H.R.H.

by Danielle Steel

  Christianna picked the toddler up, put an arm around her young pregnant friend, and helped her into one of the trucks. She was no longer in any condition to walk, or tolerate what was happening. She looked as though she was going to give birth at any moment. Christianna was no longer aware of it, but her bodyguards were watching her from close by. They were well aware that the local troops were about to go in, and if something dire happened, they wanted her within their reach. Marque had noticed them as well, and understood why they were keeping Christianna in their sights. No one wanted a dead princess on their hands as well as more dead children. The death toll was already far too high. It would have been a further victory for the terrorists to kill a royal even from a neutral country. Her anonymity as well as her safety were vital. And Marque was impressed by how hard Christianna had worked all night. She had been tireless, with the zeal, passion, energy, and caring of youth. Marque suspected that, if she had time to get to know her, Christianna was a young woman she would have liked. She seemed very down to earth and real.

  Everyone waiting moved far back across the field, and within half an hour there were explosives, machine-gun fire, tear gas, and bombs going off, as commando squads and riot police stormed the building. It was impossible to determine who was in control, as the crowd watching from the distance just stood there and cried. It was hard to believe that there would be anyone left alive after it was over, on either side.

  Christianna left her young pregnant friend lying down on a cot in one of the trucks, as she continued to ask what had happened, but no one knew yet. It was too soon to tell, as the battle raged on. Christianna joined the other Red Cross workers handing out blankets coffee, water, and food in the crowd. They had put small children, shivering in the early morning chill, in two of the trucks. It was hours later before the gunfire stopped. It was almost more frightening when it did than when it started. No one knew exactly what that meant, or who was in charge. They could still see troops moving in the distance, and then from an upstairs window, a white flag. The crowd at the far edge of the field shivered in the cold, and continued to wait for news.

  It was another two hours before a group of soldiers crossed the field to bring them back. Tragically, there were hundreds of children's bodies to identify, and the screams of anguish all around them seemed to ebb and flow for hours, as families identified and mourned their dead. All but two of the terrorists had committed suicide. The bombs in the school had not been detonated, and were being disarmed by bomb squads. The remaining two terrorists had been taken away in armored cars, before the anguished crowd could tear them apart. Military intelligence wanted to interrogate them. And in all, there were five hundred children dead, and almost all of the adults. It was a hideous tragedy that no one would soon forget. And now that it was over, suddenly there was press everywhere. The police were trying in vain to hold them back.

  Along with the other Red Cross workers, Christianna walked with parents, among the lifeless children, while they identified them, then helped the parents wrap them and place them in small wooden coffins that had appeared from somewhere. A sob caught in her throat for the thousandth time as she spotted her pregnant friend, clutching her son to her as she cried. The boy was nearly naked, but alive and covered with blood from a cut on his head. Christianna walked over to her and hugged both mother and child. There was no stopping the tears, and Christianna took off her own jacket and put it around him, as the young woman smiled at her through her tears, and thanked her in Russian. Christianna hugged her again and helped her get the boy to a paramedic to check him. In spite of the obvious trauma, and the cut on his head, surprisingly, he was all right. The scene had not gone unnoticed by Marque, working alongside the other workers herself, helping people to identify bodies, and closing coffins. It was a devastating day and night, even for the soldiers, and those who had seen scenes like this before. There had been few in the recent history of terrorism that had been quite this bad. And for Christianna, it was an initiation by fire. As she stooped to help someone else, she noticed that she was covered with blood. Everyone seemed to be covered with it from the children they had held, both dead and alive.

  Throughout the afternoon and night, many more ambulances arrived, hearses, trucks, vehicles, and people came from neighboring towns and far away. It felt as though all of Russia had come to be with these people, help them bury their dead, and mourn. By late that night, they seemed to have a clear idea of who had been killed, and who had been saved. Almost all the missing children were accounted for, although a few had been rushed to hospitals while no one knew their names. It was midnight when Christianna and her two bodyguards helped Marque and the others load their trucks. The volunteers' work was done, the rest would be handled by the professional members of the Red Cross, who would help locate the children who had gone to hospitals in other locations. Christianna stayed till the bitter end. She stood outside the last truck, hugged Marque, and burst into tears of grief and exhaustion. They had all seen too much in the past few days. Christianna had only been there since the night before, and knew without question that her life had been forever changed. Everything she had seen or done or experienced before this seemed irrelevant to her now.

  Marque knew better than anyone that that was how it worked. Her own two children had been killed in an uprising in Africa while she and her children were living there, and had stayed too long in a time of political unrest. It had cost her children's lives, something for which she had spent a lifetime trying to forgive herself, and eventually it had also cost her marriage. She had stayed in Africa after that, and started a Red Cross chapter to help the locals. She still went back often, had worked in the Middle East, during various wars and conflicts, and in Central America. She went wherever she was needed. She no longer had a country. She was a citizen of the world, her nationality was the Red Cross, her mission helping all those who needed her, in whatever situation, no matter how uncomfortable, debilitating, or dangerous. Marque feared nothing and loved all. And she stood with her arms around Christianna now, while the young woman cried like a child. They had all been through too much.

  “I know,” Marque said gently, indifferent to her own exhaustion, as always. This was her life's blood, and she gladly shared it with others who needed it more than she did. She wasn't afraid of dying in the course of her work. This was her family now, and all that she loved. “I know how hard it is the first time. You did a wonderful job,” she praised her, as Christianna stayed buried in her arms. She was hardly bigger than a child. Her bodyguards had also cried many times that night and were no longer ashamed of it. It would have been stranger if they hadn't. Christianna loved them for it. Just as Marque had come to love her for all she'd done. It was a long time before Christianna wiped her eyes and emerged from the older woman's arms. She hadn't had a mother's embrace for most of her lifetime, and this felt the way she imagined it would have. Someone holding you until you felt ready to face life again. Christianna wasn't sure she was yet. She would never forget the tragedies she'd seen that night, or the pure rejoicing of parents who found their children alive and were reunited. She had cried just as hard at that. It had all been heart-wrenching beyond anything she could have imagined. She had expected to work hard, but not to have her heart torn from her body and ripped apart.

  “If you ever want to come to work for us,” Marque said quietly, and meant it, “call me. I think you have a gift,” she said honestly. She had discovered her own after her children had died, and she had made the children of Africa her family. In her years of service, she had loved and comforted children all over the world. She had turned her own devastating loss into a blessing for others.

  “I wish I could,” Christianna said, still looking shaken. She knew too well that working for them wasn't even a remote possibility. Her father would never allow it.

  “Maybe you could for a short time. Think about it. I'm easy to find. Call the International Red Cross office in Geneva—they always know where to find me. I don't sta
y anywhere for long. If you want to, we'll talk.”

  “I'd love that,” Christianna said sincerely, wishing she could convince her father, and knowing at the same time that there was absolutely no chance she ever would. He would have gone insane at the thought. But this was so much more meaningful than anything she could do at home, or even through the foundation. For the first time in her life, she had felt alive and useful that night, as though her existence were not an accident but had a purpose. And she knew that even if they never met again, for the rest of her life she would remember Marque. There were people all over the world who felt that way about her.

  The two women embraced again, and as the Red Cross trucks began to leave at dawn, she, Max, and Samuel went back to where they had left the car. It had several bullet holes in it, and the windshield had vanished, smashed into tiny pieces on the floor of the car. The two men cleared it out as best they could. It was going to be a chilly ride back to the airport. They left not long after the Red Cross as the sun streaked across the sky. There were still soldiers and police in the area. All the bodies had been removed. The ambulances were gone. And the children who had died there would never be forgotten.

  It was a long silent ride back to Vladikavkaz. Neither Christianna nor her bodyguards said more than a few words to each other. They were too exhausted, and too shaken by what they'd seen. Max drove this time, while Samuel slept in the front seat, and Christianna stared out the window. They had been there for one day and two nights, which seemed like an eternity. Christianna stayed awake for the whole trip, thinking about the young pregnant girl, a widow now, with three children. She thought of Marque and the gentleness of her face, her limitless kindness and compassion. She reflected also on what she had said at the end, and wished that there were some way to convince her father to allow her to do this kind of work. She had no desire whatsoever to get a “license,” a master's degree, at the Sorbonne. It meant nothing to her. But most of all, she thought of the faces she had seen that night, the people who had died, the faces of those who had survived as they wandered shell-shocked among their families and parents …the gifts, the losses, the tragedies, the terrors, the terrible people who had done this to them, and their complete lack of conscience. She was still silent and wide awake when they reached the airport. They returned the car and assured the rental company that they would be responsible for the damage. Christianna said to put it on the credit card she had given them initially. She saw people staring at her as they walked through the airport and had no idea why, until one of her bodyguards put his own jacket around her shoulders.

  “It's all right, I'm not cold,” she assured him, and handed it back to him, as he looked at her sadly.

  “You're covered with blood, Your Highness,” he said quietly, and as she looked down at the sweater she had worn, she saw that she was. The blood of hundreds of children, and nearly as many adults, as many of them as she had touched. She glanced in a mirror and saw that it was in her hair as well. She hadn't combed her hair in two days, and she no longer cared, about anything except the people she had seen in Digora. Now they were all that mattered.

  She went to the ladies' room and tried to make herself look respectable, which was relatively hopeless. Her shoes were covered with mud from the fields she had stood in. Her jeans and sweater were caked with blood. It was in her hair, under her nails, she could still smell it. It had seeped into her soul. She showed her passport as they left, and this time no one commented. On the way out, it didn't seem to matter as much. And late that night they were home.

  The bodyguards had called ahead, and her car and driver met them at the airport. They had asked the driver to cover the seats with towels, which mystified him until he saw her. At first he didn't realize it was blood. He looked shocked when he did, and said nothing. They rode to the palace in Vaduz in silence. As the gates opened, they entered, and she looked at the place where she lived, had been born, and would probably die one day, hopefully when she was old. But all she knew now to her core and soul was that nothing there had changed in the past three days, but she had returned a different person. The girl who had left Vaduz three days before no longer existed. The one who had come home after the siege of Digora was forever changed.

  Chapter 5

  Christianna did not see her father the night she got home. He was in Vienna for a diplomatic dinner at the French embassy, and had stayed at Palace Liechtenstein, just as he had when he went to the ballet with her. He knew before he left for Vienna that she was safe. Their cell phones hadn't worked while they were in Russia, but her bodyguards had called him from the airport to reassure him. Until then, he had been wild with worry. And he came to find her the moment he got home. It was twenty-four hours after she had returned from Russia. She looked immaculate in jeans, loafers, and a Berkeley sweatshirt. Her hair was freshly washed and brushed. There was no sign of what she'd been through, or how harrowing it had been, until he looked into her eyes. What he saw there terrified him. She didn't look dead, but more alive than he had ever seen her, wiser, older, sadder, deeper. Just as she had known herself when she came home, after all she'd seen during those three days, she was no longer the same person. Looking at her, he was frightened. He knew everything had changed since he had last seen her.

  “Hello, Papa,” she said quietly as he put his arms around her and kissed her. “I'm so happy to see you.” She seemed more adult than she ever had been, more of a woman. He wanted to hold her in his arms and keep her, and suddenly he knew he couldn't. The child he had known and nurtured was suddenly gone, and in her place was a woman who had learned and seen things that no one should ever have to know.

  “I missed you,” he said sadly. “I was so worried about you. I watched the news constantly, but I never saw you. Was it as awful as it looked?” he asked, sitting down next to her and taking her hand in his. He wished she hadn't gone, but there had been no stopping her. He knew he couldn't. And he knew the same now.

  “It was worse. There was a lot the press wasn't allowed to show, out of respect for the families.” Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as his heart ached for what she'd been through. He would have done anything to protect her from it. “They killed so many children, Papa. Hundreds of them, as though they were just sheep or cattle or goats.”

  “I know. I saw some of it on television. The families' faces were so terrible. I kept thinking of how I would feel if I lost you. I couldn't bear it. I don't know how those people will survive, and go on. It must be so hard.” She thought of her young pregnant friend then, the one she had never been able to talk to, but they had just held each other and cried … and Marque … all of them who had crossed her path in those few days. “I was relieved that the press never got you. Did they ever find out that you were there?” He assumed they hadn't or he would have heard about it, and she shook her head.

  “No, they didn't, and the woman in charge of the Red Cross was very discreet. She knew it the moment she saw my passport. She said some of our cousins have worked with her before.”

  “I'm glad she didn't say anything. I was afraid someone would.” If so, it would have been the least of her problems, although she wouldn't have liked it either, and was glad that she had been able to do her work undiscovered and undisturbed. It would have been such an intrusion to have photographers in her face, and offended all the grieving people. She had been lucky to remain anonymous throughout the trip.

  She looked at her father long and hard then, and he sensed that something was coming that he wouldn't like. She tightened her grip on his hand and looked into his eyes. Hers were two bottomless pools of bright blue sky, very much like his, except that his were old and hers were young. And in hers he saw twin pools of hope and pain. She had seen too much for a girl her age in those three days. He knew it would take her a long time to forget all that she'd seen.

  “I want to go back, Papa,” she said softly, and he looked startled, shocked, pained. “Not to Russia, but to work with the Red Cross again. I want to make
a difference, and I can't do that here. I know I can't do it forever, but I want a year, six months … after that I'll do whatever you want. But for once in my life I want to do something that makes a difference, a big one, to someone else. Papa, please.…” Her eyes were filled with tears as he shook his head and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “You can do that with your mother's foundation, Cricky. You've had a shocking experience. I know what that's like.” He had gone to disaster scenes before, and seen the agony of people's grief. But he could not do as she asked. “There are many things you can do here. Work with handicapped children, if you like, or the poor in Vienna. Volunteer at a hospital for burn victims. You can soothe many sorrows, and console many aching hearts. But if what you're asking me is to go to dangerous countries, in high-risk situations, where you yourself are at risk, I just can't allow you to do that. I would worry about you too much. You're too important to me, I love you too much. And I owe your mother a responsibility here, too. She would have expected me to keep you out of harm's way.”

  “I don't want to do those things here,” she said petulantly, sounding like a child again, but she felt like one with him. This was an argument she didn't want to lose, nor did he. “I want to go out in the world for once in my life, be like everyone else, work hard, and pay my dues, before I settle into this comfortable life forever, like Victoria, trying to decide which tiara to wear, and which dress, cutting ribbons at hospitals or visiting orphans and old people for the rest of my life.” He knew how much that life chafed, and he didn't disagree. But particularly as a woman, she couldn't go running around the world, risking her life in war zones, or digging ditches for the poor, to atone for the sins of being royal and rich. He knew better than anyone that she had to make her peace now with who she was.