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.
Chapter 22
The first thing Gretchen's grandmother said, upon being informed that they were standing before a school, was:
"Nonsense!"
The stooped old woman peered up suspiciously at the young man standing next to Gretchen. He was holding a sheet of paper in his hands. "He's lying to you," Gramma pronounced. She spoke with the utter certainty of her age and wisdom.
Gramma twisted her head, studying what she could see of the huge structure. "There are not enough noble children in all of Germany for a school this big. He is lying to you."
Gretchen was uncertain herself. She didn't think Jeff was lying to her. She barely knew the man, true, but a glance at his open face reassured her. Whatever vices and wickedness that face shielded, Gretchen did not believe for a moment that a capacity for cold-blooded dissemblance was among them.
Still There wasn't any logical reason for a school this big. At least, she hoped not. A thousand noble children at a time? That was the number Jeff had stated, proudly, in his stumbling German/English pidgin. Could there be that many, even in the entire Holy Roman Empire?
Gretchen almost shuddered. Her one faint hope, over the past years, had been that if enough noblemen killed themselves off the war might someday end. But if there were a thousand more ready to take their fathers' places She took a closer look at the sheet of paper in Jeff's hand. All of his friends held one just like it. So did the old woman who had emerged to greet them when they neared the school and handed the papers to the young men.
Gretchen studied the old woman. A baroness, at the very least. Possibly even a duchess.
To some degree, Gretchen's assessment was based on the woman's clothing. The apparel was simple in its odd and almost scandalous design, but it was very well made and of some unfamiliar fabric that practically shrieked: king's ransom. Mostly, however, Gretchen's conclusion was dictated by the woman herself.
No other women she knew could reach that advanced age without having long since been turned into crones by endless labor, deprivation and abuse. When she first saw the woman, Gretchen had thought her to be not much older than thirty, despite the gray hair. But the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were those of a much older woman. Forty-five years old, perhaps even fifty. Almost the age of stooped and withered Gramma.
A duchess. The woman was as tall as Gretchen herself. She stood straight, without a trace of stooping. Everything about her blazed health and vigor. Behind her spectacles, the duchess' hazel eyes were as clear and bright as a young woman's.
Then-there was the self-confidence in her stance. Her posture, her bearing, even the way she held her head-all of them announced to the world in no uncertain terms: I am somebody important. Valuable. Precious. Good blood.
Gretchen looked away. Again, her eyes fell on the sheet of paper. It was covered with printed words.
She extended her hand hesitantly. "Pleez? Can I?"
Jeff was startled. But he made no protest when Gretchen took the paper out of his hand.
It took her no more than ten seconds to understand what she was looking at. Almost all of that lost time was simply due to the unfamiliar style of print.
How clever!
It was a miniature dictionary. Gretchen's father had published dictionaries, now and again. Great huge monstrous things. But this was simply one sheet, containing simple phrases in English and their German equivalent. The spelling of the words, of course, was not always what Gretchen was accustomed to, but that meant nothing. In her day, no languages had standardized spelling. Her father had often complained about the problem.
She spotted the one phrase immediately. Oh yes!
So there would be no misunderstanding, Gretchen moved next to Jeff and pointed to the phrase with her finger while she spoke the words.
"Would… you… like… some… food?" Her head began nodding up and down. "Ja! Ja!"
Immediately, Jeff's face was distressed. She saw him glance at the enormous stretch of windows covering the near wall of the building. Gretchen followed his gaze. She was impressed, again, by the sheer size of those windows. Inside the room beyond, she suddenly noticed that a few people were carrying trays to a table. Food!
She had not eaten in two days. And then, only some bread which Ludwig had plundered from a farmhouse. He had not left much, to be divided among the women and children. Hans had offered to share his small portion of food, but Gretchen had refused. Her brother needed to be strong enough to survive battles.
Jeff was looking very distressed. When he saw that the old duchess was marching toward them, his face sagged a little from relief.