| |
On the second morning after the battle, Molly finally had her own room in the abbey. Everything was in turmoil; there were wounded men everywhere, and no one, not even Lukas, could tell Molly where Quincy was. Molly barely even saw Lukas, in fact. One of his squires had shown up at the tent and said, “His grace has asked me to take you to the abbey.”
The room was clean and whitewashed, but very small, and the furniture was all simple and severe. It looked a bit like Molly’s idea of a prison cell. Someone (perhaps the squire) had thoughtfully brought in some flowers and set them up in a vase by the narrow window. It helped cover up the lingering smell of death and human waste that hung in the air all around the abbey now.
Molly spent less than half an hour in the room before she grew terminally bored and had to take a walk. She peeked into one of the hospital wards, but had to leave instantly. There was so much blood in there, and the smell and the flies were appalling. She had a vague notion that perhaps she ought to volunteer to help nurse the men, but the very idea made her stomach churn. Best to leave that sort of thing to the nuns, who seemed to have some aptitude for it.
Upstairs, in one of the small rooms along her hall, she found a few toys—some painted soldiers and a floppy dog that seemed to have been made of old socks. Someone had stitched a name on the dog: Louis. Was that the dog’s name, or the name of the boy who had abandoned it? More importantly, what were children’s toys doing in the attic of a convent? Perhaps one of the Sigor nobles had brought his family along. The thought occurred to her that the father of the boy might well be one of those wretched men suffering down in the hospital wards. Or he might be dead. Molly left the toys where they were and hurried away, hoping to find something that wasn’t tragic and sad.
In a tent in the shadow of the church, she found Jannike Overfelt again, rolling bandages with Hildred Stenburg and some other ladies. Molly joined them for a while and listened to them debate whether the war was over now or not. Hildred was of the opinion that the Sigors would fight on forever.
“Oh, I hope not,” said a baron’s wife from Dunkelshire. “I really wish things would go back to normal.”
“I hardly know what that would be like,” said Jannike. “It would be so strange not to go campaigning anymore.”
After an hour of this, about the time Molly was getting bored again, Prince Broderick came to the tent. He looked shaken, so Jannike asked if his father was well.
“Oh, yes. He’s in excellent health, thank you Lady Overfelt,” the prince said. “I was...actually here to speak with Miss Coburn.”
Molly looked up. What would the prince possibly have to say to her?
He cleared his throat and held out a hand. “Perhaps we could take a walk, Miss Coburn.”
She went with him, and they got nearly down to the end of the churchyard walk before he spoke again. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother, Sir Quincy, died this morning.”
“My...my brother?” She put out a hand and steadied herself against a moss-covered headstone.
“Yes. I’m very sorry.”
Her head reeled. She had to use both hands to keep from falling over now. “What...what happened? I didn’t even hear he was injured!”
“He took a glancing blow from a lance in the side. He wasn’t badly hurt, so he didn’t see a surgeon immediately. But he took a turn for the worse last night, or so I understand. Blood poisoning, the surgeon said.” The prince put a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “If it’s any comfort, he apparently went quickly.”
She started to cry. “I don’t understand. Are you sure...?” She looked around wildly at the tents and all the wounded men hobbling here and there. She had a desperate thought that maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Quincy was still alive, and some other knight had died.
“I could take you to him, if you’d like,” the prince said quietly.
Molly couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Quincy dead. But she also couldn’t stand the idea of not really knowing for certain. So she nodded, and she let the prince lead her into the abbey church. It was cool in there and dark, except where long shafts of colored light came down from the stained glass. In the crypt of one of the side chapels, some of the higher-ranking casualties had been laid aside for separate burial. Broderick pulled back the sheet covering one of them, and there was Quincy, cold and gray like stone. Someone had closed his eyes—she was grateful for that—but he didn’t look like he was asleep. His features were dark and sunken.
Molly fell to her knees and embraced him. She cried and begged him not to leave her, until her throat was sore and her whole body ached from sobbing. Crying didn’t do any good; it made her feel sick. Finally she sat back on her heels, wiped her eyes, and stood.
The prince was still there next to her.
“You didn’t really need to stay,” she told him. “I’m sure you’re very busy.” She made another attempt at drying her eyes. “Where is Lukas?” She wanted someone to hold her for a while, and it would probably embarrass the prince if she asked him to do that.
“My uncle is...busy,” said the prince. “He sends his condolences, naturally.”
Molly never slept that night. Lukas didn’t visit her room, so she had hours and hours alone to think about Quincy and how he was gone forever now. She remembered their childhood together—those happy days when their father had been alive and they had been rich and careless. She remembered when their father had died, and Quincy had promised to take care of them both. He had been her best friend, and sometimes her only friend. She couldn’t even imagine what life would be like without him.
Early in the morning, it occurred to her that Lukas must have known Quincy had died. But the prince had been the one who came to tell her. “It ought to have been Lukas,” she thought. So what if he was the captain general and terribly busy? How many knights of his retinue had died in the battle? And of those, how many had a sister he was having an affair with? A sister he had brought with him, so that she was no more than a couple minutes’ walk from his headquarters tent.
The next day, they buried Quincy and the other officers in the side chapel. Prince Broderick had delicately inquired as to whether or not Molly would like Quincy taken home to their family chapel or local church. But Molly thought she was probably going to have to sell all their estates now. She didn’t want Quincy buried someplace she couldn’t go visit him.
The service was nice, if rather quick. Lukas stopped by for a few minutes, and Molly was on the verge of giving him a piece of her mind, but instead she cried on his shoulder for a while.
The king himself attended, too, and came up with his son to give Molly his condolences. “If there is anything I can do for you,” he said, “please don’t hesitate to ask. If you need money or an estate, let me know.” It was very kind—overwhelmingly kind, in fact. But she couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed, all the same, because once again it should have been Lukas saying those words to her.
The king left, taking Lukas with him, and the nuns and friars and soldiers all filed out, too. Molly stood looking at the new stone slab that covered her brother. There was a horrible finality to that stone that made her start crying again.
“This is all my fault,” she said, turning to the prince, who was the only one left in the chapel with her. “I was the one who got him that position as a knight of Lukas’s retinue. I was so proud of myself, and now he’s dead because of me.”
“You can’t think that way,” said the prince. “He died honorably of his wounds, not from something you did.”
It was kind of him to say so, but she felt it all the same. She wished she could go back and tell herself not to let Quincy join Lukas’s retinue. She almost wished she hadn’t gotten involved with Lukas at all. Over and over, she asked herself, “Why didn’t Quincy and I stay home?”
She had some hopes that Lukas might visit her that night. She wanted to feel the comfort of him nearby. She wanted to reassure herself that falling for him hadn’t been a terrible, terrible mistake.
Unfortunately, Duchess Carrine arrived at the abbey not even an hour after Quincy’s funeral. Molly was seated alone in the churchyard, feeling utterly wretched, when the duchess and several of her ladies came stalking up the path at her.
“Have you seen my daughter Penelope?” Carrine demanded.
“No,” said Molly, staring at the ground. She wasn’t trying to be rude, but she had no idea why the duchess would think she knew the whereabouts of Penny Ostensen.
“Well, I should think you might show some concern, but I suppose your type doesn’t care about anything but yourself.”
Molly looked up at her. “My brother is dead. We just buried him.”
“Oh.” Carrine looked embarrassed, but then rallied. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you do happen to hear anything about Penny, send me a note, will you?”
Molly said she would, and the duchess hurried away again.
There was a feast that night at the guildhall in Basington. Everyone was celebrating the great Gramiren victory, but Molly wasn’t in a mood for celebrations, and she didn’t understand why people considered this a victory. Lukas made a quick visit to her room for some brief sex, but he didn’t press her to join him at the party. He would have to be in the company of his wife most of the time. Molly would be left at the edges of things again, exiled to sit with Jannike Overfelt and Hildred Stenburg and the other scandalous women.
She stayed in her room, alone with her miserable thoughts, until there was a knock at the door, and a young nun came in with a basket of flowers.
“Pardon me,” the girl said. “I...I thought you would be at the feast. I, um...was going around changing these out, and...er....”
Molly looked again, and her face burned when she realized the girl was Penny Ostensen. “I...I, well, I....” Language failed her, so she got up, took the old flowers out of the vase, and helped Penny arrange the new ones.
“Thank you,” said Penny, her face now a furious shade of red. She must have known exactly who Molly was.
“No. Thank you,” said Molly. “So...are you joining the convent?”
“Oh, this?” Penny tugged at the gray robe. “No. My clothes got ruined, and this was all Sister Morwen could find. I’ve been helping in the hospital, though I don’t really know how to do anything, so mainly I run errands. I feel a bit useless, to be honest.”
“What you’re doing sounds more useful than anything I’ve done since coming here.”
Penny met her eyes for a second and smiled. Then the smile faded. “I wanted to let you know how sorry I was to hear about your brother. I was at the service. I was going to say something to you then, but I didn’t know if you’d think it was...inappropriate of me to be there.”
Molly broke down again, hunched over and sobbing. Penny was aghast and hovered around her, patting her back and apologizing over and over for causing offense.
“No, that’s not it at all,” said Molly. “You have every right to hate me, you know.”
“But I don’t,” said Penny soothingly. “You know, if you’re not busy, I’m supposed to wash some bandages at the stream, and to be honest, I could really use some help.”
Molly joined her, and at the very least, washing kept her mind occupied with something other than Quincy. Penny told Molly about her harrowing ordeal, trapped in the middle of the battle. Molly told her about the time she had been trapped in a burning cart. They both agreed they had seen quite enough of war and would prefer staying well clear of it in the future.
“By the way,” said Molly, “your mother was looking for you.”
The girl sighed heavily. “Yes, I suppose I really should go see her. She’ll be furious, of course, but I’d better get it over with.”
“I would offer to come with you,” said Molly, “but I don’t think my presence would help.”
Penny laughed. “Sadly, I think you’re right.”