APH - Resistance - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: I Was Raised an Only Child and So Was My Brother


“I hate the rain…” Alfred muttered. His back rested against the wooden pole holding up the canvas of his own tent. There was a flap of it above his head protecting him from the rain without hindering his view of this outside world. He had a lit cigarette dangling between his lips and its acrid smoke swirled in the still air. “If it doesn’t stop soon, it will slow our progress.”

Standing beside her brother, hugging her jacket closer to her body to ward off the chill, Mathilda sighed. “Progress? Are we to leave soon?”

The man shrugged before breathing in the smoke of his cigarette. “It feels like it. Father says we’re almost at the capital. He thinks the legion we just destroyed was the last one posted before it.”

“Are you sure? I really doubt the Dutch king would leave his capital undefended.”

“That’s what I told the old man, but you know he doesn’t listen. We’re to press forward as soon as we’ve replenished our supplies. In a fortnight I’d say.”

“Replenish our supplies…” Mathilda muttered bitterly. “He means robbing the poor villages around.”  

Alfred grinned. “What? Do you think he’d waste one of his precious coins if he can steal what’s needed?”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“I never said it did. You know I don’t agree with his way of dealing with things, but there’s nothing I can do about it.” A pause. “He asked after you.”

Immediately, as soon as she heard these words, Mathilda couldn’t stop a shiver of fear. She hid it with a shrug. Had her father somehow learned about the enemy soldier resting in the medical tent and brought in because of her? That didn’t seem likely. What were the odds, really? Mathilda had left the tent before midday and it was now after supper with the sun setting. There wasn’t enough time for her father to go through all the ledgers his men had to record everything in (because he did go through them all somehow). The ledgers about the weapons and the food were far more important than the medical one. Had maybe her father inquired about his daughter to one of the other healers, and the healer had pointed out that weird stranger with the cut on his forehead?

“Why?” Mathilda finally managed to ask, throat dry. “Father never asks after me.”

“You’re his favourite and you know it. Yeah, he was kind of butthurt that you didn’t choose the way of the sword like he wanted, but he’s getting over it.”

“That’s not true. He’s still angry about that. He says I’ve deprived the army of a good swordsman because of my foolish choice.”

“That’s true, I’m sure you would have been a good swordsman. However, he’s angrier with me because I haven’t gotten myself killed yet.” Alfred grinned recklessly. “He can’t believe his bastard is that tough.”

The younger of the two siblings smiled slightly. “Well, I’m very glad that you are that tough, Alfred. Now, what did father want?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. He asked the weirdest questions. Like if you looked like your mother or something. If the bastard deigned looking at you, he’d know it by himself.”

“If I look like my mother?” Mathilda repeated, dumbfounded. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey, don’t ask, I don’t know. I think you do, and that’s what I told him. Then he switched the subject.” Alfred leaned closer, his breath smelling of tobacco. “I’m pretty sure he’s going nuts though.” His light blue eyes glinted in the growing darkness. “And once it happens, I’ll strike him down and stop this fucking war.”

This time, Mathilda couldn’t hide her shiver with a shrug. Alfred had just said something she had been praying for for the last ten years of her life. She just wanted their father to die so the war could be stopped. Otherwise, it would go on forever until the old man had conquered all the kingdoms of the continent. There was no stopping him otherwise. Not even old age had managed to slow him down a bit. He could still ride, fight and think like a much younger man. His commanding officers had been with him since the very beginning and were loyal to a fault. Nobody dared talk against the emperor because nobody was safe from an accusation of treason. Not even his children, especially not his children, could question his decisions. Alfred had tried many times and it was a small miracle that he still had his head attached to his shoulders.

“Don’t speak like that,” Mathilda murmured very softly, afraid to be overheard.

“I won’t be able to stand that much longer,” the older of the two admitted with gritted teeth. “All this senseless killing, it’s making me sick.”

Mathilda looked at her brother out the corner of her eye. Alfred had never been very sensitive, but he had never revelled in the killing of innocents. He was a very good fighter, but he longed for his skills to be of used against other skilled swordsmen, not against unarmed peasants. Mathilda reached out and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know, I understand. Be strong, brother. I’m sure this will end sooner or later.”

In the half dark, Alfred’s face was difficult to read but his tense body was enough to reveal what he thought: he didn’t think this would end soon. Something about the resolute set of his jaw indicated that he was sure he’d have to live like a slayer of innocents for the rest of his life. It broke Mathilda’s heart to see her confident big brother so perturbed.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” the healer advised gently. “It will do you good and on the morrow your thoughts will be less dark.”

“Yeah, or maybe I’ll drink myself into a stupor so I won’t have nightmares.”

There was very little to add to that statement. Almost all soldiers drank themselves to sleep, especially after a hard battle. Liquor apparently blocked the bad dreams. Mathilda nodded, knowing it would be selfish to prevent her brother from doing the same. Not that it was safe to allow a soldier to be drunk; what if the camp was attacked? But right now, that seemed improbable. There were sentries, a ditch and a palisade protecting the camp after all.

“Good night, brother,” she said softly before leaving the relative comfort of Alfred’s tent.

Outside, the sun had almost completely set. The clouds of rain were being blown away by the rising wind. Winter was coming, Mathilda thought as she hugged his jacket closer to her body. She hated the winter campaigns where everybody was cold, miserable and sick. The marching was hard, the nights were painful and the fighting was agony. Sentries sometimes died of cold standing on their feet because they weren’t allowed to light fires to keep them a bit warm. Toes froze in boots and fingers froze in gloves and had to be cut off. Noses ran, throats were sore, chests burned. The piling snow made it difficult to advance. Snow made everything difficult actually, even going from one’s tent to the latrines.

As she walked, Mathilda looked up towards the clearing sky. The rain had mercifully stopped for the moment. Small white dots started to wink here and there against dark indigo. She recalled, with a bit of difficulty, how she had loved the winter when she had been young, before the war started ten years ago. She remembered how Alfred and she and the other children of the family had run about in the gardens filled with snow. Then war had been declared. The games had stopped. Children had been handed swords and had been required to become adults. Alfred had been twelve the first time he joined the foot soldiers. Mathilda had been deemed yet too young to be on the battlefield. At nine, she had been made to stay in the camp while her brother and his friends waged war against seasoned soldiers. When everything had been over, when the cries of wounded men and the clash of arms had stopped, she had helped the healers the best she could to patch up their soldiers. Never could she forget the haunted look she had seen in their eyes as she clumsily wrapped bandages around their wounds. Never, she had sworn in her head, never will I have that look in my eyes. Never will I take a life.

So far so good.

She hurried back to the medical tent, intending to have a look at her mysterious patient before retiring to her own tent for the night. She felt exhausted after trudging through the killing ground this morning, more mentally fatigued than physically but still she longed for the relative comfort of her own cot. The men and women she walked by nodded respectfully at her, but they didn’t quite dare to talk to her. She was the emperor’s daughter. What if she was as mad and as short-tempered as her father after all? The younger people thought that while the older ones had known her since she was a child and knew she didn’t have an ounce of malice in her. She didn’t mind, really. She didn’t want to mingle with them. She was shy and she preferred the company of the people she knew.

Inside the medical tent, most of the healers had retired for the night. Three remained and would spend the night here in case one of the wounded men’s conditions worsened or in case of an emergency. It was always the youngest healers stuck with the night watch, and Mathilda had spent more than one night up with the wounded. She kind of liked it; she liked the calm and peaceful atmosphere. She felt useful and needed when a man woke in the night, complaining about pain or simply asking for a glass of water.

Mathilda nodded to the two young men and one young woman who had been stuck with the night watch. She didn’t know the men, but the woman had been a healer as long as she had been. Michelle was her name; she was dark skinned with black eyes and black long hair. She was sweet, kind, and patient. She knew when to be kind and when to be firm. She smiled at her but remained seated at her tiny wooden desk, filling her own ledger for the day. She feared the emperor more than she feared the enemy soldiers and spent hours filling her ledger before filling the official one that was given to the emperor for his inspection. She was terrified to make a mistake that would cost her her position or even her head. Mathilda smiled back before walking to the end of the last row of cots to see her patient.

The man was either unconscious or sleeping, it was hard to tell, but Mathilda guessed Michelle would have told her if something had happened with his patient. Could someone stay unconscious for so long anyway? With a blow to the head, it was hard to tell. Maybe the man had been paralysed or even plunged into a coma from which he’d never emerge. Mathilda sat on the small wood stool that stood beside the cot. She decided to spend some time here before going back to her own tent. Sleep would elude her at the moment she was sure of it. She still felt too strung up after her discussion with Alfred.

She had no idea how long she sat there. She must have dozed off sitting up (one got used to do such thing while spending the whole night up) because she startled awake. Her eyes scanned the tent but everything looked normal enough. The three healers were still sitting by their desk, reading or working or sleeping sitting up. All the patients appeared to be asleep, either naturally or drugged to ward off the pain.

Something grabbed her wrist. Mathilda jumped and a startled squeak escaped from her lips. She looked down to see a grubby hand holding her wrist. Wide eyed, she looked at her patient. The man – Klaas – was staring back at her with intent hazel eyes. His expression was hard to read; something between anger, pain and panic. The grip on Mathilda’s arm tightened slightly, but the hand was too weak to be painful.

“H-hello,” Mathilda began softly. “Please, don’t worry. You’re safe. You’ve been wounded, but we brought you back here. Do you remember anything?”

The man looked startled, as if he hadn’t expected Mathilda to be capable of speech. He took back his hand as if he had been burnt. He looked around the tent, his eyes wide. His already pale face seemed to pale further. His whole body tensed. He sat up on his cot, wincing because of the pain but intent on his purpose.

“Lay back! You’re too weak to sit up.” But the man wasn’t listening. Mathilda got to her feet, ready to stop her patient if he tried to get up. Cleary, the enemy soldier was panicking, probably wondering where he was. He knew that he wasn’t amongst friends though, that could be read all over his face. Mathilda hesitated. “Klaas,” she said, pronouncing the foreign name as best she could, “calm down.”

Klaas looked up at her, surprised anew that this stranger would know his name. It seemed to soothe him a little. His broad shoulders sagged, but his eyes remained alert nonetheless.

“Where am I?”

This time, it was Mathilda’s turn to be startled. “Y-you speak English?” she asked stupidly.

“Yes. Where am I?”

“In the medical tent in the emperor’s camp. We do not wish to hurt you. You’re not a prisoner, I promise.”

She had no idea what triggered him, really. One second she was talking, the next he was on his feet, looming above her. His fists were clenched, his face was pale but his eyes shone with something like fear, his jaw was set and he was reaching for his belt. Mathilda knew instantly what he was reaching for; his sword. There was no sword at his belt of course, and it seemed to surprise him. However, Klaas didn’t seem like the type of man to be deterred by such setbacks. He drew back his hand and would have punched her right on the nose if the three other healers hadn’t jumped on him. They crashed atop the cheap cot that seemed to explode on impact. The two men struggled with the wounded one to pin him down while Michelle grabbed the man’s hair, pulled on it to twist his head back and decanted the content of a small tumbler into his mouth. All the while, the man was struggling. For someone who had been unconscious so long and who had bled a copious amount of vital blood, he was still strong and nearly managed to shrug off the two healers holding him down.

All the while, Mathilda remained seated on her small stool, eyes wide in surprise and horror. She barely realised that she had nearly been punched in the face, and considering this man’s strength, her nose would have been broken and a few teeth would have gone down her throat.

“C-careful with him!” was all she managed to say.

The poppy wine slipped between the man’s teeth finally started to take effect. He slumped against the wooden remains of his cot, not quite unconscious yet. His muscles unknotted and he lay limp. The three healers got to their feet, sweating and looking confused by the turn of events. As one, they turned to Mathilda, seeking an explanation.

She had to lie. She couldn’t sell this man out right now. “He was confused and thought he had been killed. I believe the shock of realising he was still alive was too much. He just needs a good night’s sleep.”

This was a common occurrence. Soldiers who had been wounded and left unconscious for a long while often woke up confused and scared, having been sure at the back of their mind that they had been done for. They rarely got up to punch a healer however, but they sometimes displayed aggressive behaviour. And so, the healers accepted her feeble explanation. Together, they found a cot to replace the one that had been destroyed by the fight. They laid the wounded soldier back on it carefully, mindful of his injuries. Klaas wasn’t exactly passed out yet. He mumbled inaudibly under his breath, and Mathilda feared that he would say something in his weird tongue that would set off the healers. Luckily for the both of them, he kept his mumblings too low for anybody to hear.

Once everything was back in order, Michelle and the two other healers went back to their post. Mathilda knew however that they would keep a watchful eye on this patient should he wake up in a panic again. What if he tried to punch one of them then? Or what if he spoke in his weird tongue? Everybody had heard Dutch and they would recognize it right away (unless they thought it was German, which wouldn’t be any better). She sighed and rubbed her face with her fingers, trying to think. The nearly-getting-punched-in-the-face event seemed to have drained the remainder of her energy. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep until the war was over. But if she succumbed to her laziness, her patient’s life could be in danger.

She looked at the man – Klaas. His eyes were half shut, made hazy but the opiate that had been slipped down his throat. In a matter of minutes, he would fall asleep. But right now, his eyes were fixed on the canvas roof of the tent. In the candle light, it was hard to read his expression but he looked dispirited, as if he had given up. And who could blame him, really? He had just awakened in a tent situated in the middle of his enemy’s camp, surrounded by enemy healers, only to be drugged. Mathilda found she could easily guess what he was thinking; that they’d probably kill him in his sleep to send him to one of these doctors who cut bodies open to look at their insides. (It had been a legend going around amongst enemy soldiers and one of the few that were sadly right.) Was it why he was fighting off the drug so fiercely? Was he afraid that if he fell asleep, he’d never awake again? Mathilda hated these horrible thoughts and hated even more to think of how frightened the poor soldier must feel.

And so, she leaned towards him and adjusted the blanket gently over his chest, mindful of his wounds. His eyes left the roof of the tent to slide sideways towards her. She smiled her best winsome smile.

“Everything will be alright,” she said very gently. “Do not worry. Sleep, and in the morning you will feel better.”

She didn’t know if it were her words or the drug having an effect, but Klaas fell asleep promptly right after. She eased a heavy sigh of relief as her shoulders sagged. Don’t slouch so much, her governess used to say and it seemed she could still hear the old woman’s voice clearly. Nonetheless, keeping her back straight was too much of a hard work and she kept on slouching. She knew now that she couldn’t simply leave the tent for the night. She didn’t want her patient waking up again to make a scene. It was better for him to lay low and try to be inconspicuous. Punching healers in the face would be the opposite of inconspicuousness so she had to stay.