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    Mike spotted Rebecca easily. She was standing on top of the parapet, balanced precariously, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. When she spotted the oncoming truck, her scrutiny focused on it. As soon as she was sure that Mike was the driver, she hopped off the parapet and began running toward him.

 

    Mike brought the truck to a halt and climbed out. Not far away, to his left, was a scene of sheer ghastliness. Americans with medical experience, led by Doctor Adams, were picking their way through the battlefield looking for survivors. Mackay and his Scots, meanwhile, had organized the Catholic prisoners to start burying the corpses. But there were so
many
torn and ruptured bodies. The soil was literally soaked with blood. Flies swarmed everywhere.

 

    But he had no eyes for that. Just for the figure of a woman, running. He had never seen her run before. For all the cumbersome nature of the long skirt, Mike was struck by the grace of her movements. He always thought of Rebecca as
stately
, because of the quiet poise with which she stood, walked, sat. Some part of him, finally erupting, realized that he was seeing her for the first time. His heart felt like it might burst.

 

    Rebecca came to a halt a few feet away. She was breathing heavily. Her bonnet had fallen off, somewhere along the way. The long, black, very curly hair hung loose. A mass of glossy splendor. Her face glistened with a slight sheen of sweat, shining like gold in the sunlight that was beginning to break through the clouds.

 

    “I was so afraid,” she whispered. “Michael—”

 

    He stepped toward her, extending a hand. The gesture was tentative, almost timid. Her own fingers slid into his palm. There they stood, for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then, so fiercely Mike almost lost his breath, Rebecca was clasping him in an embrace. Her face was buried in his chest. He could feel her heaving against him, and hear the quick sobs, and sense the tears starting to moisten his shirt.

 

    He placed his hands on her shoulders. Gently, stroking. He felt the firm flesh under his hands, separated by nothing more than a thin layer of cloth. He could feel most of her body, she was pressed so closely. Breasts, belly, arms, shoulders, hips, thighs.

 

    They had never touched before, except her hand on his arm during their daily walks. The passion that poured over him drove every other emotion away. Anger and horror and fear—the residue of battle—were like footprints obliterated by a wave. Paw prints. His arms enfolded her, drawing her more closely still.

 

    Her hair was beautiful. Long, black, glossy, curly. He was kissing it fiercely. Then, gently but insistently, he nuzzled the side of her head. When her face came up—so quickly—he transferred the kiss to her lips. Full, rich, soft—eager. As eager as his own.

 

    How long that kiss lasted—that first kiss—neither of them ever knew. As long as it took, before the cheers of the crowd startled them back to awareness.

 

    “Oh,” said Rebecca. She craned her neck, looking at the sea of grinning faces standing on the knoll nearby. Watching them. Cheering them. For a moment, Mike thought she was about to bury her face back into his shoulder. Trying to avoid that public exposure. But she didn’t. She flushed, yes. But nothing more.

 

    “Oh,” she repeated. Then, smiling, she raised her lips again. “It is done,” she whispered. “And I am so happy for it.”

 

    “Me too,” Mike said. Mumbled, rather. Rebecca wasn’t letting him get a word out. Not for some time. And he was so happy for it.
Chapter 20

    The first one she found was Diego. Gretchen had known the Spaniard was incredibly tough, but even she was impressed. Despite his terrible wounds, Diego had managed to crawl forty yards from the front line where he was struck down.
    He was even still conscious. “Give me water,” he whispered, when she knelt by his side. He was lying on his back, his arms holding in his intestines.
    Diego’s eyes opened. They were not much more than narrow slits. “And get me my woman. Where is that stupid bitch?”
    Gretchen raised her head and studied the scene around her. The battlefield was littered with bodies, especially where the tercio’s front lines had been. Half of them, it seemed, were still alive. Men were moaning, groaning; a few were screaming.
    Men, and now a few women, were moving through the field, inspecting the bodies. The men were all garbed in that peculiar mottled clothing which the boy near her was wearing. The women wore white.
    Gretchen watched them long enough to make sure she understood their purpose. They were not killing the survivors, she saw. They were apparently trying to save the ones who might still survive. Even now, she could see several small teams of people carrying wounded men away on litters.
    That might be good news. If Hans—
    She pushed aside, for a moment, her fears and concerns for her brother. There was Diego to deal with, for the moment. And for
that
, the people around her might pose a problem.
    Diego’s spoke again, in a hoarse whisper. “Water, you fucking cunt. Are you deaf?”
    Gretchen examined the Spaniard’s wounds. She did not think that even Diego could survive them. But she was not certain.
    Again, she studied the people around her. None of them were very close, except—
    She turned her head and looked up at the boy she had asked to accompany her to the field. Almost like a cherub, he seemed, for all his size. The boy was tall, his body was on the heavy side—lots of fat there—and his round face was very earnest. An innocent face, with its plump cheeks and blunt nose. Almost a silly-looking face, with those peculiar spectacles. Gretchen had seen spectacles before, but only on rich old men. Never on a young man—and certainly never on a field of battle.
    The boy’s eyes, magnified through those lenses, were a very bright green. Healthy eyes. They were the one thing about the boy which did not seem childish in the least. Gretchen remembered the light which had flamed in those eyes, earlier, and the anger with which he had marched to confront the mercenaries.
    A courageous boy, then. Perhaps now, also. And if not— Perhaps he was simply an innocent. Stupid, in the way such people are. She could remember, barely, being that stupid herself. Two years ago. A lifetime ago.
    “Pliss,” she said, mustering what little English she had picked up from some of the mercenaries. “Look—” She hesitated, trying to think of the word. Then, remembered. “Away.”
    He stared at her. “Look away,” she repeated. Pleading:
“Pliss.”
    She sighed. He obviously did not understand. His plump face was simply confused. Innocent, unknowing. Gretchen studied his eyes, and decided she had no choice but to trust them.
    
“Water!”
hissed Diego. “And get me my bitch!”
    Gretchen nodded to the wounded Spaniard next to whom she was kneeling. “He hurt—” She groped, trying to think of the future tense. Yes. “He
will
hurt
mein
Schwester.
”
    The boy frowned. Clearly, the words meant nothing to him. Again, Gretchen groped for the English term. Not finding it, she tried circumlocution: “
Mein—
my female
Bruder.
”
    His eyes widened. “Your sister?”
    That was the word! Gretchen nodded. She drew the knife from her bodice. “Pliss. Look away.”
    The eyes widened still further. Very green they were. She realized they would be, even without the spectacles. The boy’s heavy-lipped mouth opened, as if to speak a protest. Or a command.
    But, after a moment, the lips closed. The boy stared at her.
    “Water, you fucking cunt,” said Diego. He added some words in Spanish, but Gretchen did not understand any of them except
puta.
    Apparently, the boy did. His face flushed with anger. Or, perhaps, it was simply that he was not so innocent after all.
    Suddenly, he came down on one knee, looming over them. He leaned forward. In an instant, Gretchen realized that he was shielding her from the eyes of the other people on the field.
    He said something in English, but she didn’t understand the words. There was no need. His eyes were enough.
    Gretchen had slaughtered animals since she was five years old. Diego took no more time than a chicken. The little knife slit the carotid artery as neatly as a razor. Blood started pumping onto the ground on the opposite side from where she was kneeling. Not a drop spilled on her. She was an experienced animal-slaughterer.
    Diego was very tough. So, to be sure, Gretchen also drove the knife all the way into his ear. Then, for three or four seconds, she twisted the three-inch blade back and forth in his brains. Diego was not
that
tough. Not even the Satan who sired him was that tough.
    When she was finished, she took the time to clean the blade on the Spaniard’s sleeve before slipping it back into her bodice.
    Killing Diego had pleased her immensely. Yet, oddly, she was even more pleased with the boy. He had said nothing, throughout. But his eyes had never looked away. Not once.
    Healthy eyes. Very bright, very green. Gretchen decided the spectacles were actually rather charming.
    She rose. One necessity accomplished, another remained. Perhaps two.

    Only one, as it happened. Ludwig was already dead. Even his huge torso had been torn into shreds by the powerful guns of the strange men in their mottled clothing.

 

    Gretchen stared down at him. She had been half hoping Ludwig would still be alive, so that she could have the pleasure of killing the man who had murdered her father and subjected her to two years of rape. For a moment, she was consumed by pure hatred.

 

    Then she spotted the little arm—a third arm?—protruding from beneath the great gross body of Ludwig, and hatred was driven away by hope. Maybe, for the first and last time in his life, Ludwig had been good for something.

 

    The boy helped her lever Ludwig’s body aside. Beneath, like a kitten under a lion, lay her brother Hans. And he was still alive.

 

    Barely alive. But alive.

 

    As she rolled Ludwig off, Gretchen had seen the great wounds in his back. The strangers’ gun—whatever that weapon had been with its horrifying dragon’s stutter—had been powerful enough to shoot right through Ludwig and his armor and strike her brother standing behind. But apparently the bullets had been deflected enough, and lost enough of their force, that her brother’s wounds were not instantly fatal.

 

    Gretchen knelt by Hans and cut the straps holding his cheap cuirass. Then, as gently as she could, she probed his wounds with her fingers. The momentary surge of hope faded as quickly as it had come. At least one of the bullets had penetrated his chest wall. Even if it could be removed—she would try her best, with her little knife—the wound would almost certainly become infected with disease. She knew that disease. Men rarely survived it, even men much stronger than her spindly little brother.

 

    Her eyes filled with tears, remembering Hans and his spindly little life. Remembering how hard he had always tried, cast into a world for which he was not suited in the least. He had been a studious boy, in love with books, and eager to follow his father into the printer’s trade. He had often joked with Gretchen, telling her that if there were any rhyme or reason in the world
she
should have been the one in the family carrying a pike. Big, strong, tough Gretchen.

 

    Through the tears, and the sorrow, and the hopelessness, Gretchen heard the strange boy’s voice shouting something. He was not shouting at her, but at someone farther away. Her English was really very poor. The only word she understood was the last one, repeated and repeated. Over and again.

 

    
Now! Now! Now! Now!

 

    Moments later, she heard the sound of clumping feet, rushing toward them. She raised her head and wiped away the tears. Two men were coming, followed very closely by a woman in white.

 

    Then her eyes spotted what the men were carrying, and all other thoughts were driven aside. A stretcher. A thing used only, in her experience on many battlefields, to carry away the men who might be saved.

 

    Startled, she looked up at the boy standing beside her. He was staring down at her. His face did not seem so young, anymore. Or perhaps it was simply his eyes. Green, clear, healthy eyes. There was promise in those eyes.
Chapter 21

    After Hans was taken away, Gretchen was torn by indecision. A part of her wanted nothing so much as to accompany her brother, wherever the strangers were taking him. But she still had the rest of her family to look after. They would be relying on her, as always.
    The boy made the decision for her. His eyes, rather. She decided she would trust those eyes again.
    The boy was not showing any sign that he wanted to leave her. Quite the opposite. Everything in his posture indicated a kind of shy, uncertain, hesitant possessiveness.
    Gretchen spent a minute or so thinking about that possessiveness, before she made her decision. The decision came easily enough. She did not really have a choice, anyway, except a choice between different evils. And—
    She liked his eyes. That was something. The rest could be endured, easily enough. Anything could be endured, easily enough, after Ludwig.
    The boy—
    
Stop.
She forced her mind onto a different path.
    
“Was ist—
” Damned English! “What iss
ihre—
you name?” She pronounced it in the German way:
nam-uh.
    He understood the question at once. “Jeff Higgins.”
    
So. He is as intelligent as his eyes.
    That, too, was a good sign. With intelligence there might also be humor. Good humor. Ludwig’s intelligence had been that of a pig. His humor had reminded her of pig shit.
    She pronounced the name a few times, until she was certain she had it right.
Jeff Higgins. Jeff Higgins.
Men—young men, especially—became sullen if you mispronounced their names. Gretchen could not afford any such obstacles. Not now, not here.
    Not ever. For two years, Gretchen’s life and that of her family had hung by the slenderest thread. But Gretchen had always been self-confident, even as a little girl. So long as there was a thread, she would hold it in a sure and capable grip.
    She tucked her hand under his arm and began leading him back to the camp where her family waited. She tried not to make it too obvious. Men resented being led by women.
    But the boy—
stop; Jeff—
didn’t seem to mind at all. Soon, to her surprise, he even became very chatty. Fumbling with words, trying to find some mishmash language they could both speak. She was interested to note than he seemed more concerned with learning some German words than with teaching her English.
    By the time they reached the camp, Gretchen was almost at ease.
    
This will not be so bad
, she decided.
He will be heavy, of course, as big and plump as he is. So what? Ludwig was like an ox.
    Then, shouting and threading their way through the chaos of the camp—the people were no longer shrieking with fear, but they were still very confused—three boys came running up.
    
Young men. Stupid woman. Not boys.
    Gretchen recognized them. They were the three young men who had been with Jeff, and had stood by his side when he confronted the Protestant mercenaries. As soon as they arrived, Jeff and his friends began bantering. Gretchen could not follow the conversation, except for a few words here and there. But she quickly understood the heart of it. They were teasing him about his new woman, and he was responding.
    She relaxed still further. The teasing was gay, not coarse. Almost innocent, in a way. And Jeff’s response was—
    Shy, uncertain. Fumbling and awkward and embarrassed. But most of all, proud. Very, very proud.
    Gretchen studied that pride, what she could sense of it under the unknown words. She was accustomed to foreign languages—a mercenary army was a veritable Tower of Babel—and was quite proficient at separating meaning from its verbal sheath.
    She relaxed. Ludwig had been proud of her. Like a pig farmer might boast of his sow. There was something else here. Something—fresh. Clean, perhaps.
    A sudden image came to her, from a world she had long forgotten. A world she had banished from her mind. She remembered an evening, in her father’s house, when he had been standing by the fireplace. Warming his hands, while her mother placed the food on the table. Her father had turned his head, and watched. Gretchen had been sixteen years old. Only four years ago, she realized. A lifetime ago.
    Pride, in her father’s eyes. Clear, shining, healthy eyes, full of possessiveness. A possessiveness so gentle, and so warm, that it had seemed to light the house more than the flames themselves.
    To her shock, Gretchen found herself bursting into tears. Trembling like a leaf. She fought desperately for control.
    
Stop! He will be annoyed! Men do not like—
    Arms came around her, drawing her close. A hand pressed her face into a shoulder. Like a child, unthinking, she wrapped her arms around the body and squeezed it tight. She sobbed and sobbed, feeling, all the while, the muscle under the fat and the bone under the muscle. Feeling—so strange—the sharp edge of the spectacles against her skull. Hearing the whispers and not understanding a word.
    There was no need for words. Meaning, from its sheath, was all that mattered.
    When she was done, finally, she drew her head away. Her eyes met his. Light brown; light green.
    
Not so bad at all.