by Alma Boykin
She turned from the list of early saints to the page about St. Mou. By tradition, he observed the Fires, repented after the first warning and led people to safety, all that she knew by rote. He’d founded a settlement of refuge in what became Tivolia but the exact place had been lost. I’ve been all over Tivolia and never found any town claiming him as founder. That’s odd, too. She opened the ink flask, dipped her pen, made a quick note, and recapped the flask. The books were too precious for her not to take every precaution possible against accidents. And then there’s this. There’s no mention of Mou’s opposition to technology per se, only opposition to the misguided use of technology and of excess pride in machinery, and fine dress, and large houses, and all other luxuries. He’s no different from St. Gerald or St. Brigid in that regard.
She closed the book of saints and opened one of St. Mou’s writings. Again, she’d found nothing against Lander technology, although there was plenty about the Landers, their sinfulness and depravity, their unwillingness to bow before Godown and the results of that deadly pride. We’ve not invented any new sins, it seems, or any new sermon topics: sexual depravity, unnatural behavior, greed, vanity, gluttony, anger without cause, all the usual, with an extra helping of sex. Maybe this was the inspiration for the paintings in the second bedroom at Donatello Bend? She started giggling and bit her tongue before the unseemly noise attracted attention. I haven’t looked in there in years. Did Lewis ever have them painted over? I’ll have to ask Ann.
But more to the point, St. Mou condemns the improper use of technology, whatever that is, but not the things themselves. And this is one of his oldest writings. The farther back in the writings about and supposedly by St. Mou, the less and less she found about Lander technology. She closed the book, thanked the sister in charge of the reading room for allowing her to look at the precious manuscripts, and drove the mule trap back to Donatello House lost in thought. Mina, who had come with her, knew better than to disturb Elizabeth except to warn her about traffic and a hole in the road. I really have to ask Ann about those paintings. I still don’t think the one in the corner is physically possible.
One month before Winter Fair, Elizabeth took a day off and instead of attending to business, stayed in and answered personal letters. Lady Ann had invited her to Donatello Bend for the winter but Elizabeth declined. She needed to be in Vindobona, close to the seat of power and to her officers. “Unless you want me to bring a dozen eager young men, all unmarried, with me? I’m sure they could find ways to keep busy when I’m not working with them,” she wrote in her reply. She grinned as she imagined the look of horror on Lady Ann and Master Ambrose’s faces at the thought of a dozen under-occupied bachelor officers turned loose to meet the farm daughters and serving girls on the manor. The men would be eager for a campaign this spring if only because they’d need bride prices before the turn of the season! Chuckling, she continued to write, “Thank you for the meat and the nuts. What are you using in the shahma sausage and ham this year?” They’d slaughtered a record number of the barrel-bodied, long-necked fleece beasts this fall, with more to be killed as the season passed. And to think that no one ate shahma before I took over Donatello Bend! Well, there weren’t really enough to waste, even the old ones, back then. Amazing what three decades of good management can do for a property, even with drought and flood. Emperor Thomas had extended his father’s loan of Donatello Bend to Lady Ann after Archduke Lewis’s death, and had continued Elizabeth’s third of the estate revenue for the length of her life, as well.
Elizabeth started to shake out her fingers and caught herself just before she spattered ink over the papers. “Blagh.” She wiped the pen clean, set it down, closed the cap on the inkwell, and then got up and shook, bouncing on her toes a little and walking back and forth. She bent forward and backward as much as her bodice stays allowed.
Lazlo had teased her about her insistence on wearing so many layers. “And who complains about the cold, hmm, Col. Destefani,” she’d prodded right back. After this long she felt undressed without the support and weight of bodice, shimmy, underskirts, blouse, overskirt, and jacket. The younger women could do as they wished, but she’d be warm. And in summer she was on campaign, in uniform, in armor, which negated the need for the bodice while keeping her just as straight-backed.
Someone tapped on the door. “Come in.” David opened the door and brought a bundle of letters and a parcel.
“Your grace,” he bowed, removing one letter from the stack and holding it out for her, a broad smile on his lean, solemn features.
Her hand trembled as she took the thick missive, turning it over to reveal Lazlo’s seal. She returned to her desk and sat hard, fumbling with the letter opener before she managed to get the pages open. She skimmed the first page and smiled back at the hovering footman. “Col. Destefani has arrived safely in New Dalfa and reports that the plague has not yet reached the Sea Republics. Please tell the rest of the staff, and thank them for their prayers.” Better to tell him officially now, and keep things straight, rather than spend a month correcting rumors.
“Yes, your grace.” He rushed out to spread the news, and she began reading Lazlo’s letter. Or two letters, as it proved. She set aside the official report from Col. Destefani and devoured the one for her alone.
“My dearest love, I am well and safe. We arrived in New Dalfa in good time. The rivers west of the Bergenlands are either frozen or low, and the weather remained cold but dry, Godown be thanked. Contrary to rumor, the plague has not spread beyond the northern cities, the western Poloki lands, and Herbstadt. Nor has it moved south of the Tongue Sea, and may Godown keep it where it is. As important, know that the Sea Republics have a way to prevent the spotted phase. It seems that if one avoids the spots, the cough is no worse than the usual winter disease.” Elizabeth shivered and made the sign of St. Gerald’s bridge: winter cough still killed the very old and very young, and the wounded. Then she read farther.
“The Sea Republics are delighted to have a military representative from the Eastern Empire and their leaders, notably Marischal Van Looie and his aid Jan DeSmoot, went out of their way to make certain that we would not lack anything, although I sense that I will be heartily tired of fish before I see you again. Take care and know that I miss you already, my love and my light. Godown be with you and guide you, love. Your husband, Lazlo. P.S. The ladies here favor lighter blouses and overskirts with darker underskirts and sleeveless jackets. And instead of wigs, they powder their hair white with chalk. Please, dear, never take up this hairstyle. L.K.D.”
A rough patch on the page’s surface caught her eye and Elizabeth ran her finger along the words, feeling a pattern of dots pushed into the paper between the lines of writing. She closed her eyes and read the coded pattern. “Had treatment to prevent the spot fever. Will report results in next letter. Involves old medicine. Do not tell anyone. L.K.D.” Her mouth went dry with fear and she wondered what sort of old medicine he meant. Lander technology or even older, from the time before the star colonies? She took a small, water-smoothed river rock out of a desk-drawer and rubbed it over the dots, erasing them. Not that anyone outside the military knew the dot code, but given the state of things at court, she couldn’t help but wonder if some of the newer servants served more than just her. But Lazlo was safe and Godown held the plague at bay; that was what mattered most. She put the rock away and folded the personal letter, tucking it into the corner of one drawer to save for the lonely days.
She started to read his formal report when a heavier hand knocked on her door. “Yes?” What now?
Charles Simmons, the grounds manager at Bellevue House, clomped into the room, his hat his hand. “Your grace,” he bowed.
“Charles, what brings you here?”
He ran the hat brim through thick fingers, then waved the stump of his right arm and blurted. “We were fixin’ the wall in the garden, your grace, and, well, we found a hole with a box in the bottom. A metal box. I told the boys to stop diggin’ until I came ba
ck and, your grace, I think you need to come and see.”
Already on her feet, Elizabeth draped the cover cloth over the papers on her desk. “Yes I do, Charles. David! Have the grooms saddle Gray, and get a cargo sledge for him.” She’d been dressed for a ride anyway. “Charles, go get something hot to drink and tell the cook to pack a field-bag for me. How’s the road?” Thank you, St. Michael, that we just finished getting the caulked shoes on everything.
“Not so bad, your grace. Snow but well packed and not slick yet. I’m in the sledge and could almost be in a cart, your grace.”
“Good. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.” She brushed past him, ignoring his bow as she called, “Mina! Mina, I need my heaviest riding coat and my gauntlets and boots.”
She and Charles stopped on the outside of the garden wall, where three workmen stood waiting for them. Elizabeth tied Gray to the back of the sled and kicked through the shallow snow to the pile of dirt and the gathered men. “That’s it, yer grace,” one of the workmen said, pointing with his shovel at the hole. “Surprised yer wall ain’t fallen in sooner, beggin yer pardon.”
“So am I.” She got down on hands and knees, dignity be damned, and peered down into the hole. The box wasn’t that far down. The opening seemed very regular, and she ran her hand around the top of the hole. There she found the reason for the wall’s near collapse. Someone had set stones over the top of the hole, then covered them with dirt instead of filling the hole in, and one stone had shifted. “Get that out of there,” she pointed at the box. And I wonder what the masons were doing when they were supposed to be digging and laying the foundation? After this long, I’ll never know, but I’d better set aside funds for replacing the entire wall.
The men shifted around, and one asked, uncomfortable, “Yer grace, are you sure you want that? It may be,” he spat to the side, “Lander cursed.”
“It could be, or it could be something buried before the Siege. There was a farm here that the Turkowi burned out.” My money’s on the farmer, since this was done so fast, it looks like.
Charles agreed with her. “Box looks like someone’s cash box, your grace. Bring it up, men.”
When they hesitated, Elizabeth invoked religion. “I brought cleansing incense and will pray over the box,” Elizabeth told the workmen as she got out of their way. That seemed to satisfy them, and they set to work. Elizabeth used her fire-stone and steel to light the incense as she waited and watched. The three workmen got ropes. One enlarged the hole enough to be able to reach in, and worked the ropes around the box. When he finished, the others pulled as he steadied the box, lifting it up and out of the hole.
Elizabeth carried the incense over and set it beside the chest so that the light afternoon breeze blew the smoke over the find. Nothing happened—the wood and metal box remained solid. It did not burst into flame or crumble into dust, although the leather straps around it looked moldy. That satisfied two of the workmen, judging by their nods and how they started to relax, leaning on their shovels. She opened her prayer book and half-sang, “Holy Godown, whom nothing can tarnish, cleanse this object of all ill effects and ill will, enclose it with Your power and destroy all evil. Bless those who hear Your word and cleanse us from all impurity as we labor to do Your will. May this box bring nothing but what we carry in our hearts. Hear the prayer of Your children, holy Godown, Lord of life.”
“Selah,” the men agreed in a ragged chorus. The box sat, inert and dirty, the ropes puddled beside it. Whatever it was, the exorcism rendered it harmless as far as the workmen seemed concerned, and one poked it with his finger, testing the wood.
“Charles, load that onto the mule sledge and I’ll drag it into town.” The men picked it up without too much effort and set it on the small sledge as Charles uncoiled the pull straps and attached them to the mule’s saddle. She sighed, “Well, if it’s that light, it’s not gold coins.” She dug into her skirt pocket, pulling out a coin bag and giving the men each a bonus half-day’s wage. “Thank you, gentlemen, and this should help make up for the extra work and having to stand around in the cold.” And if you find something else, you’ll report it instead of trying to sell it.
“Thank ye, yer grace,” the largest of the three said, touching his forehead in salute. The others just nodded.
“Thank you, Charles, and I’ll let you get back to work. Is there anything you and the staff need from town?”
The old soldier shook his head, breath steaming in the cold afternoon air. “No, your grace, thank you. We’re set until the next market day.”
“Good. Godown be with you, and thank you for seeing to the wall.” She took the reins and brushed off one boot as he knelt. She stepped as lightly as she could onto his knee, heaving herself up into the sidesaddle. Gray sidled a little and tipped his ears back a centimeter or two but didn’t fuss. She clicked her tongue and the mule took a step, felt the extra weight, hesitated and then took another step. When nothing happened he stepped out with a will, eager to get home to his stall and supper.
The guard at the west gate studied the box, walking around the back of the mule for a better look. “What’s this, your grace?”
“Someone’s valuables from the farm that used to be at Bellevue, sergeant. The men were doing repairs and found it. The farmer never came back after the siege, so I’m going to see what can be salvaged and if I can find the rightful owner.” The information should be in the archives, since it’s Babenburg land still.
He poked at the box with his polearm, then stepped back, satisfied. “Aye, no good to bury things if you can’t recall where you dug the hole. Pass in, your grace.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, and Godown be with you.” As she’d expected, people gave her odd looks but no one asked about the box. One young man did catch her eye when she stopped to let a dray loaded with beer barrels back into a courtyard, however.
He nodded up to her, exclaiming, “Mistress, that is a fine mule! Is he trained to drive?”
“Thank you, and no, he’s not. He’s trained to drag but not to drive.” She scratched along Gray’s crest with her riding stick, watching the teamster as he guided the six big horses neatly through the gate, keeping the heavy wagon perfectly straight and even.
“Ah,” the stranger sighed. His worn but tidy clothes suggested that he was a farmer or small tradesman’s son. He walked around Gray, studying the mule. “Would he have any brothers or sisters for sale as drivers, ma’am? My father’s always looking for good small cart and wagon mules.”
“Yes, he does. Ask at Donatello House for Master Henry and he’ll let your father know what is available.” I need to tell Ann to expect a rush of requests this spring.
He blinked, surprised, or so she guessed. It was hard to read a face under a cap and muffler. “Donatello sells to common folk? I’d heard they only sold to nobles, my lady.”
Does he not recognize me? No, since all he can see are my eyes and I’m not in court dress or uniform. He probably thinks I’m an upper servant or a tradeswoman. “Oh, no, they sell to whoever has cash and a good reputation for caring for animals. Her grace and Lady Ann won’t sell to people who ruin good stock, noble or no.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll tell my father.” He touched his cap brim and continued on his way, and she went hers.
She waited until the next morning to have the box opened. The men set it onto a worktable from the stable so it would be easier to unpack. Neither Elizabeth, nor David or the other staff could find any identifying marks on the outside of the box, even in the bright morning sunlight. Any paint had flaked off and the leather bore no stamps or brands. As she watched, Andy, one of the grooms, undid the straps and picked the simple lock. The men opened the lid. To her mild disappointment, all they saw was fabric, also moldy. She used a walking stick to lift it out of the way and revealed what seemed to be an account book, a copy of the Writ, and leather bags, and some pieces of table silver. “The farmer, then,” she thought aloud.
“Godown be with them,” David sigh
ed, making the sign of St. Sabrina, patron of women in distress.
“Selah,” she agreed. She shook out the fabric and discovered it was a small dress and cap, likely for a girl’s confirmation and patronage ceremony. Elizabeth’s vision blurred and she heard some sniffing and coughs from the watching men. Godown be with them, wherever they are. She set the dress aside and picked up the ledger. Although damaged and water-stained, she could still read the first page. “Hillside Farm number two, Alois Lee manager.” She looked up, closing the book. “David, have, eh, the laundress, the new one…”
“Carlie,” he supplied.
“Thank you. Have Carlie see if she can get the mildew off the dress and cap. Leave the box open here to air until this afternoon, and then put it in the hayloft.” I’ll have the royal stewards look into Alois Lee and his family, see if anyone survived. If not she’d turn the ledger over to the stewards, give the dress to someone who could use it, and keep the rest.
“Very good, my lady.”
The next day, on her way to meet with her officers, she stopped by the royal farm stewards’ section of the palace offices. “I need to find out what became of Alois Lee, the manager of Hillside Farm number two, the one that used to be where Bellevue now stands.”
