Long ago, he had decided to keep secret his vulnerability—
the illness and his regimen for fighting it. His decision had led
to a distance, it seemed, between himself and his own people.
Had Sera, within a few hours, brought his people back to him?
“They’re fools to trust me,” he said aloud on a laugh that
was a groan. He dropped his eyes to their entwined hands, afraid
to let her see the emptiness that must show on his face.
“You have to eat,” she said finally. There. She had dismissed
him. He slipped his hand from hers, and she poured a glass of
red wine and gave it to him. “It is not very elegant, but the
soldiers all say it is good.”
He took a sip and very carefully placed the silver cup on
the table before him. “It’s good,” he managed.
She came back to sit beside him, he noticed with relief.
Lord, she’d been cold and stony this morning. Until he had told
her about Selonia. Then this wellspring of compassion had
broken through and changed her, utterly.
As if she had been following his thoughts, Sera touched his
arm shyly. “The children, Nicholas. They need…oh, everything.
I put them in one of the buildings that escaped most of the fire—
St. Andrew’s chapter house. No one has used it for several years,
and there were still feather beds we could spread on the floor
for the little ones. I asked the quartermaster for food.”
“Briggs?” Nicholas was surprised into a laugh. “He’s a
stingy fellow. How did you ever manage?”
Sera blushed. “ I promised him you would make sure the
supplies were replaced.”
Was she afraid he’d find her impertinent? She had such a
pretty blush—pink and rosy from her down-turned lashes to
her rounded chin.
“I would have told him the same thing,” he said.
“I have hope that some of the parents are still alive. Do you
know those animals went house to house and murdered the
people in their beds? They always seem to leave the children
alone, don’t they? As though they expect them to die of want
and misery.
“Do you know what it is like, to see your father and mother
stabbed repeatedly by these vile demons?” she continued. “To
hear their screams, to see the blood, everywhere. And then, when
they’re too weak to scream any longer, they just whimper, but
you know they’re still screaming inside. Oh, God! It is not
human, what they have done to the children.”
Sera clutched his forearm. Her face was white as a new
fallen snow, and her eyes unseeing. She was telling him more
than what had happened to these children, he knew. She was
telling him something that had happened to her. Of a sudden,
his own struggles faded in the light of Sera’s pain.
He pried her hand off his arm, then grasped her elbows.
“Tell me, Sera. Tell me what they did to you.”
She gasped, struggled against him hard enough to push
away. He saw her eyes before she turned her face from him.
They were focused again and fearful. “I don’t know what you
are talking about,” she said, jumping up and fiddling with the
plates on the tray. “We are discussing the children, that is all.”
“Yes,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “The
children.” She had shut the door, and he couldn’t open it now
with more questions. He could wait until she told him of her
own free will.
When hell froze over.
Or he could find out through his own sources.
“I only meant, we cannot leave them to die. We have to
help them all.”
This at least, he could do. He nodded, stretching his legs in
front of him in a deliberate pose of relaxation. “Every one of
them, Sera. Just tell me what they need.”
She recovered herself, writing out a list of supplies for the
abbey, and she slowly became easy with him again. Later, she
called for hot water so he could bathe.
The young ensigns who arrived with the hip bath bowed to
him, and then Sera before they set it down according to her
instructions.
“Very good, Mr. Evans. Thank you, Mr. Carlsohnn.” Good
Lord, she knew them by name already. The men tugged at their
caps like besotted schoolboys and bowed their way out of the
tent.
“Is there anything else you would like tonight, Nicholas?”
she asked, foolish woman.
He smiled, keeping his lascivious thoughts to himself.
“Thank you, no, Lady Sera.”
She gave him a look of surprise from beneath her lashes.
“Why call me that?”
“Because that’s what you are. I’m not the only one to name
you thus. All the men are speaking of Lady Sera. Should I be
the only one not to recognize the obvious?”
“I am just a Hill woman and a slave.” She gave him a wary
look.
His fingers touched her cheek, then fell to his side. “You
are not just anything. And I meant it. Thank you.”
Sera nodded, a little uncertain motion, and swept out into
the night.
She could be incredibly sweet when she wanted to be. He
would assign Oblomov to her, for the streets weren’t safe for a
woman alone in times like these, and he knew instinctively Sera
would go wherever someone needed her help.
He wished that she could stay with him. Would she have
nightmares tonight? He wanted to be there to wake her and
reassure her. He wanted to hold her in his arms again as he had
last night, to keep her warm and safe.
He cursed softly. Andre had moved up the date for a meeting
with Galerien, regent of Beaureve. Within a month, he would
probably be wed to the blasted Beaurevian princess, the key to
the alliance with Beaureve, which must be kept at all costs.
This time was all he could ever have with Sera. He had to
fight the lust, and even more seductive, the need for her. Just to
hold her through the night and cover her small, warm body with
his. So he could sleep, and keep the nightmares at bay.
Six
The chapter house was in chaos. Children who had scarcely
noticed their surroundings suddenly became hot tempered little
savages, screaming at anyone who tried to discipline them into
some kind of order.
Nurses and priests ran to Sera as soon as she walked through
the door. If it were possible for the room to become any noisier,
it did then.
“What are we going to do, Lady Sera?”
“We have no clean linens for the nursery.”
“Those boys—they’re running wild!”
She narrowed her eyes at the confusion of arms and legs in
the center of the room—a group of boys pummeled each other
over imagined insults. Well, if nobody else was offering
solutions, she might as well come up with a few, herself.
Grabbing up a bucket of cold water in her hands, Sera
charged into the melee. She dumped the water over the heads
of the biggest four and watched them sputter and jump apart
like dogs disturbed in the mids
t of a fight.
“I need you,” she barked, while twelve and thirteen-year-
olds rubbed their faces and pulled soaking hair out of their eyes.
“Who knows the streets of Selonia the best?”
“I do,” said the tallest boy.
“No, I do,” yelled another, an urchin with bright red hair
and an impish look.
“Fine,” said Sera. “You can both prove your claim. You.”
She pointed to the older boy. “Take these three, and take the
eastern half of the city. You are looking for any and all children
who have nowhere to go.”
“You.” She pointed to the second boy. “Do the same with
these three on the western side. I want you back by noon. I
want your names and your parent’s names before you go out, in
case somebody comes looking for you. And I want your report
before you go to the refectory to eat lunch.”
The redhead rubbed his nose, over which were scattered a
very nice sprinkling of freckles. The boy had a lean, hungry
look to him, but his blue eyes were sharp and clear. “Nobody’s
looking for me,” he said. “My mother’s been dead for two years
now.” He paused, then raised his chin and looked her straight
in the eye. “Never knew my father.”
“All the same, I want your name and that of your family.”
“Ivan,” said the boy, patting his split lip with his fingertips.
“Ivan Drominsky. S’pose now you don’t want me to look for
the others.”
Sera raised her brows and fingered her own lip, still swollen
from the backhanding Dawson had given her two nights before.
“Do you know the city better than the others?”
“Hell—beg pardon, my lady. Aye. I know it.”
“Kindly bring your boys forward to give their names and
then take them out. Remember, return to the chapter house by
the time the town clock strikes twelve.”
“I’ll do that, my lady.”
Sera found herself grinning as she watched him leave. She
liked that scamp, Ivan. Liked his courage in giving her the truth
of his parentage. Liked the clear, intelligent look he’d given her
as he spoke.
She took a deep breath and walked on to the nursery. More
chaos there, it seemed. Babies who had listlessly sucked warmed
goat’s milk yesterday were fussing on the harried priests’ laps
for their mother’s breasts today. Frazzled priests and a few of
the ladies, who had come to the shelter with vague pretensions
to philanthropy, looked ready to throttle the infants.
Sera sighed with relief as one of the priests, a portly, balding
man holding a baby in one arm, unpacked cloths to use for
diapers with the other hand. The baby was blessedly quiet, and
the priest seemed the only adult in the room with any sense.
Sera reached for the infant and cuddled it close.
The priest turned to her and shouted over the cries of the
other infants. “I’m Father Anselm, my dear. I take it you are the
Lady Sera who put this place together yesterday.”
“I am,” she said, with a glance at babies. “They don’t sound
happy.”
“They’re having a hard time, but at least they’re getting
some nourishment.”
“Why not send for wet nurses? Or better still, why not send
for mothers who lost their babies in the raid?”
Father Anselm gave her a long, considering look and nodded
slowly.
Sera pondered that look, for she thought her suggestion
perfectly logical. Perhaps the holy men of this country didn’t
want to hear about the earthier aspects of a woman’s existence.
But all he said was, “Excellent idea. I’ll see to it
immediately.” He left her holding the baby.
Father Anselm returned later with about twenty women, all
hollow-eyed and expressionless. They entered the chapter house
as though they didn’t know where they were, or why they were
there. It hurt to see them so lost.
“Come with me,” Sera said. The women followed, looking
neither right nor left. She didn’t waste time explaining, but led
them into the makeshift nursery. The women stood like statues,
staring at the red-faced, writhing little bodies in the cribs.
“Oh, God in Heaven!” cried one of them. Tears streamed
down her face as she ran to a crib and, with careful, practiced
hands, lifted the little burden. The baby’s legs pumped in a
paroxysm of hungry rage, and his back arched against the
woman’s hands, but she held him safe, settled on a window
seat and gathered him against her. The baby snuffled blindly
and found what he needed.
Another woman went to a cradle, and another, and another.
The room, as if by miracle, quieted. Nothing could be heard but
the contented, soft sound of babies at the breast and a woman’s
occasional, fierce sob.
Father Anselm stood quietly beside Sera. “Our king may
believe that he brought you to our country, but I know better,
my dear. When there is great suffering, God sends his angels.”
Sera shook her head, red with embarrassment. “I am no
angel,” she said.
Father Anselm’s mouth curved in a kindly smile. “Not for
many years yet, I hope. But when there is need in Laurentia,
you will fill it.”
***
Two days later, Sera sat in the cloister of the chapter house
awaiting her chance to slip away. Almost everyone but the
smallest children helped at this early morning hour with the
rebuilding efforts in the city. Thanks to young Ivan Drominsky,
she had a list of Selonia’s inns.
Until yesterday, Lieutenant Oblomov’s careful attentiveness
had made it impossible for her to search for the thief. Everywhere
she walked, he followed. When she tried to evade him, he simply
smiled and said, “I’m under orders to keep you safe, m’lady.”
To keep me from escaping, she thought glumly.
So yesterday morning, she had asked Father Anselm to walk
her back to camp every night. Then, she told young Oblomov
that he could leave her each morning after depositing her in the
orphanage. Of course, he didn’t need to know that she would
leave the orphanage at noon in search of the thief.
Sera rose and headed for the cloister gate. With her hand
on the latch, she heard Father Anselm calling out behind her.
“Sera, come quickly!” The priest sounded winded and
frightened.
The expression on his drawn face made Sera hurry to him.
“What’s happened?” she asked him, matching his running steps
as they passed through the archways to the kitchen.
“Ivan’s hurt,” he said, mopping his brow as they entered.
Ivan lay whimpering on the long wooden table in the center of
the kitchen. Blood ran down his leg like a stream in flood. A
pile of bandages and a bowl of clean water lay on a small table
beside him.
“He fell on a broken windowpane. I told him not to forage
through the ruins, but would he listen? Heavens, the doctor’s
on the western side of the city, and I must fetch him mysel
f.
Will you stay with him until I return with the doctor? He’s
bleeding heavily. I don’t know, Sera,” Father Anselm said in a
low voice. “It looks very bad. Perhaps there’s something you
can do for him.”
Fear gripped her—that she was unequal to the task, and
that Ivan would suffer for it. “I’ve only worked with horses,
Father. Do not expect much. But I’ll try,” Sera said.
“Do your best to stanch the blood flow,” said Father Anselm.
He ran off to find the doctor.
Ivan’s freckles stood out on a thin little face that was as
white as the bandages, and his eyes were wild with pain. “Didn’t
mean to, milady,” he said in a reedy voice. “But it hurts
something fierce, it does.” He grabbed Sera’s wrist.
“You helped the babies. Help me, please.” Sera felt sick
with apprehension. From the looks of it, the boy didn’t have
long. And the doctor was very far away.
Oh, gods! If only the gift flowed through her in full strength!
All of her pity surged toward Ivan. He grew more waxen by the
minute. She had to try. Tying a bandage around Ivan’s leg just
above the wound, Sera let the limited power she had rise within
her.
“Sleep,” she wished him.
Ivan’s eyes blinked once, twice, and closed. His face
smoothed of pain.
Sera examined the leg. The glass was still embedded, a long,
wicked shard plunged into the skin. Ivan’s pulse was weak and
thready. She shut her eyes and thought clarity, thought peace,
thought strength.
The light flooded her. Her heart pounded in a rhythm deep
and steady, like the tolling of a bell, like the sighing of waves
against the shore.
She bent to the work before her, washing the boy’s leg and
grasping the glass between steady fingers. She tugged, one pull,
and the glass slid out, leaving a deep gash. She put her hands
on the gash, delving into that place of calm, directing it outward
and into the wound, as she did with the horses. The wound grew
warm beneath her hands. The very air about them both vibrated,
and she felt the surge of her own blood, her own life, rise through
her and into Ivan from the tips of her fingers. And there was
stillness to the room, as though time had stopped in its tracks,
as though all life paused to listen. A pulsing peace encircled her
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