by Alma Boykin
Behind her she heard a rustle of movement. She looked over her shoulder and found all the men down on one knee, praying. She turned and raised one hand in blessing. “Hear these words from the Holy Writ: Godown’s mercy endures forever and His love and kindness are without end. All who seek His mercy with open hearts will find it, and shall know peace.”
“Selah,” they chorused, then rose to their feet.
A little after noon, when they reached Boehm, they stopped their advance. The firing on the eastern end of the lines had died at last and she assumed the Sea Republic troops had finally captured Brightstown. Elizabeth commandeered another house, this one probably belonging to the mayor or another official, and began taking reports and drawing up lists of unit conditions. Her possessions caught up with her as supper was served. General Destefani arrived not long after and helped himself to half of the yard bird she’d been eating.
Too tired to protest, she glared as he all but inhaled the drumstick. “Our supplies are behind your reinforcements,” he explained. “Once you get them out of my way, I’ll stop liberating your suppers.”
He’d settled onto the bench across from her, looking much better than she did. She munched a piece of stale bread with poultry drippings on it, swallowed, and asked, “What is the next step, General?”
He ate more bird before answering. “We cross the river and keep hounding them until they clear the Bergenlands or we find Rohan-Roi. But not tomorrow. I need your reinforcements to join up with us, and to sort out my own forces. We took a pounding around Brightston. Your artillery is back with you, in case you were concerned.”
“Thank you. A day to regroup will be good.” She sounded cold to her own ears, and he looked up from cutting the breast meat free of the bone, puzzled. She drank her tea and kept her thoughts to herself.
After he finished eating he sat back. “May I have a word in private with you, your grace?”
“Yes.” She gestured with her head to the door and her men departed, Lazlo’s aids and guards close behind. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Instead she waited. She could outwait anyone.
He studied her face again. “You were injured.”
“Yes. Pistol fire to the face and musket shot under the arm. A few light cuts and slashes. Nothing major. Jones is dead, Albinez probably dead. Schwartz died not long after noon the first day. Schwartz the horse,” she amplified, in case he thought she’d meant someone else.
Both hands still cradled her teacup, hiding her tremors. Lazlo reached across the table and prized her fingers loose so he could take one hand. “Love,” he began.
She shook her head, fighting back tears. “No, not now, Lazlo, not here. I’m sorry. Right now there’s only General Destefani and Duchess Sarmas, who have an enemy to defeat and armies to regroup.” She caressed his fingers, trying to soften the blow and ease the pain her words must cause. There was no point in hurting him more than she had to.
He stroked the back of her hand, then returned it to her teacup. “I’m sorry too, Elizabeth. Later, then, when Duchess Sarmas and General Destefani have retired from the field.”
“Yes.” He got up and excused himself, leaving her to stare at the rough wooden paneling of the room. And when will that be, beloved? The tenth of never, if his majesty is displeased with me. She turned her thoughts away before the tears building inside her broke free. Once she started weeping, she’d never stop. And she had no time for tears.
10
The Long Chase
Grantholm and Midland caught up to her as the first of the Sea Republic forces crossed the river, snapping at the Frankonians’ heels. They had better claim to encroach on Bergenlander territory, since the Sea Republics had a treaty with the Bergenlands for mutual defense against the Frankonians, and the Empire did not. Elizabeth still had not heard from Emperor Thomas and Count Montoya about revised limits to her actions, and so she and General Destefani agreed that he’d go first, followed by the Imperials. His troops also needed supplies, something the Bergenlands might provide. Or might not, depending on how much Javertt and Milnesand’s troops had already looted.
“And so that’s the current situation, gentlemen,” she concluded. “Oh, and Tim Albinez is recovering and Godown willing will be able to return home in the next few weeks.” That’s assuming he doesn’t do something drastic the first time he sees what’s left of his face. It might have been better for him to have lost both eyes, or to have died. Good thing he and his wife already have an heir and a spare, given his looks now. It’s a miracle he didn’t choke to death from that shot. Such thoughts were uncharitable at best, but Elizabeth had no spare energy for being kind. Perhaps later, after she’d been able to sleep and weep out her battle fatigue.
Karl Grantholm, looming in the doorway as he leaned against the doorframe, grunted. “Godown was with him is all I can think of. Muskets are nasty weapons.”
“No nastier than canister and chain shot, your grace,” Major Ulli Martin noted.
“True. So, what is the plan of advance?” Grantholm left the doorway and joined the others studying the map.
We follow the Frankonians and shoot at them until they go home. Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “For the moment we’re supporting the Sea Republicans, so we cross the river and march parallel to them, pushing the Frankonians west until they cross out of Bergenlander territory. Apparently their treaty with Laurence did not include being eaten out of house and home or being turned into an armed camp, so the Bergenlanders, or so rumor has it, are more than willing to see them gone. To be honest, gentlemen, I’m not that comfortable with depending on the rumors.”
Marlow Eulenberg, who had emerged unscathed from the battle, grimaced. “No offense to General Destefani, but he’s assuming a lot about the Bergenlanders and their desire to see the Frankonians go home. We might be walking into a shit storm, pardon my language, your grace.”
“No pardon needed, Marlow, since I’m inclined to agree with you.” She leaned back from the map and locked her fingers behind her neck, studying the half-timbered ceiling. “No one’s heard from Rohan-Roi in a week or two, either. That makes me nervous.”
“Aye,” Lewis Midland piped up. “He’s not exactly rested, wherever he is, but he hasn’t been mauled either, not that we know of.”
Elizabeth rummaged around in her brain for some numbers. “Eh, the last I heard, estimates were that he had, hmmm, six thousand soldiers, cavalry, and artillery with him, give or take. We’re down to ten thousand or so, and I have no idea what Javertt and Milnesand can still field. They’ve lost at least half their artillery, a bunch of their cavalry, just going by the bodies on the field, and Milnesand may start shedding troops as they get into home ground.” She sighed, something she seemed to do a lot of. “Or they’ll stiffen up since they are on home ground.”
No one raised any arguments. After the men had more of their wine, Major Martin picked up an early apple, rolling it between his stubby fingers. “Your grace, we are going to consolidate units, are we not?”
“That’s something I want to talk about. We have to consolidate, at least until we disengage from the enemy, but the problem is how to do it. My thought was that Count Jones’s men get folded into the Albinez troops, fighting under my direct command, I add the Peilov contingent to Donatello Bend under Major Martin for now, and you cover your own and the artillery, Marlow.”
“Oh hell no, your grace,” Marlow Eulenberg blurted, slamming his open hand down and almost spilling wine across the table. Taken aback, she stared at him, then gestured for him to go on as the others leaned away, discussing the idea under their breaths. “Your grace, first, I have no experience with artillery and I don’t want any. Second, the Jones men won’t follow you. Promote Mou Murphy to acting major and give him command. And T.G. will be back in the field in a week, unless you’ve already relieved him of his command?”
Blast it, he’s right about Jones, I suspect. Damn Clellan and his pocket priest. “I see, Marlow.” She kept her ton
e mild and her expression politely neutral. “Tim Albinez is not coming back to the field, I trust we can all agree with that statement?”
Lewis Midland shuddered but nodded, as did Marlow and Karl Grantholm. “If he can’t call out orders, and he can barely eat and breathe, then how can he command, your grace?” Major Martin asked as he made St. Gerald’s bridge.
“He can’t.” She waited but no one added anything. “The Jones contingent also lost almost half its men, Peilovna not quite as many. What I can do is bring you up, Marlow, with Grantholm and Lewis, drop Peilovna to reserve with some of Jones’ cavalry, and keep Donatello Bend light. I fold Jones’s men into yours, Marlow, under your command, with Mou Murphy as your second to help the transition. And I’ll keep the artillery, since none of you seem especially eager to take them on.” You fools, too damn wedded to birth rank to realize how important the gunners are to us.
Grantholm counted off on his fingers, repeating back, “You retain command of the artillery, as much as anyone can order them to do anything. Lewis and I take our troops as we are. Marlow takes his men and the survivors of Jones’s unit, with Jones’s second to help the transition. Donatello Bend stays understrength, and T.G.’s men, with Jones’s cavalry, become the designated reserve.” The big man sat back. “That sounds reasonable.”
Thanks be. Now we can get to work. She hadn’t wanted to take unit command, truth be told, but hadn’t seen a better way to manage things. Of course, this assumes that T.G. is able as well as willing to fight. I’ll send Tim back to Vindobona with some of the captured guns and the Frankonian pay-chest we captured. Might as well get some use out of that damned carriage that’s been following me around all this time.
To her vast surprise, the new arrangement worked, not perfectly, but well enough to keep the army in the field. Even more surprising, the weather cooperated, turning a little cooler but not too wet. Once across the Donau Novi, Elizabeth was in unfamiliar territory but Lewis Midland had covered the area, “in my misspent youth,” as he put it. “Just don’t tell my wife if we find any youngsters who look like me.” She promised not to.
She liked the looks of the countryside, lush and rolling. It reminded her of a lumpier version of Donatello Bend. They’d entered the plains that lapped the true foothills of the Triangle Range, and if she turned her eyes to the south, she could see the white-tipped crags looming, warning them that campaign season was drawing to a close.
The Frankonians seemed to know it, too, falling back farther and farther south and west. As she and Gen. Destefani had hoped and prayed, the Bergenlanders deserted in droves once word spread that the allies were not stripping the land bare, unlike the Frankonians. The few Bergenlander men who wanted to join her army she added to the Donatello Bend force, since they shared similar backgrounds and low levels of patience for hereditary nobility. Most of the Bergenlander defectors joined up with the Sea Republic forces. The Frankonians, although still capable of stinging their enemies, accelerated their retreat, laying waste to the land as they passed through.
“I don’t like it, General,” Elizabeth complained to Lazlo when they met to discuss Andrew Milnesand’s offer of surrender. “The Frankonians are acting like Turkowi, minus the slaughter of civilians.”
“Considering what your troops did to the last dead Frankonians they encountered, Sarmas, I’m surprised they’re not committing massacres.” He paced a little, favoring one leg. He’d caught a nasty stab wound in the leg, and only pouring pfeach brandy into the wound had kept it from turning septic and killing him. “But I agree, that they are wasting the countryside suggests that they’re getting desperate.”
“So, do we press them harder, harrying them out of the Bergenlands before they can completely destroy everything, or do we ease off on the pressure? And where is that damned old Rohan-Roi?” She kept expecting to find him and his troops waiting every time her men crossed the next hill. “Is Javertt luring us into a trap with Rohan-Roi ready to snap the jaws closed on us?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand over his hair. “The last word from Marischal Van Looie put Rohan-Roi just south of the falls of Shelly and withdrawing south, three weeks ago. After the wild lagom chase he’s been on, his troops must be exhausted. He can’t move fast enough to reach the Bergenlands for another week at the very earliest.”
“So we ease off, give ourselves time to have proper scouts and let the men recuperate, since we have long marches back to our winter quarters.” Every day we go west is another day I have to march back east, Lazlo. I do not want to have another snow march.
“No, we press harder while he’s running. The council doesn’t want any more trouble from Frankonia, and if we destroy Laurence’s army, he’ll be out of our hair for several years.” Perhaps he sensed Elizabeth’s slack-jawed dismay, or perhaps he realized what he’d just said and what it meant. Either way he stopped and turned back to face her. “You disagree.”
She scrambled to recover both her breath and her wits. You’ve gone native, she wailed in her head, her heart breaking. You’ve changed sides. They offered you too rich a reward and you’ve joined them heart and mind. St. Sabrina, have pity on me—I’ve lost my husband while he’s still alive. “I have to consider the Empire’s position, General. Emperor Thomas is quite firm: no more territory, not this way and not in this direction. We are to push the Frankonians back to the borders of the previous years, and to return to the Empire. Those are my orders. Yours may differ.” The ice in her own voice chilled her.
Expression hard, back stiff, he snapped, “They do.” A knock on the door saved them from further discussion. “Come in.”
Karl Grantholm and Colonel Jan De Smoot bowed and entered with a tired, battered but still proud man in a brown uniform. “General, your grace,” De Smoot announced, “General Andrew Milnesand.” Grantholm moved so he stood behind Elizabeth’s chair, looming discreetly.
They’d already agreed that Lazlo would take the lead in a situation like this one, both because of his being the de facto Sea Republic representative, and because the allies had a suspicion that Milnesand would be more likely to parley with Lazlo than with Elizabeth. “Welcome, General Milnesand,” Lazlo said, gesturing to a waiting chair. De Smoot, white blond pale, smaller than Grantholm but just as square, took a seat at the table, picking up a pen to start recording the proceedings for all three parties.
The younger man glared at Elizabeth and pointedly turned the chair so he faced Lazlo and De Smoot. Elizabeth ignored the insult. Getting the Bergenlanders to surrender was more important than her pride. “I’m here,” Milnesand growled, his voice lower than she would have thought.
“You received our offer,” Lazlo prompted.
“Yes.” Milnesand clipped the words short. “I received it. I considered it. The terms are an insult to the Elected Speaker and the Bergenlanders. But,” he shook his finger at Lazlo, “the Frankonian overreach is worse, and my men deserve better than what Laurence V promises, assuming he delivers.” His shifting posture and sour tone suggested that he had little faith in his erstwhile ally.
Elizabeth felt no pity for the man or his country. You should have thought about that before you invited them in, shouldn’t you? If you’d at least stayed neutral, you could have asked for help from us and we’d have assisted. Or you could have allied with the Empire and spared yourself having three armies carrying off your crops and goods. Your people made their choice and now they have to live with the results. Instead of saying those words aloud, she played with some of the Lander bits on her waistcoat chain.
Lazlo, more diplomatic than his co-commander, stated, “Then you agree to our terms and your men will lay down their weapons, those who do not choose to assist us in driving the Frankonians off Bergenland soil.”
“Yes. We will surrender to the army from the Sea Republics.”
“You surrender to the allied armies,” Lazlo corrected before Elizabeth could.
Milnesand made a cutting motion with his hand. “The Easterners will be
there, I have no doubt, but we surrender only to the Republicans. I’ve never bowed to a noble and I won’t start now.”
Elizabeth, furious, caught the deep growl from behind her chair. She twisted in her seat as much as her stays and uniform allowed and glared at Karl Grantholm, mouthing, “Not now.”
He mouthed back, “Arrogant upstart fool,” glowering.
“Agreed,” she replied, before turning around again, before her stays cut her in two. Lazlo raised his eyebrows in a question, and she shook her head slightly. He nodded a fraction of a centimeter.
“Although you do my co-commander a grave disservice, General Milnesand, we agree to your stipulation.” De Smoot took a document out of the stack on the table, glanced at it, and passed it to Lazlo, who held it out to Milnesand. The Bergenlander yanked it out of his hand. Milnesand’s lips moved as he read the surrender.
When he finished he turned and glared at Elizabeth, then held the page out to Lazlo. “That’s what we agree to. Get the Frankonians out of my country and go home.” Milnesand turned back to Elizabeth, “Especially you, unnatural female.”
Before Lazlo or Karl, or both men, caused a diplomatic disaster, Elizabeth got to her feet. “I am unusual, General, not unnatural. I earned my rank through military service, not by birth, not by marriage. Your men fought very well at Boehm, General, please give my compliments to them. General Destefani, you have my permission to act as my proxy.” With that she stalked out, not trusting herself to keep her temper in check for much longer.
Captain Neruda hovered just outside the meeting room. “Your grace, are you…?”
“No, I’m fine, Jan. I just need a little air.” Outdoors, a cold fog had settled over the village and she took several deep breaths, letting the chill help settle her nerves and temper. Unnatural female, whore, king’s bastard, it never changes, does it? You fools can’t come up with anything original to accuse me of. Holy Godown, it will never end, will it? They’ll be slandering me long after I’m in my grave. She undid the top knot-and-loop on her shirt and loosened the scarf she wore in lieu of the starched collar, fanning a little. She seemed to be overheating more easily, for some reason.
