Chapter 2

Amused, even if sleepy, Clarisse Reynaldi watched her four-year-old son Philippe, surrounded by colorful scraps of wrapping paper, tear open yet another present. He was, she thought, a gift…a miracle. The pregnancy had been a hard one; even now, there was concern over whether or not she could have more children. She and Rupert hoped for at least another.

"A twuck!" the child crowed happily.

"A very fine fire engine," Rupert agreed, as he carefully picked a path through the toy littered floor, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, then sat down next to Clarisse. "Here you are, my dear."

"Thank you," she said, gratefully taking the cup and saucer. "I'm afraid I need something to wake me. What time is it?"

Rupert took a sip of coffee before checking his watch. "Five-thirty- an early start to the day!"

Clarisse sighed. "Too early."

"Don't tell me you never got up at the crack of dawn on Christmas to check under the tree," he teased.

"Perhaps I did," she admitted, with a smile, "but, I don't recall it being so… early."

"Look! A pony!" The child held up a carved horse for them to see.

"A thoroughbred, just like one in your mother's stable," Rupert said, watching his son drag another box from under the tree, the horse quickly forgotten. It was their family tree, in the library, a mere ten-foot White Pine. He drank more of his coffee then set it aside. "Are you hungry, darling?"

"At this hour?"

Rupert shrugged. "Just a thought."

He placed his right arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He enjoyed having her close for a moment, then spoke. "If you are awake enough, darling, I have something for you."

"Not waffles, I hope."

Rupert chuckled and slipped his hand into his robe pocket. "No, not waffles. Something better."

She opened her eyes. Before her was a long jewelry case. He set it in her hands.

"Oh, my!"

He beamed as she lifted the emerald and diamond necklace from its velvet box.

"It is magnificent! Thank you, Rupert!" She leaned close, kissing him. She moved the necklace gently, diamonds sparkling.

He kissed her hair, squeezed her shoulder. "On anyone but a queen it might look gaudy, but I'm so glad you like it. Mother said it would go with the new gown you'll be wearing at the New Year's Ball."

"It will, perfectly," Clarisse replied, smiling warmly at her husband as she placed the necklace carefully back into its case. The necklace was certainly an impressive one, as were all the jewels she had received from Rupert or his parents. She set the box aside. "I hope your father is well enough to attend."

Over the past six years that she and Rupert had been married, King Wilhelm's health had steadily declined and Rupert had taken on more and more of his father's duties. His father's personal physician gave them, in private, little hope for the king's recovery. Not wanting to spoil the holidays, Rupert had not told his mother, but Matilda would have to know, soon.

"I do, too," he agreed, frowning. "Perhaps he might feel well enough, at least, to join us for a while this afternoon."

"A bike! A bike!" Philippe cried gleefully, climbing on the shiny, red tricycle. He beeped the horn, decided it was great fun, and beeped it again…and again.

"Let's get these presents opened!" Rupert said, getting down on the Abusson carpeted floor. He pulled his son away from the horn. "Here, you crawl under the tree and get those presents hiding in the back."

Thrilled at a new adventure, Philippe cheerfully did as his father asked. A minute later, he squealed in delight when Rupert hauled him out by his feet.

Clarisse laughed as she watched her son and husband dig for presents, sorting and stacking them into bigger and bigger piles, and was soon on the carpet with them, adding to the mountain of discarded wrapping paper.

At the moment, he thought, there certainly was not much peace to be found.

Twenty-six year old Lt Coraza, on a two year assignment with the UN, ducked as bullets whizzed over his peacekeeping troops' heads, pinning them in the hastily dug mud-filled trenches.

Charged by the United Nations with preventing violence between the two feuding factions in the eastern African nation, his blue-helmeted troops from Mexico, South Africa, and Pakistan soon found themselves caught in the middle of renewed conflict and under heavy crossfire from both sides. Forbidden by UN orders and directives to return fire, they were helpless. Even if he were to order his troops to engage one or both sides, there was not enough ammunition to fight their way out.

"What we gonna do, sir?"

A dozen men within earshot of the question turned to him, waiting, worried.

A mortar round hit nearby and they ducked again, arms overhead to protect themselves from the flying rocks and debris. The dirt settled and they carefully raised their heads in the shallow ditch.

"Can't stay here," someone to his left muttered, their voice bordering on panic.

"No, we can't…and we aren't," Coraza replied firmly. For all he cared, the two tribes could go at it until there was nothing left but stones and sticks to throw at each other- a spectacle he had already seen in his short stint with the UN Command.

His orders to keep the peace be damned…he was going to save his men.

Coraza looked around. Everyone and everything wore a layer of black mud- clothes, helmets, boots, faces, and gear.

"Anyone have a handkerchief?" he yelled, repeating the question in four different languages. His own was around his sergeant's hand. Every man in the ditch looked at him as if he were crazy.

"Sir…" his sergeant began, wondering if his commander had lost all sense. "You're the only one what carries a-"

"I need something white," Coraza explained.

"Something white? Oh!" The burly sergeant turned and bellowed at the troops. "Find something white or you'll be sitting in this muck for the next week!" There was a flurry of activity up and down the line.

Five minutes later, without inquiring as to who made the sacrifice, Lt Coraza cautiously held in his hand a pair of men's under shorts, more or less white if one disregarded the dark stains. Through a rip in the fabric, he attached it to a splintered stick then held it above the trench line, waving it slowly from side to side. A hail of bullets fell around them.

"By George, that got their attention!" the sergeant exclaimed.

"Make sure everyone's weapon is loaded. Get those grenades out that I brought," Coraza ordered, through gritted teeth. He wrapped the now tattered shorts on the stick and tried again. A few shots popped in the dirt above ….then silence.

The sergeant grinned.

Slowly, Coraza stood, arms open, his gun held above his head, the stick and shorts held high in the other. He looked forward and to the rear of their line- no shots, no movement came from the bushes on either side. He spoke quickly. "On my order and responsibility…if we are fired upon, you will return fire. Follow me!"

One by one, his men, half-crouching, slogged after him through the mire, crawled out onto level ground, and then sprinted to the shelter of a farm a mile away. Behind them, the conflict started anew.

Collapsing against the wall of a pig yard, his chest heaving, the sergeant glanced at Coraza and smiled broadly.

"Merry Christmas, sir!"