Elizabeth and Empire (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 4)

by Alma Boykin

  After lunch, she presented Lazlo with a small box. He opened the lid and took a quick breath of surprise. “Ah, my lady, this is beautiful.” He turned the crimson, gold, and clear glass flame in his hand. “Is this Mandari work?”

  “If not, it is the best imitation I’ve ever seen. I found it in a religious goods stall in southern Tivolia. It seemed meant for you.”

  He returned the palm-sized glass treasure to its box and hugged Elizabeth, careful of her shoulder. “Thank you. While you were gone, I commissioned a portable altar, but no center figure seemed right. Godown truly guided you, love.”

  A sudden chill made her hesitate before returning his embrace as best she could. Only later did she realize why.

  It took two more weeks, not counting the First Snow festival, to finish her report about the campaign. She submitted it to his majesty, then returned to Donatello House and slept for almost a day. The next morning she began planning for the formal presentation and discussion. Is there anything I’d do differently? Of course. She studied the map draped over her now-bare desk. Would I have done anything differently at the time, based on the information I had available? No, not really. She walked around to the other side of the desk, facing the fireplace, back to the door, and set up markers to show the Frankonian and Imperial positions as of the beginning of the attack at Florabi. “This is where it starts,” she muttered under her breath, arms crossed.

  “Knock, knock,” someone tapped on the door.

  “Come in.” Two sets of steps entered the room, and she heard something heavy being set down. She turned to find David setting up a tea table, and Lazlo with a leather folder of papers. David left and Lazlo bowed, then approached the desk. “Leave the door cracked open, please,” she ordered before returning to her contemplations.

  “Yes, your grace.” He joined her at the desk, staring down at the map. “Florabi.”

  “Yes.” She moved the Imperial markers, pushing the artillery into their positions and shifting the infantry. She frowned, trying to recall where the Frankonians had been when her scouts found them. “Oh, yes, here,” and she moved their markers into place. “I think.”

  Lazlo watched as she ran through the battle. When she moved the artillery into place for the last push, the one that had broken the Frankonian lines, he commented, “My lady, I found out why the artillery numbers are too low.”

  She straightened up. “Oh? Why?”

  He nodded to the markers on her map. “The difference is powder. We used much less than anticipated this season, because we used the gunpowder you captured at Kilwali and what you obtained in Tivolia instead of buying any more from the Berganlanders. Apparently, according to Major Lucian, the southern powder is much better, enough so the gunners can use less of it. Its grains are coarser but smoother, so the powder burns more evenly, making it more powerful. It won’t work in the muskets or for sapping, but it is perfect for artillery.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating.” She turned back to the map, rubbing under her chin. “I wonder if we can get more, or find a way to duplicate the milling process. I’ll talk to Matthew Starland and see what he’s heard. Was it just the Kilwali powder, or both, or could you determine?”

  “Both, or so the gunners told Major Lucien. I persuaded him to write a formal report, in language normal people understand, for you to add to yours.” He ran his hand over his hair and rolled his shoulders and neck. “My lady, if this continues, I recommend you obtain an engineer-Imperial dictionary or hire an interpreter.”

  She picked up one of the artillery markers, one with an S on it for “siege gun,” and turned it back and forth. “I’m considering changing the table of organization, to bring the engineers into the Army proper, rather than relegating them to the sides. Artillery should be a branch like cavalry instead of a completely separate field. They are too important for us to keep treating them like, well, like the conscripted trench diggers.” She snorted a little as she replaced the marker in the line. “That is assuming Major Lucien doesn’t flee in terror at the thought, or die of shock.”

  “He won’t. He’ll tip his head to the side, so he can hear you, will make you repeat your offer, and tell you, ‘With all due respect, your grace, but it’s been a long time coming and overdue, with the greatest of respect’. And then he’ll ask how you think you can persuade the council to allow so many commoners into the officers’ ranks.” He had the gunnery officer’s mannerisms down to a T, and Elizabeth smiled as she studied the map. Then she looked up at Lazlo and the smile faded. He’d turned grim and serious, with no hint of levity in his dark eyes, his square jaw set.

  “Who?” He stayed silent and she glared into the fire. “Clellan and Montoya and Jones, let me guess.” Still no words, but after this long they didn’t really need any. Emperor Rudolph had broken precedent when he’d elevated Lazlo Kirlin Destefani to the rank of Imperial Colonel, and she’d broken tradition by marrying a commoner but keeping her noble rank. “Colonel, has Duke Clellan ever served in the military, in any way?”

  “My lady, I do not know, but I do not believe that he has.” The words came slowly and carefully.

  She turned back to the map and clasped her hands. “Thank you, Colonel. I believe that, given this information, a group briefing is in order. It is time and past that Capt. Martin and his subordinates learn how to present a report to his majesty and to the council.” She moved the pieces to the beginning of the storming of Florabi.

  “I believe that will be wise, my lady. Because I suspect this,” he tapped the symbol for Florabi’s main gates, “is what the council is most interested in.”

  “This is all well and good,” Duke Clellan sighed four days later, waving a languid hand at the map table now dominating the lesser council room, “but it fails to explain why this campaign ended with such a failure of discipline that it rendered the army incapable of doing its one assigned task.”

  Peter Chow, unable to answer the not-question, turned to Elizabeth for reassurance. “Thank you, Lt. Chow,” Col. Destefani said, easing some of the young officer’s confusion. He beckoned Chow back to rejoin the other staff officers.

  Elizabeth stepped forward to respond, as they’d planned if it came to this. “Your majesty, Duke Clellan, I take it by ‘failure of discipline’ you mean the sack that followed the capture of Florabi?”

  “Yes, Duchess Sarmas, I do,” Clellan replied. Elizabeth looked past him to Emperor Thomas, who nodded his agreement. “And your scouts’ maltreatment of captured Frankonians.”

  Just how do you take the dead captive? Because the Frankonians in question were absolutely, utterly, dead long before the scouts arranged their little warnings. The scouts took no prisoners. She took a deep breath to settle her temper. “Your majesty, Duke Clellan, gentlemen, if you will permit me a small digression,” she looked around, meeting the eyes of the rest of the council and audience, “The laws of war, as they currently stand, provide three outcomes when a city refuses to surrender to an attacking force. First, if the attackers give up the siege and depart, they are not to leave any traps for the defenders.” Not that it stops anyone from setting up traps, however.

  “Second, if the city surrenders at the first or second request, the garrison is allowed to leave under terms and the city’s civilian occupants are not molested or harassed unless they attack the incoming force. But if the city is besieged and captured by force of arms, the attackers are permitted up to three days to loot and requisition by force, although the inhabitants of the city are to be left unharmed unless they take up arms against the incoming army.”

  Colonel Marcy, her old antagonist, called, “So you are saying that the people you were sent to protect were fair game for your men to plunder.”

  “No, Colonel. I am saying that the law of war, known to all parties involved,” she reminded them, “permit looting. Your majesty, you are a young man. Gentlemen, you are, or once were, young men. Young men grow frustrated and impatient, especially when they are part of an army that has bee
n camped outside a city for a month, in the summer heat, in a drought, on short rations, with disease in camp, and then forced to fight both a relief force and the city’s defenders. Godown as my witness, I was surprised that the officers regained control after only one day.”

  Matthew Starland got to his feet. “That does speak well of your officers, Duchess von Sarmas, and of their respect for their commander. But why disease in camp? Surely you’d taken precautions.”

  “We had, your grace. It is hard to boil enough water for drinking and bathing when the streams are dry, the wells have been poisoned, and there is no fuel within a day’s ride of the camp.”

  Count Hoffman sneered, “If you’d planned for the second Frankonian army, you’d not have lost so many men to disease.”

  “True, and I’d have not attacked Florabi until I’d defeated both armies, in which case I highly doubt there would have been any need to attack the city in the first place. As I learned later, the defenders held out despite the wishes of many of the civilians within the walls, because they’d been assured of relief by the additional Frankonian forces. However, I had to base my actions on what I knew at the time.”

  Emperor Thomas rose from his chair and strolled to the map table. “This is all well and legal, but the delay to loot meant that you failed to finish your task, Duchess Sarmas, and that should have been your highest priority, and one you should have communicated to your men.”

  Confused, she replied, “Your majesty, your army pushed the Frankonians back to Johnsport, where the Treaty of Mirandola permits them to stay.” She counted on her fingers, “The last orders I received were to evict King Laurence’s forces from Florabna and to enforce the treaty. What—”

  Emperor Thomas thumped the table with his fist as Clellan interrupted, “Sarmas, you should have known that your task was to drive the Frankonians back past the Martin. You and your aids are supposed to be smart enough to understood what is intended as well as what is written.”

  “Perhaps Godown might have granted you more clarity and discernment if you flirted less with that which is best left untouched,” Count Jones added. Clellan and Hoffman muttered, “hear, hear,” signaling their agreement.

  And now we get to the real problem. Or do we? Let’s try a redirect and see. “If you mean the new artillery and the engineering officers, Count, I fear you are sorely mistaken.” She swept one hand towards the map table, taking in the battle scene. “They performed very well, far better than the conditions under which they served warranted. That fact is why—” She stopped there because Clellan and Emperor Thomas had begun a hurried, whispered conversation. Jones folded his arms and looked smug, while Col. Destefani eased Martin, Chow, and the other junior officers farther away from the two groups of nobles. Her palms grew sweaty and a sense of doom rose from her gut. I just walked into a trap. What have they been planning? Oh Godown, not, no, they can’t. There’d be riots and Starland and Kossuth would resign and take their troops if Clellan tries to claim that I’m a Frankonian agent. She wiped her wet palms on her skirt and braced for disaster.

  “Thank you for mentioning that observation concerning the artillery men, Duchess von Sarmas, because it leads to a matter in need of immediate attention.” Thomas of Babenburg held out his hand and a servant placed on it a blue leather folder like those carried by Imperial diplomatic agents. “My honored father, Godown grant him rest, believed that talent as well as birth could ennoble a man. Whether he was correct remains unproved at this time.” She could almost hear Lazlo’s teeth grinding as she forced her own jaws to relax. “However, his policies once again prove a boon to the Empire. Explain, Duke Clellan.”

  “Your majesty,” Clellan bowed to the monarch. “You have been away from Vindobona, Duchess von Sarmas, and no doubt were too occupied with matters closer at hand to attend to foreign affairs. However, the Bergenlands have united into a democracy with purely elected leadership that looks to the Sea Republics for inspiration. Given the likelihood of the Bergenlanders signing a treaty of alliance with the Empire, it behooves us to also draw closer to the Sea Republics. They have signaled their willingness to have an official representative of the Empire in their central city, along with the more traditional trade men.”

  Emperor Thomas raised his hand for silence, interrupting his first minister as Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. “The position is unique because it requires someone with tact, experience in the world, and with knowledge of Imperial affairs, but who is not a noble. For that reason, I have appointed Colonel Lazlo Destefani to be the Imperial representative to the Sea Republics, to reside in their principal city of New Dalfa. Col. Destefani?”

  Elizabeth could hardly watch as Lazlo, face ashen, walked five paces to Emperor Thomas and dropped onto one knee, his head bowed. Thomas held out the folder. “Your credentials and authority, Col. Destefani. In light of the situation and the passing of the seasons, I suggest you leave within the next two weeks, before travel becomes dangerous.” The cold threat in the emperor’s voice froze Elizabeth where she stood, unable to protest, unable to breathe.

  “As your majesty commands, so shall it be.” Lazlo’s calm, determined words carried to the corners of the room and eased a little of her fear.

  “Good. You may rise, Colonel, and may Godown grant you success on your mission, for however long it is necessary for you to remain.” Thomas returned to his seat and took his place. “Duke Clellan?”

  “Thank you, your majesty, but I have no further business for the council.” He bowed and returned to his earlier place on the side of the room, facing the soldiers, Duke Starland, and Elizabeth’s other allies. Clellan radiated smug satisfaction and she wanted to pick up the map markers and throw them in his face.

  “Duchess von Sarmas, no doubt your aid’s departure will cause some difficulty, but as you yourself said,” Emperor Thomas explained, “your current staff are quite good and there are other talented men in the ranks.” Something glinted in the young man’s eye, something she’d never seen in his father’s face.

  Did you just…? Are you insinuating that I’ve been unfaithful? I think you did. Cold anger replaced shock, helping her hide her dismay and grief.

  He continued, “As there is no other business, this session of the imperial council is closed. Go with Godown’s blessing.”

  “Godown be with you,” they all murmured, bowing until he’d gotten to his feet and left the room.

  Somehow she maintained her composure as the other nobles offered congratulations. Matt Starland pulled her aside, “Don’t push, Elizabeth. I’ll explain later. I’ll pray for you both.”

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  Only when they returned the Donatello House, and only after dismissing Mina and the other maids, did Elizabeth let go. “No!” She screamed into a pillow. “No, no, no.” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing, burying her face in her hands. “You’ve taken everything else, please Godown, don’t take my husband too.”

  4

  The Cold Time

  She heard the door open, and the sound of Lazlo’s footsteps stopped beside her, but he made no effort to try and comfort her. She continued weeping, gasping for air, unable to stop the tears. Why? My childhood was given to You, I’ve served You, Lazlo serves You, we’ve done all that You ask, we’ve sacrificed a normal marriage and children to do Your will, and now You want him too? How much more will You take from me?

  She heard him walk away, and she rolled onto her side on the floor, hands over face. Despair, fear, rage, anguish boiled within her, fighting for control. At last sorrow won, and determination not to grant Clellan and his supporters any pleasure from her pain. The tears waned, her heart slowed and the internal tempest subsided. She remained as she was, feeling the pain from her shoulder and the dull ache as her stays dug into her skin and muscle. The rough texture of the grass mat under her hands helped ground her. So be it. If Lazlo is what You must have, You shall have him. You give and You take, as You always have, sparing no one. If she said the words often
enough, long enough, she might come to believe them.

  Elizabeth rolled onto her stomach and used one hand to push herself into a sitting position. The footsteps returned, growing louder, and she looked up to see blurry dark blue trousers stop beside her. Lazlo pushed the bedside chair out of the way and knelt, then sat awkwardly, pulling her against him. He had an old towel with him and she took the soft stuff, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. Lazlo rocked her as best he could without jarring her arm. “It’s just another campaign,” he said at last.

  “It’s exile. He’s punishing us, you. And,” her throat closed, choking her, making her voice rough and tight. She forced out one word: “Plague.”

  She felt his chest expand as he took a deep breath, his shoulder moving under her head. His head turned, hair brushing her cheek, and warm lips touched her forehead. “Perhaps,” he whispered. “Perhaps not.” His grip on her shifted and he began tugging at her head cover. She helped him remove it so he could touch her cropped hair. He stroked the top of her head. “Love, I.” He took another deep breath, then blurted, “I knew.”

  She pulled back, aghast, eyes wide. She couldn’t speak, and she stared at him, fury expanding until red filled her vision. You knew? And you didn’t tell? How could you? Her anger flamed up and she clamped both hands over her mouth. Don’t, don’t, you could destroy, don’t speak! Breathe. The room had begun swirling again and she forced herself to inhale, then exhale, and inhale again, over and over, until walls and floor returned to their proper places. Once more in control, Elizabeth met Lazlo’s eyes. She read profound sorrow and apology in their brown depths, and a hint of long-buried anger. “When?”

  “Three days ago, but I sensed trouble even before you came back, love. Ann Starland warned me about rumors on the women’s side, that someone wanted you not to return from campaign, and failing that, wanted to hurt both of us. I’ve seen it building for months now, and I’ve been praying that Godown would turn the storm away.” For the first time in the thirty years she’d known him he sounded helpless, and the last of her terrible anger with him faded away. She pulled him against her shoulder, trying to take some of his weight, to support him as he supported her. The pain from the still-healing bones brought more tears to her eyes.