APH - Resistance - Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Courage Is Not The Absence Of Fear

The sound finally registered as a bell, and Mathilda relaxed with a heavy sigh. She had been so strung up these last few days that even the smallest thing had her running in a panic. It was guilt, remorse and fear mixed all together in a deadly poison. She had always felt some kind of guilt because of that stupid war, but now remorse had been added to it at the thought of betraying her father. And that thought brought in the kind of quiet fear that was always present in the back of one’s mind, always ready to creep up at the least expected moment. Mathilda felt like she had been sleepwalking through the last few days, her mind constantly on the plan her brother and her had been expending in order to overthrow their father.

“What is that?” Klaas asked, ever poised.

Mathilda kind of resented him for his calm. He was amongst enemy, alone and injured and barely armed, yet he wasn’t nervous enough to jump at shadows. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her ruffled nerves. She cleared her throat, not wanting to let him see how undone she was feeling.

“A bell,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “It summons everybody in the camp except for the sentries. It usually means the Emperor wants to address his people.”

Klaas snorted in derision and muttered something in his language. Mathilda didn’t even try to understand. She put on her warmest cloak; a thick rectangle of dark blue velvet with a hood trimmed in fur, all the while wondering why the soldiers were being summoned. That bell wasn’t used very often. It could either mean good or bad news. There was no on-going battle, so it didn’t mean news from the frontline. It wasn’t either the warning bell, the huge bell that sounded like a funeral gong and warned the camp of approaching enemies. Mathilda had no idea what was going on, and so she left her tent in a mild state of agitation and apprehension. As befit her bodyguard, Klaas followed her close behind. He walked like a soldier with his head held high and his eyes missing very little. One couldn’t say that he looked proud in these shabby clothes, but he certainly looked confident.

Having a bodyguard was nothing out of the ordinary for high-ranking people. It actually had been a bit shocking that the princess of the empire walked around camp unescorted most of the time. And so, nobody looked twice at the tall man shadowing the Emperor’s daughter. Nobody knew his face or even his name, but it didn’t bother them. There were so many soldiers in the army that it was impossible to know them all. Everybody assumed that somebody else knew him and that he was one of them.

They all are so sure of themselves and of their security that I can smuggle a stranger amongst them and they don’t even notice him, Mathilda thought crazily as she entered the camp centre.

Thousands of soldiers were massing in the camp centre where only a flagpole stood. This place was devoid of anything and made especially for such gatherings. The Emperor rarely took the time to speak to his troops, but when he did, he wanted to make sure that they were all around to hear. The place stank of unwashed bodies packed together, of blood and old festering wounds, of polished metal and leather boots, of churned earth and cold wind. The soldiers, all of different ranks and backgrounds, clustered together as they muttered amongst themselves, wondering what they were doing here. It was cold and damp. Most of them would have preferred to be warm in their tent by their fire with their wine and lover.

They parted for the princess as she arrived with her bodyguard. Soldiers bowed their head to her. They all knew she was a good healer. Most of them had been patched up by her at least once. They were used to her wearing trousers and a man’s tunic while she busied herself with bandages, needles and bleeding wounds. Now that she was wearing a simple but expensive-looking dress underneath a thick cloak, they saw her as their princess and not an ordinary healer. It wasn’t all respect she saw in their eyes, but also fear and even some ill-concealed resentment. Some of these soldiers hated her, as if she were the one sending them to their death on the battlefield. Others, who believed in the Emperor’s cause, stared at her with open admiration. Mathilda hated all that attention. She wanted to raise the hood of her cloak over her face so it would hide her face. She didn’t want to be hated or loved by these people. She just wanted to go home.

She reached the front of the gathering where the other nobles were standing, a bit apart from the common folk. The smell here got a bit better, although it was choked by fragrant perfumes. Klaas snorted but thankfully didn’t comment. The Emperor had yet to make his appearance, and so the nobles were chattering together. Those closest to Mathilda felt obliged to congratulate her again on her oncoming wedding, and she was forced to smile and thank them. By God, she wanted to scream into their faces that she didn’t want – wouldn’t – marry a stranger just to help her father’s cause. Hell, if she could, she’d marry a rebel if only to hinder her father. But she had to grit her teeth and smile pleasantly. Klaas’ presence behind her seemed to burn a hole in the back of her head. The weight of her secret upcoming betrayal lay heavy on her shoulders. She felt that, behind each smile, each courtesy, each laugh, everybody knew what she planned to do. Her body was tense with the fear of a knife finding its way into her back. Sweat glistened on her forehead despite the cold weather. She wondered what would happen if she simply fainted.

One glance over her shoulder told her that she better not do something as foolish as fainting however. Klaas was glaring at her, and she could almost hear him hiss to pull her shit together. Fainting would draw attention upon them, and it was better for him if nobody noticed him. Being a lowly bodyguard usually meant people didn’t glance at him twice, but a fainting princess next to him might. Mathilda swallowed thickly but nodded slightly at him. She curled her hands into fists, digging her short blunt nails into the flesh of her palms. The small pain helped a bit, and her mind cleared. There was no way that someone else apart from Alfred, Dan and she knew of their plan. They hadn’t breathed a word of it to anybody, and she knew that the two men would keep this secret to themselves. The consequences of plotting against the Emperor were too dire to even joke about.

In a flurry of flags, cloaks and swords, the Emperor finally made his appearance. There was a wooden raised dais on which he climbed, his four most loyal bodyguards following closely behind. Other bodyguards placed themselves around the dais, face hard and weapons at the ready. Mathilda, due her title of princess, could have had a place on the dais next to her father, but she preferred to stay on ground level. She didn’t want everybody’s attention to be on her. Furthermore, it would have been out of character for her to show herself beside her father. It very rarely happened, since father and daughter didn’t get along very well, and it was no mystery to anybody in the army.

And so, Mathilda remained standing amongst the other noblemen at the foot of the dais, her own bodyguard close behind her. Klaas’ breathing was hard and fast and, even without looking at him, she could sense how tensed he was. It all made sense, after all. Here was the man who was threatening his whole country and his countrymen. Here was the man who was planning to take over the whole continent by sheer force of arms. Here was the man guilty of the deaths of hundreds of thousands men, women and children. Here was the man who, given half the chance, would execute the King of the Dutch without a second thought.

She turned slightly towards Klaas, wondering if bringing him here with her was a grave mistake. What if he lost his temper and jumped on the dais to sheathe his sword in the Emperor’s throat? Mathilda didn’t know about Klaas’ swordplay skills, but no matter how good he was, he didn’t stand a chance against the four highly-trained bodyguards surrounding the Emperor. She elbowed him in the ribs and, when he glared down at her, she narrowed her eyes at him, silently ordering him to be still. If looks could kill, she’d probably be lying in a puddle of her own blood by now, but Klaas nodded his head minutely. He remained tense as a bowstring however, but there was nothing else Mathilda could do to avoid disaster.

Klaas’ anger was shortly forgotten as soon as the Emperor started to talk. The old man was a gifted orator, able to make himself heard without shouting. His voice carried almost to the back of the big crowd. His words were precise, easy to understand even for the uneducated peasants and foot soldiers, and straight to the point. He wasn’t the kind of orator to pace around, waving his fists and shouting. He never insulted his audience. He looked even kind of fatherly as his dark blue eyes swept the upturned faces of the people listening to him. There was some murmuring of agreement and nodding amongst the crowd.

Mathilda didn’t really listen to whatever it was her father was saying. She had heard enough of his speeches to know where this was going. It was cold out here in the open, and the wind seemed to seep through her cloak and clothes. She wanted to go back to the relative warmth of her tent. It was only the palpable shift of the mood that had her raise her head.

The Emperor was talking about prisoners. Apparently, the sentries had caught two men late last night that were snooping around the camp. Evidently not English but Dutch, they were captured immediately and brought in for questioning.

Mathilda’s throat clenched in sudden fear. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she glanced wide eyed at Klaas. He too looked shocked. His skin had turned white and he was gritting his teeth.

They both stared in silent horror as the Emperor motioned to someone standing on the other side of the dais. Two ragged men were then roughly escorted up the stairs by a pair of burly soldiers. The two prisoners had clearly been beaten up. There were blooming bruises all over their skin. Their clothes, which clearly had once been of good quality, resembled dirty rags. They stood barefoot on the unpolished wood of the dais, shivering in the cold air. One had fair blond hair matted with blood while the other had light brown hair. They were both quite tall, but stood with their shoulders hunched as a vain attempt to ward off the cold. Their hands were bound behind their backs with hemp ropes.

A stunned murmur rippled through the crowd. People muttered amongst themselves, speculating as to why the Emperor had brought these two men to their attention. Usually, caught spies were given to the master torturers without much fanfare and their bodies were burnt afterward.

Something flew above the crowd and hit the blond prisoner right in the forehead. The man gasped in pain as a fresh wound started bleeding. As if it had been some kind of signal, other projectiles were thrown. Rocks, mud, twigs, even a boot, flew over English heads to hit the two prisoners. The Emperor had safely taken a step back to avoid being hit. He had a satisfied expression on his face.

Mathilda stared in horror. Her father made no move to stop the angry mob. The prisoners were being pelted and stoned in front of her very eyes. One of them fell to his knees after one good hit to the side of the head. Blood poured anew, bright red against the brownish colour of older blood.

Klaas would ruin everything; she knew it with only one glance to the man. His hand was reaching for the sword at his belt and his body had tensed further. Three or four steps would bring him to the dais. In the hysteria caused by the stoning, guards maybe wouldn’t notice him right away. And what would happen once he jumped on the platform? Even if by some miracle he managed to get close enough to stab the Emperor, he’d be killed on the spot right after. Killing the Emperor would solve nothing, Mathilda knew for sure. They had a plan, but it would be ruined if Klaas did something stupid.

Despite being wounded and weakened, she had no illusion that she could restrain him should he go berserk. She was tall and strong for a woman, but he was a born and trained warrior with bloodlust in his eyes. He looked so crazed right now that she wouldn’t be surprised if he stabbed her if she tried to stop him.

And so she ignored Klaas, turned to the dais and walked towards it purposefully. The bodyguards surrounding it glanced at her with surprise, but knew her and therefore didn’t try to stop her. They expected her to walk around the dais to use the stairs at the back, near to where her father was standing. But Mathilda didn’t go around. Instead, putting her gloved hands on top of the platform, she hoisted herself up with some difficulty. Her dress and petticoats hindered her a bit, but she nonetheless managed to make it. She stood up, panting, and was now directly in front of the two prisoners, directly in the path of the thrown objects. Some mud splattered on the skirt of her dress, but all the missiles stopped at once. The top of the dais was littered by good-sized rocks and other miscellaneous objects sharp or big enough to bruise. People in the crowd gaped at her as if she had just appeared out of thin air.

Mathilda stared back at the hundreds of faces, violet eyes wide. She hated being looked at, she hated when people took notice of her. Right now, she was standing on a dais as if she were about to give a speech. There were people massed in front of her, and people at her back. She could feel their curious eyes as if they were crawling insects all over her skin. There hadn’t been any real plan in her mind as she scrambled up, but the overwhelming panic of being stared at at least had one good side: she fainted promptly.






The sharp odour of smelling salt made her sneeze before she opened her eyes. She rolled to her left side to get away from the pungent smell, batting her hand at whomever it was who held the small bottle. Mathilda knew what it looked like even with her eyes closed. She had used these salts on many ladies of the court whenever they fainted due to a too-tight corset or the sight of blood. It was something a physician working at a court full of ladies had to keep close.

“You’re finally awake,” a voice said, mildly amused and mildly annoyed.

She recognized it immediately, and rolled to her other side as her eyes flew open in surprise. Alfred was standing by the bed, holding in his big hand the small glass bottle of smelling salt. His face reflected the intonation of his voice; mildly amused and mildly annoyed.

“You’re back,” she said with a large smile.

“It seems so. I came into the camp to discover it mostly empty. I was told by a stable lad that the Emperor was entertaining his people. I arrived just in time to see you faint and take an ungraceful plunge off the dais. What the fuck were you thinking, standing there?”

The grim reminder of what had happened wiped the smile from Mathilda’s face. Yes, the dais, the projectiles flying, the upturned faces of the people and the prisoners. In her mad panic to stop Klaas from doing something stupid, she had scrambled up the dais to stop the stoning of the two captured Dutchmen.

Finally wide awake, she sat up in bed, pushing back the bedcovers. She looked around wildly, and spotted her disgruntled bodyguard standing by the tent door. In the dim candle light, Klaas looked pale but resolute. His back was to them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword while the other hanged limply by his thigh. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he had finally relaxed a little. He thankfully wasn’t likely to go berserk on her.

“What happened to the two prisoners?” Mathilda asked warily.

Alfred put down the bottle of smelling salts on the bedside table. He shrugged his broad shoulders before crossing his arms over his chest, staring down at her. His blue eyes were hard and all trace of mild amusement had vanished. Mathilda realised that he was furious at her, but was holding his temper tightly in leash. She wanted to hide under the covers to escape from that hard glare.

“What were you thinking?” he almost hissed in his fury. “You could have been killed, you realise that? Someone could have thrown something at your face and it would have cracked your skull. Or you could have broken your neck by falling off the platform if a soldier hadn’t caught you in time. One of the prisoners could have tried to attack you. More important however, you attracted attention to yourself. You never do that. There’s gonna be gossip about this all around camp for the next month.” Alfred sighed deeply and ran a hand in his bright blond hair. It calmed him a bit and he gentled his tone. “Look, Mattie, we have to lay low, that’s all.”

“I know…” she murmured, looking down at her lap. Her gown had been removed, probably by one of the court ladies or a fellow physician, and she sat in her white shift. “I just didn’t want those two poor men to be stoned to death…”

“They’re dead,” Klaas’ voice cut in the silence. He turned towards them, but there was no anger or animosity on his long face. “They were beheaded. It’s a good clean death for warriors. Better than being stoned by animals like common trollops.”

Mathilda’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Of course the two prisoners would be executed despite her little show. They were only that after all; prisoners, caught spies, Dutchmen, all of which were punishable by death. And yet here Klaas was almost thanking her, as if being beheaded made them less dead. She tried to reason herself that warriors liked the idea of dying heroically, that it was some kind of honour to them. But she wasn’t a warrior and couldn’t understand. To her, dead was dead, no matter how it happened. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Alfred and Klaas were looking at her, not with pity and not with disgust, but with something akin to speculation. They seemed to be calculating or evaluating her reaction. Did they expect her to burst into tears? Or to shrug it all off?

“She’s a kid,” Klaas said, turning towards Alfred. His tone of voice showed that he was almost exasperated, as if they had had that argument many times before.

“She’s nineteen,” Alfred countered.

“That’s what I’m saying. She’s a kid.”

Mathilda looked at them, wide eyed. They were obviously talking about her, as if she weren’t even in the same room as them. They were talking together as if they had been doing so for a long time. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what this was all about. The smelling salts had no only waken her up, but they were giving her one hell of a headache. The inside of her nostrils was dried and itchy. (What would those two idiots think if she were to pick her nose right in front of them, eh?)

“What are you even talking about?” she asked, not liking to be left in the dark.

“Nothing that should worry you,” Alfred answered rapidly, throwing a warning glare towards the grumpy Dutchman. “Just know that father wasn’t very impressed by your little stunt.”

She slumped at the reminder of the foolish act she had just performed. No doubt, the whole camp was buzzing with the news of the Emperor’s daughter making a fool of herself. She was surprised her father hadn’t been the one waiting for her to wake up in her tent to give her an earful. She wondered again what madness had possessed her to climb up on that stupid dais. Of course, she wanted to put an end to the humiliation of the two Dutchmen, but now it seemed a feeble excuse. Still, she remembered their two pathetic forms shivering in the cold, and she guessed that, given the chance, she would do the exact same thing again. Klaas had said the two prisoners had been executed swiftly and painlessly. That didn’t make them less dead, but at least it was less humiliating and painful that way.

“I’ve got news for you, by the way,” Alfred added. He crossed his arms, eyes intent. “That guy you’re supposed to marry, the Dutch counsellor, he’s supposed to come here tomorrow to meet father and to meet you.”

Judging by his expression, Klaas apparently hadn’t been informed of that. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Mathilda could tell by the twitching muscle in his jaw that he just wanted to meet that counsellor who had usurped his throne to kill him. That man would know Klaas at first sight, of course, which meant Mathilda couldn’t bring the man when she met her soon-to-be husband.

“I’m not sure I want to meet him…” she admitted, worried. “I don’t like meeting new people.”

“Don’t whine, that’s a courtesy that isn’t given to all women. Some girls don’t get to meet their husband before they exchange vows,” Klaas retorted with a sniff.

Mathilda sighed. “I know. That doesn’t meant I want to meet him though. I’m not even going to marry him.”

“Yeah, but he can’t know that. And father cannot know that either. So you got to meet him whether you like or not,” Alfred cut. “At least you’ll know who he is, and that grumpy bodyguard of yours will be able to tell us how to overthrow him.”

She pouted because, really, there was nothing else to do. Alfred was right, of course. Knowing the identity of the man who had stolen the Dutch throne from Klaas’ family could only help their cause. It still annoyed her that she had to be the one to meet him though. She had no mind for war. She wouldn’t know what to say. She’d probably trip over her own tongue and say something that might give the rebellion away. As a counsellor, the man must be smart and quick-witted. He wouldn’t be impressed by a nineteen-year-old girl.

“Well then,” Alfred said once he saw acceptation appear on his sister’s face, “I’ll be off. You ought to rest, Mattie. You look quite pale.”

“Of course, I’m pale!” she retorted. “I nearly broke my neck and you just told me that I was to meet my unwanted husband! How did you expect me to react?”

“At least you didn’t cry,” her brother said with a mischievous grin.

He ducked the pillow thrown at him and was out in a matter of seconds, leaving her to stifle her urge to throttle him. Really, Alfred was a darling but he was an annoying self-satisfied bastard sometimes. Mathilda rubbed her eyes tiredly. She should get up, dress and go for her shift in the medical tent. Getting married was no excuse to shirk her duties. She didn’t feel like facing anybody however. Surely, the wounded men and women in the medical tent would know about her little stunt after all. What if they asked her embarrassing questions?

“What were you and my brother talking about earlier?” Mathilda asked Klaas after Alfred had gone.

Klaas made a suspicious show of looking bored. He shrugged casually, scratched at his stubbly chin before shaking his head. Mathilda narrowed her eyes at him, trying to look annoyed and menacing, but failing miserably.

She didn’t have the heart to be annoyed at her charge anyway. No matter how well Klaas was recuperating ever since he’d been brought into the camp, she couldn’t stop remembering how pale and fragile he had looked, lying there on the bloody field. It was a strange feeling, for she had never really felt that way towards any other patients. Of course, she cared for them all, but once they were out of the medical tent, she felt they were no longer in her care. Maybe it was because she had saved Klaas’ life, not only by nursing him back to health, but also by dragging him out of the battlefield. Maybe his forehead wound wouldn’t have killed him, but the infection caught by lying amongst dead rotting bodies would have. But if Klaas was grateful to Alfred and her for saving him, he didn’t show it. The man was a real pain in the ass when he wanted to be. He always grumbled and never seemed happy with anything. Furthermore, he liked to use his sharp tongue against anybody. Mathilda wondered how someone so crass could be the king of a country like Holland. She also wondered with some fright if everybody in Holland was like their king. If, heaven forbids, she should marry that mysterious counsellor, what would her life be like if everybody at court was as insufferable as Klaas?

“Is everybody like you in your country?” she asked worriedly.

“What do you mean ‘like me’? Devilishly handsome and ridiculously smart?” he smirked.

Mathilda stared at him with an unimpressed expression. “You’re hardly handsome and I’m still unconvinced about the smart part…”

“What? You don’t think I’m handsome?” Klaas retorted with a dubious snort.

She frowned, looking him over. The burrowed clothes, of course, didn’t fit him at all. They were a size too small for his big frame and not fit for a king. They made him look like a poor mercenary. His face was bony and angular; all flesh long gone after the week-long stay in bed while his wounds mended. There was no softness about him to be honest; he was all sharp lines and bones. There were muscles on him however, and he wasn’t bulky only because he was so ridiculously tall. His features were sharp; his nose was long and bended slightly probably due to some breakage, his eyes were light brown and missed very little, his lips were thin and there was a permanent frown line between his eyebrows. The wound on his forehead that Mathilda had stitched was healing slowly but would surely leave an ugly scar above his right eyebrow. His features could be harmonious if his face wasn’t so narrow. Still, he was far from being handsome but he wasn’t monstrous to look at.

Mathilda’s long contemplative silence was enough of an answer to Klaas’ boasting. He snorted in dismissal and Mathilda couldn’t stop herself from smiling in amusement. There was something ridiculously funny and perhaps a bit charming in Klaas’ attitude. He always tried to act tough, yet she could see there was an underlying softness buried deep underneath his steely armour. His wittiness was amusing and the fact that, unlike many others, he dared challenge her was a welcomed novelty. Beside Alfred, nobody in her life had ever dared challenge her. She was the daughter of the feared emperor so her word must be law. Even the people who had taught her medicine had been reticent about pointing out her mistakes. It had been awkward at first until they finally realised that she wasn’t going to rat them out to her father if they corrected her errors.

“So? Will you answer my question?” she asked a bit more seriously. “After all, I’m about to become their ruler in some way.”

This was probably the wrong thing to do, for Klaas’ eyes turned dark. Many emotions played over his usually stoic face. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders as if expecting a blow. Mathilda was about to apologize for her lame joke when he answered:

“Nobody but me will rule my country.”

“I know!” she hastily added. “I was only joking. It was a bad joke, I’m very sorry. I have no intention on ruling anything, I assure you.”

He stared at her for a few seconds as if trying to detect falsehood in her words. She didn’t flinch and looked straight back at him, daring him to call her a liar. She hadn’t lied. She was content with being a mere doctor. She never had dreams of grandeur of ruling her father’s empire or any kingdoms or countries for that matter.

Klaas seemed to deflate at her placating answer, and Mathilda thought he looked pale and tired. He was recovering after all. He was already pushing himself way too much. The day before, he had sparred with Alfred despite Mathilda’s protests and she could see that it was taking its toll on him today.

“Klaas, are you sure you are alright?” Mathilda asked in a soft voice. “You’re as pale as milk.”

“I’m fine,” he answered with an annoyed shrug.

Of course, the big idiot would never admit to any sort of weaknesses, even if she was his physician. It annoyed her. Mathilda had never understood why people never said when they weren’t feeling alright. As a doctor, it made her work so much more complicated. As an ordinary human being, it made her worry. Alfred was probably a champion at pretending everything was alright. He once got stabbed and nearly bled to death until he finally agreed to seek medical help. Why was it considered weak to admit your body could fail you? The human body was an amazing machine, but it was also fragile. Nobody reacted the same way to wounds or to hurts. Someone else could have been left an idiot by the same kind of blow Klaas had received to the forehead while he would merely have headaches.

“You are not fine,” Mathilda said. She used her doctor voice, the one that meant she’d brook no argument.

She got up from her bed and went to the Dutch king pretending to be a low bodyguard. From up close, a fine sheen of sweat could be seen all over his face. His eyes were watery and his skin very pale.

“You have a headache. Have you been taking the butterbur extract tinctures I’ve prepared for you?”

“I don’t need this shit,” Klaas muttered, answering her question indirectly.

Mathilda sighed and resisted the urge to grab him by the front of his ill-fitting shirt to try to shake some sense into him.

“Those tinctures help prevent the headaches. If you had taken them, you wouldn’t be in pain right now,” she lectured, waving a finger in front of his face as if he were a reluctant schoolboy. “Now, you are going to take your medicine like a good boy then you’re going to bed to rest.”

She pointed towards his small cot situated in one corner of her tent. It was separated from the rest of her living space by a curtain. It was only proper that their ‘rooms’ be separated by something, for she was an unmarried woman. It still felt a bit weird to have someone else sleep in her tent, but she was getting used to it. To be honest, she had been only half lying when she said that she didn’t feel safe anymore after the attack in the medical tent. Spirits were running a bit high around the camp since the army was quite near to Amsterdam and the troops were looking forward to warm homes and hot meals.

If his pride wanted him to protest, Klaas listened to the voice of reason for once. He sighed deeply. His shoulders slumped and without a look behind, he went to his cot, lied down and was asleep in mere seconds. So the man wasn’t only in pain but he was also exhausted. Mathilda smiled softly and removed his heavy boots so he could rest more comfortably. Klaas didn’t even stir as she covered him with a blanket. He was already snoring. The frown line between his eyebrows was smoothed away by sleep and he looked younger now. Not for the first time, she wondered exactly how old he was. It was hard to tell only by looking at him and she had never dared to ask. Maybe she would sooner or later.

Once sure that her patient was as comfortable as he could get, Mathilda donned her more practical clothes, bound her hair back in a ponytail and left her tent to make herself a bit useful in the medical tent.