was injured. But his enthusiastic greeting he gave her, with his smile as vibrant and welcoming as ever, eased her mind at once.
“And this, Laufeia, is Grant Eagle,” Braegon continued with fervor, as though presenting her to a king.
“Well met, lady,” said the man, lowering his head politely; young he was, yet his eyes were weary as though he had seen many years of the world and it had been too much for him.
“A thrice-worthy man, is Grant,” said Braegon with that outflashing smile again. “He saved my life when I fell with this barbed shaft in my leg.”
“And do not forget you saved mine first,” said Grant, a slow smile softening his hard-worn features.
Somehow, Laufeia found herself in the depths of full conversation with both of them, and enjoying it. They were enjoying it, too, she thought, glancing from Braegon’s animated dark face to Grant’s surprisingly pleasant smile.
They regaled her with all they knew of Mordred.
“Grant taught him archery,” said Braegon.
Grant nodded. “That I did—a little.”
“And, whether you can believe it or not, he and three others were taken captive by the Runnicorans, and the tale is that Mordred rescued them all by himself.”
Laufeia felt a smile splaying across her face, and a laugh unexpectedly bubbled out. “Braegon, you are exaggerating now. Mirda would be ashamed of you!”
Braegon tossed his head back and laughed as well. “No, not at all! That is the way Therelane told it, and though Mordred gave him a look of ice—he would have preferred, I think, for the matter to remain dark)—he did not contradict him.”
The way he spoke of Mordred’s reaction was so vividly true that Laufeia laughed again. “I suppose I must believe it. Mordred’s pride will not let himself be recognized for anything!”
“He also came to see us twice,” continued Braegon, “here in the hospice. He has great gentleness of heart, your brother.”
Laufeia smiled, though suddenly her throat was tight. “For those he loves, he will do anything,” she said. She longed to see him again, her wonderful brother, full of so much pride and love and contradiction.
“Laufeia Kenhelm,” said the voice abruptly beside her, and she whirled.
“Irene?”
“Aye, and I have words to speak to you.” Irene led her firmly aside. “We’re short-handed, lady Kenhelm. The wounded from this battle will be coming in for the rest of the day; our wards are filled, the surgeons have given up their own bedrooms to hold the patients, and soon they’ll be lying in the halls.”
“You want me to stay and help?” Laufeia’s heart leapt gladly for the thought. She still felt the need to make herself very busy, very useful—her hands ached for a task under them.
Irene shrugged. “As I said, we’re far short of the people we need to care for all these men. If you will. Any spare moments you have you are free to spend with your brother.”
“I will,” said Laufeia. “Oh, I surely will. Thank you, Irene.”
Irene’s brows rose, and she looked half-amused, as though she had not expected such a grateful response. “Well, if you feel that way.”
“And Fiona?” asked Laufeia.
Irene looked sadder than Laufeia had yet seen her, though her voice was even as ever. “She’s staying as well. If you’ll permit me to suggest it, lady Kenhelm, I think you had best go to see her.”
“Fred—” began Laufeia, afraid to hear the worst.
“I told her he’s dying, and it’s the truth,” said Irene. “No, he hasn’t yet, but she doesn’t know how to go on. You had best find her.” And with a nod down the hall as the only indicator, she disappeared in the other direction.
~
“Fenris Kenhelm!” Sergeant Garin Hawke barked the name with more sharpness than he meant to. “What are you doing here? Where were you yesterday? We were counting you among the wounded or the dead.”
Fenris stared back at him, unresponsive, wide-eyed, and Garin reprimanded himself inwardly, knowing the heated barrage had only bewildered and frightened the boy.
“Speak on,” he said more gently, “and do not be afraid. Were you wounded or separated?”
Fenris shook his head. “Captain Rhodes told me to leave with Mordred,” he murmured, stumbling over the words. “I brought Mordred to the hospice.”
“So it was Mordred who was hurt.” Therelane Grey had said as much, but he had said nothing of Fenris. “And you stayed with him, forgetting to return here?”
“I stayed with him through the night,” said Fenris, seeming dazed with the memory. “After that I slept, and I did not wake till this morning. I am sorry—I forgot to come, sir.”
“Aye, let it be.” The sergeant felt a nagging guilt, knowing that with anyone else he would have given at the very least a stern rebuke for such a breach of discipline, and, to be impartial, he ought to give the same to Fenris. But he could not bring himself to deliver it; not while the lad stood so quietly there, his eyes still shadowed underneath with exhaustion and anguish. And besides, his excuse was a reasonable one. “Let it be. You’ve returned now.”
He would have liked to reach out and touch the tired, valiant boy, to be a father to him for a moment and not an officer. Something in him was quite certain that Fenris had never had a proper father. He thought of his own young son, scarcely three years old, and the longing grew stronger. But the habit of stern impartiality held fast.
“Go on,” he said, jerking his head into the barracks. “Get some more rest. You’ll be no good on the training ground yet. Rest well.”
~
Inspector Dickson unseeingly held a soldier’s arm steady as Priscilla secured a bandage around it.
He had hoped he would see the last of Mordred after the young man had finally left the hospice all those weeks ago. Why, oh why, did he have to be wrong?
He hated seeing Mordred hurt as much as he hated being near him. When Mordred suffered physically, it was then that Inspector Dickson could not help but see his vulnerability, his very youngness that was otherwise hidden by the scornful mask; and his heart would ache with sorrow and pity for him, and he would wish in spite of himself that their enmity was put away.
It had been that way, at first, the other time; well, Mordred had put a quick end to it then. Inspector Dickson’s jaw tensed in anger. But thus far Mordred had not seen him, and he had only seen brief glimpses of Mordred. He had seen more of Laufeia; it seemed she was staying on to help the surgeons, like himself, and they had exchanged short greetings. He had not had a chance to explain to her why he was here, though he would have liked to—for his presence had shocked her, plainly, and he could not help the ugly idea that she would think he had followed Mordred here, the way Mordred had even accused him of doing.
“Thoughts on your mind, young man?” asked Priscilla as they moved on. Despite her way of ordering him hither and thither, and addressing him as she did the young twelve-year-old apprentice who ran errands—she was, after all, at least sixty—at times he liked her presence. She had become a fixture in his life, like Harris back in Bulca, neither welcome nor unwelcome, but simply there. At times he suspected that behind her nettlesome, mother-like dominance, she really was fond of him.
“Thoughts?” he repeated aloud. “Nothing, ma’am.”
She tsked and thumped him lightly on the arm. “Mind how you’re ripping that bandage! We’re as short on cloth as winter in Arahad.”
~
Fiona shut the door gently behind herself. There were two other men crowded onto the floor of the room now, but Fred still lay on the bed. The coverlet no longer lay over him; it must have gone to one who needed it more, and the myriad gashes in his clothing lay plain. His shirt was mere rags on him, showing the white and bloodied bandages that covered his body.
“My love, will you wed me when the first trees of spring are budding?”
“My love,” she whispered, crossing to him and kneeling by the bed. His face was unchanged from yesterday, ashen-pale, as still as if he were already dead; his hand was still cold and flaccid. “My love, will you wake?”
“Will you be my wife tomorrow?”
“Will you wake, my beloved, coenlag?”
“I love you, Fiona Segelas.”
“Farewell, my beloved.”
She held his hand, kept silent watch on his slow breaths, waiting for the moment when they would cease altogether. She had no more tears left to weep. She faced the end dry-eyed.
~
Yesterday had slipped all through Laufeia’s fingers without her knowing it. There had been Fiona to comfort—Fiona who had been so dazed, like a broken, wilted flower, seeming not to know what to do with herself. But Fiona had revived now; she went about steady, assured, no longer as one in a dream, and strangely her love for Fred seemed to shine out more through it, for it was not an empty, rigid strength that held her up. It was as though, knowing that she must let him go, she had submitted and let the love pour out and strengthen her instead.
