On any other day the excitement in the air and the frenzy of activity going on around her would have thrilled her, but today the carriage ride a few short blocks down the Ringstrasse seemed to take an eternity. Cristina sat on the edge of her seat, impatiently urging the driver forward through the jammed boulevard. She glanced out the window in a futile attempt to gauge the flow of traffic head of them, and met the hard gaze of the passenger in the cab next to hers.
Cristina sucked in her breath, suddenly and inexplicably afraid. That face was no stranger to her. She knew those fanatical gray eyes. She had first seen them that long ago morning in the coffeehouse. And she had seen them many times since that morning. They belonged to the man who had dogged her every step for months.
The man she had thought was a member of the secret police.
She watched in horrible fascination as he opened the door of his cab and hurled a plain brown-wrapped package in her direction. Warning bells sounded in her brain. She screamed for the driver to stop while she frantically snatched at the door handle on the opposite side of the vehicle, trying desperately to escape the confines of the cab. The brown-wrapped package bounced off the side of the imperial carriage and rolled under the gold, painted wheels.
The explosion was deafening. The carriage door came free at the moment of the blast and Cristina was hurled onto sidewalk by the force of the explosion. She instinctively reached out to break her fall and screamed in pain as a bone in her arm snapped and she thudded to the pavement.
Fragments of wood and glass rained down on her as she huddled, helpless, on the slushy, cold cobblestones. Somewhere nearby a horse screamed in agony, its tortured cries echoing her own suffering against a backdrop of lively Vienna.
She opened her eyes. Thick smoke stung her eyes and the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the stench of blood and scorched horseflesh made her gag. She tried to raise herself on one arm and failed. She fell back to the cobblestones as her body protested the additional abuse. She was covered by a mass of cuts and bruises that throbbed and bled and her whole body ached. She fought the pain and the nausea that threatened to choke her, willing herself to stay awake until help arrived.
The crunch of footsteps on the broken glass penetrated the ringing in Cristina's ears and she focused her gaze on a pair of black boots just inches from her face. Bright spots of blood stained the toes of the shiny boots and the white slush on the pavement. Cristina turned her head to follow the path of the dripping blood and found herself staring into the barrel of an Austrian Cavalry Service revolver. The man leaning over her dripped blood onto her velvet muff and tiny crimson dots of it splattered the sidewalk. Cristina could see his wound. A fragment of black metal had ripped through his coat and pierced his left side. Forcing herself to ignore her pain, Cristina stared past the gun so that she might look into the face of the man behind it. She knew him. He had followed her around for months and he had looked her in the eyes before throwing a bomb beneath the wheels of the crown prince's beautiful imperial carriage and causing the devastating carnage around her. She watched as he pulled the hammer of the revolver back with his thumb and heard the sound of the chamber clicking into place. The quiet click seemed deafening to her as she focused all of her remaining energy on the man who would be her murderer. And there was no doubt that he intended to kill her. His fanatical gray eyes sparkled with an inner light as he smiled a grim smile and spoke to her for the first time. "Auf Wiedersehen Fraulein Comtesse di Rimaldi."
"Von Retterling!" A name rang out over the horrible chaos and the man standing over Cristina whirled to face a fellow cavalry officer. "You are wounded."
Von Retterling stared at the man in amazement, then realized he held his revolver pointed at Cristina's head.
"The horses," he lied as someone mercifully ended the painful screams of the mortally wounded horses with two quick gunshots. "I was going to shoot the poor horses when I saw the young woman lying here. So young, so beautiful, and so badly injured ..."
"It's all right, von Retterling. We will take care of the young woman, but first let us take you to the ambulance. That wound must be attended. You can do nothing for the woman."
Retterling fastened his gaze on Cristina's face, then allowed himself to be led toward the ambulance inching its way through the hysterical masses. From the looks of her, she would soon die: he might as well take care of himself.
There was confusion all around Cristina as the emperor's police and mounted regiments questioned the witnesses and removed the wreckage of the carriages, carcasses of the horses, and the bodies of the dead and wounded. Cries of "anarchist" rang through the city as word of the tragedy spread. Mounted soldiers patrolled the streets trying to calm the people who feared for the life of their crown prince. The strains of the Strauss waltzes ended abruptly as the maestro ended his concert and the bells of St. Stephen's Cathedral began their mournful toll for the dead.
Cristina tried to raise herself on her good arm, to scream at the police and tell them they had helped the man who had tried to murder her and had left her lying on the street--the man who had caused this destruction--but found she didn't have the strength to do more than lift her head.
"Try to lie still, frau." A kindly gentleman leaned over her, trying to comfort her when she screamed in pain and clutched at her belly. "I am Herr Doktor Kraus. We will be taking you to a hospital as soon as the ambulance wagon arrives."
"Retterling," Cristina whispered in a croaking voice as the abdominal cramps ripped through her, warning her that the precious life she carried was in danger.
"Ssh." Herr Doktor Kraus placed a finger to her lips. "We will do the best we can and try not to injure you further."
"Retterling," Cristina mumbled again. Her pain filled brain screamed the name at her, warning her to remember the name of her would-be assassin while several pairs of strong hands lifted her onto a canvas stretcher. She cried out at the jarring motion as they shifted her from the frozen ground to the stretcher until the pain became so intense she fainted, forgetting everything except the name embedded in her brain.
"What the bloody hell is going on outside?" Blake demanded of Cason, his assistant, as he hurried down the wide stairs of the embassy, valise in hand.
"There's been some sort of bombing, sir," Cason answered, stepping away from his observation point at the large window facing the Ring. "The crown prince's carriage was involved. The people are saying an anarchist made an attempt on the crown prince's life. The soldiers believe the anarchist escaped with injuries."
"How is Rudolf?" Blake asked. "There will be hell to pay if he was injured."
"The crown prince wasn't in the carriage, sir," Cason informed him. "The soldiers have been patrolling the street announcing that the crown prince was not in the carriage at the time of the explosion and that he is safe at the Imperial Palace."
Blake stepped to the window Cason had vacated. "Well, they'll soon have this mess cleared out of the way. They'll find an anarchist somewhere, hang him, and sweep the whole incident under the rug as if it never happened. Nothing must interfere with the routine of Gay Vienna during carnival," Blake commented cynically.
"You're probably right, sir. There are plenty of Serbs and Croats to choose from. Still, it's sad that such a tragedy occurs on the eve of a new year."
Blake frowned and started to turn away from his view of the carnage when a length of copper-colored hair hanging over the side of a stretcher caught his eye.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and gooseflesh pimpled his arms at the sight. "Oh, no," he groaned in agony, "it can't be. Merciful God! Cristina!" Blake dropped his valise where he stood by the window and was out of the embassy in second, running down the Ringstrasse like a man possessed.
"Wait!" Blake came to a halt beside the stretcher and seized the arm of the short, plump man standing next to it.
The man jumped as his arm was roughly se
ized from behind and quickly turned to face his assailant. "Herr, I beg you to let go of my arm. I am a doctor."
Blake studied the sympathetic face and the genuine look of surprise, then released his tight hold on the doctor's arm.
Freed from his hold, the doctor turned away from Blake and began supervising the loading of the ambulance.
"Where are you taking her?" Blake demanded roughly, unable to tear his eyes away from the bruised and battered face of the woman lying so still against the canvas.
"To the hospital. She needs immediate care."
"No!" Blake's objection was instantaneous. "No, she can get much better care at home. The hospital will be too busy to give her the care she needs." He didn't like the idea of Cristina lying in a dingy hospital ward with nothing but strangers to care for her. "We have an apartment just down the street and someone to give her the constant care she needs. Take her there."
The doctor hesitated. "We cannot take the ambulance. You will have to find some other means of transportation--and very soon, because I fear the child is coming."
Blake drew in a sharp breath, aware that the early arrival of the baby could endanger both the child and the mother's lives. "I'll find a carriage or wagon or something and find a specialist for her as soon as possible."
"There is no need to find a specialist."
"Yes, there is." Blake's tone of voice brooked no argument. "The child shouldn't be born for another month. I want her to have a specialist in childbirth cases."
"I am such a specialist," the doctor assured Blake. "I am Herr Doktor Manfred Kraus and I will accompany you and your wife." He stepped away from Blake and gave the ambulance driver instructions in rapid German before turning back to Blake. "I told the driver to take the other patients to the hospital. I asked the others to stay and help with your wife."
"I don't know how to thank you...," Blake began.
"There is no need to thank me." The doctor understood that the man before him was a strong man unused to expressing his deepest emotions. "The driver of the carriage and the footman were killed. It's a miracle your wife survived the blast," he explained. "I was down the street. I had just delivered a child and was walking home when the explosion knocked me to my knees. I got up and down the street where I found your wife lying in the snow on the sidewalk."
"Thank God you found her."
"I am afraid it may be too soon to thank the All Highest. ..." The doctor's voice drifted into nothingness when he realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
Blake read the meaning behind the doctor's words and what he read filled him with terror and galvanized him into action.
"I'll see about a vehicle." He spoke brusquely to keep the fear out of his voice.
"Sir!"
Blake whirled around and spotted his assistant seated next to the driver of the embassy-supply wagon.
"Cason." Blake breathed softly as relief swept through him in the form of perspiration dotting his brow. He clenched his fists tightly by his side and said a prayer as the wagon inched its way through the remaining debris and rolled to a stop beside him.
"I realized it was the countess as soon as you bolted from the embassy, so I brought a wagon. I knew you wouldn't want her taken to a hospital," Cason explained. "We've put the stableboy's mattress and several blankets in back for her."
"Ever efficient, Cason." Blake struggled with his brimming emotions before he suddenly thrust out his hand to clasp the other man's in friendship.
Cason smiled in reply, then got down to business. "We had better get her home, sir, it's beginning to snow again."
Blake glanced up at the heavens and saw that Cason spoke the truth. He barked instructions to the men bearing Cristina's stretcher and they began to load her onto the wagon. She moaned with each movement and Blake gritted his teeth in helpless frustration as the men carefully settled the stretcher on top of the mattress, gently tucking the blankets around her as they completed their task. He thanked them for their time and effort, removed his wallet to pay them a generous sum, then climbed into the wagon and stationed himself next to the inert form on the mattress.
"Go slowly and carefully," he ordered the driver.
The wagon rolled away from the sidewalk and rumbled over the rough cobblestones. Cristina groaned as the wheels jolted her about; she finally opened her mouth to scream as pain sliced through her. Blake shouted a curse at the driver who hung his head dejectedly and apologized profusely in the flowery Viennese manner for causing the frau pain.
Blake looked anxiously from Cristina to the doctor. "Can't you do anything?"
"I am sorry, Herr, but I dare not give her anything for the pain until I can gauge the child's condition." He shook his head sadly. "She has fainted again. Perhaps nature will be merciful and not allow her to feel the rest of the journey."
Blake found the short distance to the apartment unbearably long. He began to question the wisdom of taking her there when there were perfectly good hospitals in Vienna, but was glad Cristina couldn't read the doubt in his eyes. He cursed Nigel Jameson soundly for not being there when he needed him and prayed that this doctor would be as good as he claimed to be. Unable to keep from touching her, Blake reached his hand under the blanket to find Cristina's. He meant to squeeze her hand reassuringly but found it still covered by her velvet muff. He tugged the bloody muff from her hand and discovered that she had her hand clenched into a tight fist; almost as if she was holding something. Blake gently pried her fingers open. A glimmer of gold fell from her grasp and landed on the mattress in front of him. He bent to retrieve it and discovered a medallion of some sort. Blake removed his gloves and fingered the gold disk, turning it over in his palm, studying it closely.
He found it hard to focus on the tiny script through the haze of tears that stung his eyelids. But he managed to read the words and realized Cristina's intent. This medallion was her gift to him. And it might be the last thing she ever gave him. Blake choked on a sob that lodged in his throat as he held the gold disk against his lips. He kissed it gently, reverently, as if he were kissing the woman instead of the cold metal, then fastened the chain about his neck. He let the disk fall beneath his starched, white collar where it was warmed by the heat of the flesh that covered his heart.
"Always," Blake promised, carefully leaning over to kiss each one of Cristina's fingers and the palm of her hand before gently tucking her hand back inside the warm blanket.
O! call back yesterday, bid time return.
--WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 1564-1616
*Chapter Twenty-four*
The unbearable pain ripping through her body made Cristina delirious. Her world became a nightmare of terror, suffering, and confusion. A world where the sounds of explosions deafened her and cries of unbearable agony mixed with the tune of Strauss waltzes played over and over in her brain and where a man named Retterling tried to kill her. Over and over again.
She awoke with a start, crying the horrible name. She tried to move, but fresh waves of pain made her helpless. She opened her mouth and screamed. She was dying. The barest movement was sheer agony. Breathing required effort and sharp pains knifed through her abdomen in uncontrollable spasms.
Cristina licked feebly at her dry, cracked lips and screamed again, but the sound that met her ears was a thin, mewling wail.
Someone took her hand and Cristina croaked a pitiful plea. "H-help me. I-I hurt and I-I can't see."
"Open your eyes, sweetheart," Blake softly urged.
Cristina recognized the voice and obeyed without question, forcing her eyelids to remain open while she struggled to focus on the beloved face above her. Her vision cleared and as she grew accustomed to the dim light she realized she no longer lay on the cold sidewalk, but on a bed. A low flame burned in the gas lamp above her bed and a warm fire glowed in the hearth, illuminating the
familiar bedroom she had shared with Blake.
"Blake..."
"I'm here, sweet," Blake assured her. "And Leah is in the kitchen preparing everything while Doctor Kraus washes up."
"It hurts." She gasped as another contraction tore through her.
"I know, sweetheart," Blake sympathized. "You've been injured. You've broken an arm and bruised several ribs and been nicked by flying debris in a dozen different places."
"Th-the baby? What about the baby?" She focused her gaze on her stomach and was comforted by the presence of the familiar mound under the covers.
"The baby is coming, Cristina," Blake said the words very carefully, not wanting to add to her fear yet knowing he had to tell her the truth. "Your labor has started. The trauma you've been through has probably brought it on earlier than normal."
Cristina understood. She understood what was happening to her body. She was having her baby. Another burning pain sliced through her. She arched her back and bit her lower lip, but she did not cry out.
Blake smiled at her tenderly. "Don't try to be too brave, my love." The endearment slipped off his tongue naturally. She seemed so small and frail lying on the bed splinted and bandaged, bravely trying to conceal her pain. "Cry out if it helps."
She nodded. "You'll stay?"
"As long as you need me," Blake promised.
It was a hard promise to keep. Blake thought he had been frightened when her fetal water burst as Cason and the driver carried her into the apartment, but now he knew there was worse to fear in what had become the longest night of his life.
The waiting was interminable and the watching was so difficult. Cristina's struggle to bear his infant tore at Blake's heart. He had never felt so utterly helpless as he did when he coaxed her to breathe, lifted her so she could bear down, and wiped the sweat from her face. He did those things automatically but he couldn't do the one thing he wanted most to do--he couldn't end the pain.
If she survived, Blake promised himself he would never put her through the agony again.
After nearly twenty hours of almost ceaseless effort, Blake wondered how much more she could stand. She was utterly exhausted and still the doctor instructed her to try harder to push. Blake was ready to scream himself at the suffering she was enduring when Cristina found the strength to give one last push.
He stared in wonderment as the small head appeared. His emotions threatened to choke him as he gazed lovingly at the exhausted young woman who had given him this gift. Her eyes were closed and sunken, her cheeks bruised and scratched from glass and debris and the scrape of the sidewalk and her lips were cracked and bitten. Her beautiful hair was wet and matted to her head, but to Blake, Cristina had never looked more lovely. But she was so weak and there had been so much blood ...