Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  He finished eating. “Very well. Odile, if you wish this, then I grant you permission to join the Sisters of Service.” She heard a hint of relief in his voice. Well, he’d never say it aloud, but she did pose a problem for him. Who would support her after he and her mother died? She couldn’t take a serving position in the hall, wouldn’t find a husband, and who knew if any of her brothers or sisters would stay in the valley or be able to support her as well as their families.

  “Thank you, Father. I do want it. It feels right in my heart.”

  Lady Marta deSarm-Berlin listened as patiently as she could to the man presenting his case to the lord’s court. Finally he finished, “And that’s why the sheeps are mine.”

  Marta glanced at her secretary, waiting until he finished his notes before turning to the other man. “And what say you to Goodman Smith’s argument?”

  “I gave him four chances to do the work right and proper, and he kept trying to push off shoddy onto me. I’d paid him for materials already, why should I pay him for poor work that won’t hold, my lady?”

  “Let me see the pieces,” Marta ordered. The two men both blinked, a touch surprised, and the old smith fumbled for a moment before turning the bag over to one of the armsmen. The soldier pulled eight tools out of the bag and set them on the table in front of Marta. She chose two at random. She inspected the shears and cooking fork with great care, feeling the cutting blades and hinges, and testing the fit of the pieces. They were not fit for her use, of course, but certainly appeared serviceable, as did the other six tools. However, the finish remained rough to the touch, and the herdsman and his wife would have to wrap the grips in leather or have wood fitted to them to make them truly usable. That or wear heavy gloves.

  Marta stood. “Hear my decision. Goodman Smith, I find these serviceable but too rough in finish for easy daily use. I dock you one sheep for the poor finish work, and one for not providing wood or leather for grips and handles.

  “Goodman Artois, I find these serviceable and well made despite the lack of finish, and I’d be willing to use them myself if the need arose. You will pay Goodman Smith two sheep, as agreed.”

  The herdsman and smith glared at each other. “Yes, Lady deSarm,” the smith agreed.

  “I’ll do it.” They shook hands.

  “You may go. If a question arises, remember that I have a copy of both your testimony, should anyone else raise a protest.” That made the herdsman perk up, and Marta guessed his wife had put a flea in his ear.

  Godown knows I’d like to put one in Greg’s ear. This is his task, not mine! The two men departed, leaving the small reception hall empty of petitioners. “I declare the court session closed,” she announced. Leo, the secretary, wrote down the time remaining on the hour candle. Marta signed the justice book and pressed the deSarm seal onto a little inkpad, then marked the book. Leo wiped the ring clean for her and she returned it to the bag on her belt.

  Marta retreated to her chamber and changed her formal head cover and overdress for plainer versions in lighter blues and browns. Lady Francis brushed out part of Marta’s hair before folding and pinning crisp blue fabric into place, frowning as always at what the fabric concealed. Marta wore a third of her hair unbraided, since Greg still avoided the marriage bed, even though both he and Marta were now well of age. Once more Marta growled, angry at her lord husband, currently away on a so-called diplomatic trip onto Frankonia and Louvat. By St. Basil’s crook, he’s supposed to be the leader, the judge, the defender of the deSarm lands. Why am I doing all this? And why does he avoid my bed? I’m not deformed, or ugly. I look no different than any other woman, and other men pay me compliments and admire my figure.

  Marta drank some tea, looked at the large bed with its white wood posts and light summer hangings, and wondered yet again if the rumors were true about Martin Gregory Berlin. He’d never shown any public devotion to St. Jenna, but that didn’t mean he didn’t incline that way. Even if he did, however, he had a duty to his people to provide them with an heir and a peaceful succession. Marta didn’t feel especially attracted to Greg, perhaps because they’d been raised almost as brother and sister, but she needed to have children, wanted desperately to have children, and Godown knew that without a man in her bed that was not going to happen. And she’d vowed that Greg alone would be that man. After eight years of a marriage only on paper, Marta’d gone from patient waiting to frustration. I’m starting to sympathize with the women in those warning stories Mistress Elko and Lady Francis insisted I read. Things have to change, they just have to.

  “Francis, what is next on my list?”

  The older woman’s frown deepened until the creases around her mouth resembled the deep folds on her headcover. “You are to meet with an accounts calculator, then with Master James Laplace.” She took a deep breath. “My lady, this is not appropriate. Lord Gregory’s place is to manage the lands, and yours to see to his comfort and to your family.”

  Patience already thin, Marta raised her eyebrows and pointed at the empty bed. Francis turned her head, then returned to frown at Marta. “Perhaps, my lady, if you did not unman your husband by refusing to allow him the pride and honor of—”

  “Enough,” Marta hissed, hands clenched on the carved balls at the end of her chair arms. “When has Lord Gregory shown any interest in management, even when pressed? When?”

  The other woman’s eyes went wide. “My lady, that is not the point. Your task is that of a woman, to provide for the health and comfort of your family and household, within walls, among your women.”

  “When did I last leave these walls?”

  Francis thought, and the lower ranking maids whispered among themselves. “Ah, on St. Basil’s Day, my lady?”

  “And it is almost midsummer. My husband has been home for at best a month of that time, if that much.” Do not lose your temper, do not scream, or yell, or shriek. Do not lose control, Marta warned herself. She shoved out of the solid chair. “There will be no household to care for if I do not meet with the accounts keeper and Master Laplace.” She gathered her skirts in her hands and strode out, leaving Francis staring after her, one hand on her mouth, eyes still wide with disbelief or dismay. Esmé, Marta’s handmaid, followed close behind with her lady’s workbasket.

  Marta settled into the chair in her father’s office. Greg preferred not to set foot in the room, meeting instead with people in the small hall, where he could pace, feed his dogs, and be at ease. Lady deSarm needed the heavy paneling and the dark weight of the books and hangings to counter her age and inexperience. The connection to her father and mother also helped. Esmé waited until Marta finished getting settled on the cushions and footstool, then set the basket on the table and opened the wooden cover. From inside, Marta removed a wooden case, shaped to fit into half the basket. The case contained sealing wax, ink, her favorite pens and stylus, and a smoothing rod for wax tablets. The other half of the basket held her sewing and embroidery tools. “Thank you.” The small, dark-haired woman bowed, adjusted the shutter on the window to allow more light in, and took her seat in the corner, where she could watch and listen as chaperone without being obvious.

  Marta opened the large book on the desk and reviewed the most recent figures. She saw two small payments for household items, including candles, and wrinkled her nose. What are we paying for candles for this time of year? We use spirit lamps in the stillroom, and chapel candles are in the church account book. She pulled the wax tablet closer and made a note. On the income side, she found a final payment for an ore shipment that had been made at the equinox. Wait. That’s… she turned back a page and found the three previous payments. It’s lower by what? A tenth? She worked the numbers out on the tablet. A tenth lower, and why? The miners locked in the price last year, and it included shipping, as usual. That’s what the little mark there means.

  Alex Kittel, the accounts calculator, knocked against the open door. “Come in,” she ordered. He bowed and took a seat across from her. He’d managed to coer
ce his stringy brown hair into almost neatness, and blinked large, pale eyes at her. He always reminded her of the small but ferocious rooster her mother had kept as a pet, many years ago. “What’s going on with the mining payment? Was the contract changed between the third and fourth payments?” She rotated the master account book so he could see the payment in question.

  He blinked, then paged through his satchel. “Yes, my lady. I apologize. I was told you’d been informed.” He handed her a letter. She read half-way, glanced down to confirm the seal, and set the page on the desk so she could hide her shaking hands. Pure, fiery rage shook her, and her vision went pink for two breaths before clearing.

  “Ah, I see now. Thank you. No, Lord Gregory must have overlooked that due to preparations for his departure.” She kept her tone calm and voice quiet, as if the appalling act of the creature the law called her husband meant nothing. “What else do you have for me?” He handed her two trade proposals, one of which really needed the attention of Henri Lemans, the man who oversaw the deSarm pastures and animals. And a bill for clothes, food, some sort of wine she’d never heard of before, and lodging in Frankonia, on a date when Greg had been in the Freistaadter. What is going on?

  “And, based on previous years, what will be our next major outlay?”

  Kittle blinked and raised one eyebrow, the thin lips below his sharp nose pursing. “His majesty King Phillip’s visit at the end of summer, my lady.”

  “King Phillip’s visit?”

  “Yes, my lady. I sent out initial payments for the hospitality orders two weeks ago.” He pointed to the master book. “May I?”

  Marta pushed the book over to him, although she longed to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. Kittle turned first one page, then another. “That’s… hmm,” and he made a disapproving sound. “I put the temporary page in myself. It should be right here. You can see the marks of the clip wires, my lady.” He pointed and she got half out of her chair, leaning forward until she could see the dents and tiny holes in the thick page where an additional sheet had been affixed. She sat back down with a thump, tucking her hands under the fabric of her skirt so Kittel couldn’t see her fists. Her hands and arms began to cramp as Marta began reciting saints’ names in order to keep herself in hand. I… how… the… what… he… that’s inexcusable! The room shimmered as tears filled her eyes.

  “I’d like to see a copy of the order, if possible, tomorrow.” She sounded unnaturally calm, as if someone else used her voice to speak. “Since we will have to economize elsewhere, I’m sure.”

  “Certainly, my lady.” She approved the servants’ and men-at-arms’ pay for the quarter and sent him off. Marta made a note in the account book about the missing page, then after some consideration locked the book into her private strong cabinet, one that Greg likely did not know existed. Esmé tucked the writing tools back into the workbasket and followed Marta out. The women stopped by the garderobe, then walked out into the herb garden.

  The brown stone and brick walls around the garden caught the first heat of spring and held it well into fall, making a haven from the winds that swirled around the deSarm Hall ridge. Some distant deSarm had planted herbs and a few fruit trees and vines that now clung to the south-facing wall. The quiet garden served as a retreat as well as supplying the kitchen and stillroom. Marta preferred to meet Master James Leplace here when the weather permitted. He seemed more comfortable with her presence out-of-doors, and part of her wondered if he always felt too confined indoors, or if a woman had once trapped him inside. Per her orders, a small table and two chairs, plus a stool for Esmé, waited in a shady bit of the garden, along with juice and wine. Marta managed to get three stitches on the band of embroidery for her new dress before he limped up.

  “I apologize, my lady,” he bowed. “A disciplinary problem that I needed to keep from repeating.”

  “Be seated, Master Leplace. Will the men need the churigon?”

  He smiled a little acknowledging the truth to her jest. “Not unless they try my patience a second time, my lady.”

  They covered the business they’d intended to. Then Marta chewed her lip for a moment as he drained his wine cup. I don’t… I have no proof, exactly… but if we don’t and Phillip… “I find myself in a delicate situation, Master Leplace.”

  The old warrior leaned back in his seat, reminding her of a bird about to launch into flight to escape a stalking cat. “My lady?”

  “Lord Gregory’s recent actions, hmm, cause me to wonder if perhaps his plans for the future… include a greater role for King Phillip than might be in the best interests of the deSarm dynasty.” I think he’s going to invite Phillip in to look around, and we will be swallowed before Greg realizes the drops on the branch are birdlime, not dew. She’d seen the hunters bringing in branches with a half dozen birds on them, all trapped by the sticky birdlime smeared on the inviting roosting spot.

  Leplace nodded, turning the cup with his fingers, studying the shine of the glaze in the hot sunshine. “I have heard from the men on his guard that Lord Gregory finds Frankonia congenial.” He looked from the cup to meet her eyes. She saw wariness and unhappiness in his small, brown eyes, almost buried in sun-wrinkles and folds.

  “It appears King Phillip will be visiting us later this summer. I need to know more. How many men will be with him, what armaments, and,” she blurted, “how to keep them out if I have to. Out of the valley as well as out of the castle.”

  He set the cup down. “My lady, you want to learn how to defend the valley? To take up arms yourself?”

  She shook her head so hard that her headcover slipped. “Damn.” She pulled it straight and Esmé jumped up, helping set it back into place. I need more pins, apparently. “No, not at all. I’m too old and I’m a woman. Teach me what we need, supplies, men, so I can be ready to give the orders and to keep my lands free of Frankonia.”

  He breathed a sigh, probably of relief, and sat back in the chair. “Very good, my lady. You can start with books and a map of the deSarm lands. Look at the map, find where all the ways in and out are, and think about how easy or hard they are to use: rivers, roads, goat trails, the passes, every route men could march over. Make a list, from easiest to hardest, then read about the history of the deSarm family and how you got these lands. Compare your list with the history, my lady. That’s your first lesson.”

  Thanks be to Godown that I can read the way I want to, now. Otherwise this would take me forever and a day. “What about Frankonia?”

  My lady, if you trust me, I’ll see to that.”

  “Trust you? What do you mean?”

  He pursed his lips, tipping his head back to study the summer cloud floating over and casting them into brief shadow. “I have ways to learn about Frankonia, ways that, my lady, you do not need to know about. Trust me, my lady?”

  “I do.”

  She dismissed him, finished her cup of juice and wine, then walked twice around the garden, gathering her thoughts. Like frightened shahma, they remained skittish, circling around the thing she feared. I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to even imagine… there has to be another explanation, there just has to be. But she couldn’t see it. “Come,” she ordered and she and Esmé returned to the castle, climbing up to Marta’s chamber, one she now felt certain Martin Gregory Berlin would not set foot in again, not if her suspicions proved true. Holy Godown, help me. St. Kiara, grant me your clarity, please.

  Her eyes began filling with tears once more. “Esmé, Lady Francis, Andrea, you are all dismissed. I’ll call when I wish you to return.”

  Lady Francis’s frown appeared frozen in place. “My lady, if you are ill, perhaps it would be better for me to—”

  “No. I am not ill. I wish a moment alone to gather my thoughts.” I’ll tell them the bit they can gossip and spread, that should keep them occupied. “I learned that his majesty King Phillip has been invited to visit the deSarm lands shortly before harvest, and I need a moment to recover from the surprise. You are dismisse
d.” The trio began chattering quietly, even Lady Francis looking more pleased. Esmé picked up the hem of her skirt and gestured, and Marta suspected they’d be talking fashion and deciding which dresses they could re-make and decorate for the momentous occasion.

  Marta removed her headcover and overdress, kicked her slippers higgledy piggledy across the floor and threw herself onto the bed. She let the tears flow, pounding the mattress with her fists and shrieking into the heavy coverlet. Greg had given Frankonia ten percent of her people’s income! Anything traded to merchants or craftsmen in Frankonia, Greg agreed to pay ten percent of to the Frankonian crown. Why? Why? It’s not your money! It belongs to the miners. We’ve already gotten our five percent of the original sale. And our income, no my income from the sheep and shahma and mountain leapers, did you give Phillip that too? He probably had. You sold the deSarm lands! You sold us! For what, you treasonous, treacherous, poisonous, greedy, arrogant, cowardly, blind fool?

  Marta wept out her fury into the bedding, then rolled onto her back and stared up at the canopy over the bedposts, panting and shaking. “No. We fought for these lands, we managed these lands, we carved out a place after the Great Fires and the wars that followed, we’ve kept the peace since Godown’s time of miracles ended. My family, the deSarm family. I’ve done everything since father died.” As she heard herself speak the words, she acknowledged at last the truth: she’d done everything for the valley and for Gregory. He’d given her a few gifts, but never fulfilled his duties as lord of the county. Nor had he fulfilled his duties as her husband. “If—” Marta took a shuddery breath, exhaled, and inhaled more smoothly. “If what Master Laplace and Mr. Kittle find proves true, that Martin Gregory Berlin has sold the deSarm lands to Phillip of Frankonia, our marriage is null and void,” she told the canopy, Godown, and herself. “And I will begin the steps necessary to end it and find a new spouse, one who will help me defend the valley and raise a family.”