Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  “I want children!” She rolled back onto her stomach and cried until her eyes burned, mourning the death of illusions and ease. At last she scrambled off the bed, rinsed her face with the last of the water in the pitcher on the washstand, and dressed again. It took a little hunting to find her second slipper, which had lodged under the molding on the bottom of her dower chest. She tugged on the leather slipper, then gave the chest a light kick, not enough to hurt herself. Marta turned, picked up the back of her skirt, and scuffed the floor, kicking invisible dirt over her dower chest like a cat burying something foul. She felt silly, and better. She put the brown and blue headcover back on, measuring the brow band with two fingers between the hem and her eyebrows to make sure she got it straight in front. I’m spoiled by having the ladies to do this for me. Then she left a note on a small wax board for whichever maid ventured in first.

  Marta stalked down to the office, her office, opened the shutters to let the afternoon’s light in, found a map and the first volume of her family chronicle, and began reading. The main body of the account started about twenty years after the Great Fires, and much of the earliest parts made no sense, talking about places and things that no longer existed. Someone had sketched in little drawings of some of the machines, and Marta puzzled a bit, then shrugged. She’d take her ancestor’s word as it was, but she could not imagine how a round thing under four paddles could possibly fly. The next page provided what she’d been looking for, and Marta read more closely.

  Her g-g-g-grandfather, William Karl Sarmatia, had claimed a mine in the valley not long before the Great Fires. He’d also settled his family in the area, probably not far from where Sarm Hall now stood if Marta understood things correctly. He’d leased part of his mining claim to a sheep farmer. When the Fires came, and things collapsed afterwards, William Karl and his business partner, a retired soldier and military engineer, had set up defenses at the mouths of the valley, to the south where two smaller streams joined Martin’s Creek to form Martins River, and in the west, where the Blackrock River flowed through a steep-walled cut in a ridge. They’d also built a small fort on the shoulder of the little mountain that Marta knew as Godown’s Grace, from the mine in its base, upstream of the ridge and not far from the spring that formed the start of Martin’s Creek.

  Marta stopped and studied her map. With an ink-stained finger she traced the two rivers and found the defensive points. Ah, so they stopped the people coming up the Martins here, in the south, and in the west. And if someone got past the ridge, more soldiers and fighting men waited here, at the little outpost. I think I need to have that reopened. Wasn’t Greg talking about… no, he wanted to make it a hunting lodge but we didn’t have money, that’s right. The thought made her blood start to boil again, and Marta took several deep breaths. “Focus on the task at hand,” she said aloud. So we place watchers on the ridge and soldiers on Godown’s Grace, both places where the gaps are narrow and you can’t stuff lots of people or things through. The ridge connected to the higher peaks of the edge of the Triangle Range on the north and south, making it impossible for someone to come around the end of the ridge and forming a natural wall. And we’re safe to the east. Or are we? She returned to her reading.

  By the time she ran out of sunlight, Marta had decided that no one in his right mind would try to attack from the east. They’d have to follow goat tracks and a few pack trails into the heights, and the lowest pass was still “only” 2500 meters. Thank you, Godown, we’re not rich but we are safe, or safer, I suppose. Invasion or avalanches, which posed the greater danger? Right now, invasion. Can you use avalanches for something, besides collecting the flattened trees in spring and summer? She made another note and went back to the map. She’d found three more ways into the valley, besides the two rivers and the little trails. One used part of a Lander road, although it seemed to fade out to the north. Oh, is that the one Godown severed with an earth-shake ten years after the Fires? The last of His wonders? It must be, because the map shows, she peered closer, her nose almost on the page. Yes, it shows a rockslide sign. She made St. Sabrina’s spindle, warding off the possibility. The other two led to mines, and at different times her ancestors had gone from the mines along streams and then to the foothills and plains to the north and west.

  Marta closed the book and leaned back, rubbing tired eyes. Master Laplace needed to close the western gate, as she thought of the gap in the ridge. Phillip would not come from the south, not on a peaceful state occasion, which she guessed his fall visit was supposed to be. She wrinkled her nose. Godown, please may there be a different explanation for everything, for all the pieces. But Greg still had not done his marital duty in the eight years since their marriage. That’s not for today’s worries. Today I’ve worried enough.

  She ate supper with her women, a lighter meal than the large midday dinner. The others chattered about the fresh red-heart berries and cream, the new cheese, and the pending visit. “My lady, is it true that King Phillip has unmarried sons?” Andrea asked.

  Marta paused, her spoon between the bowl and her mouth. “No. He has an unmarried brother, and Lord Geoff, Godown give him peace, had discussed marrying King Phillip’s widowed sister, but nothing came of it.” Nothing good came of it, may Godown forgive me.

  “Oh, I see, my lady.” Andrea and a younger girl both drooped, and Marta smothered an angry frown, savoring the sweet, rich cream and berries instead. Only in foolish tales do princes marry serving maids. Marta had a strong suspicion about what princes actually did with serving maids, even as sheltered as she knew herself to be. I need to learn what to look out for, she realized. How can I tell a man who is sincere from a cad who wants to be like Greg, but worse? And Lady Francis was not the person to ask, Marta knew that much. She’d scold Marta, tell Fr. Thomas a tale, and tell Greg something. Marta let the last of the cream melt in her mouth, wishing her problems disappeared as quickly as did red-heart berries in beaten cream.

  The next day she attended to her “domestic duties.” Mister Kittle gave her the list of what Greg had ordered for King Phillip’s “visit,” and Marta’s eyes bulged to the point of almost falling out of her head. She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed hard, and squeaked, “I see. Thank you.” So much for getting material for new gowns for my women this fall, and those new hangings for the great hall. And a new shahma stud and rams, she discovered, reading farther down the list. He’d beggared them in order to impress Phillip. Marta’s stomach threatened to reject breakfast and she had to close her eyes and recite saints’ names until she and her gut both calmed down.

  The rest of the day passed more quietly. She approved the next week’s menus, then had her women pull all her clothes out of the chests and shelves, sorting out what could be remade, what needed repair, and which items no longer fit. “That’s odd, my lady,” Lady Francis said. She pinched in the waist of an older dress, taking up the slack. “You’ve not filled out since your wedding.”

  Marta didn’t deign to reply. She had two more dresses, two bodices, and a skirt to evaluate. She wiggled out of the garment and handed it to Esmé. “We’ll re-dye that one to cover the stain on the skirt. And then add embroidered bands on the hem and skirt seam, and cuffs.” It’s sturdy enough to ride in. Hmm, I’ll have to think about that.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “No, save the embroidered bands for the dress you’ll wear to meet his majesty,” Lady Frances said. She walked around Marta, inspecting her. “You have nothing red in your wardrobe, and you should wear the Frankonian color when you greet his majesty, to show honor to such an important guest.”

  “And I will have nothing red unless we can remake and re-dye an older dress, Francis. There’s nothing in the treasury for new gowns.”

  “Yes there is, my lady.”

  Marta planted her hands on her hips. “No there is not. I know. Mr. Kittle and I went through the bills for the hospitality my husband intends to offer King Phillip. He’s spending my new gowns, your clothing allowance,
two rams and a new shahma stud, among other things, on this ‘little visit’.” Her voice had started rising and she caught herself. “Believe me, now that my husband is giving Phillip a tenth of all the deSarm income as well as buying more luxuries than my father and grandfather combined, there are no new gowns in any color in this year’s allowance.”

  Francis shook her finger in Marta’s face. “My lady, that is no way to speak of your lord husband and his majesty. They have provided for you and protected you. You must show them proper deference and respect as is due to men of such quality.”

  “No.” Marta grabbed the offending finger and bent it back, making the older woman gasp, then cry out from pain. “The matter is ended. I am well aware of your trust and regard for my husband. I commend your loyalty. Would that it were better directed.” She dropped the slender hand and turned to her other women. “Let’s see if that skirt and bodice are still serviceable.” Behind her, Lady Francis rushed from the chamber, hands over her face. Marta ignored her.

  “Ye—, yes, my lady,” Andrea gulped. The garments indeed fit well, and none of the women could find any stains or insect holes in them.

  Marta spent the rest of the day working on her embroidery and thinking about what she’d learned from the book and map.

  A week later, she met with Master Laplace in his office, at his request. He did not look happy as he bowed her and Esmé into his orderly but cluttered workroom in the barracks. “My lady,” he began.

  She raised her hand. “Before you say more, Master Laplace, let me assure you that Esmé has sworn to serve me, not my husband. What she hears remains secret.”

  “Very well.” He waited until the women sat before starting. “My lady, I am sorry. My contacts found, let us say, worrisome things about Lord Gregory’s visits in Frankonia. He has met with men known to be in King Phillip’s confidence. This could be coincidence, both visiting the same fairs and towns at the same time, but,” he stopped as Marta nodded.

  “I am… not surprised. Disappointed, Master Laplace, but not surprised. Please continue as you have begun, and let me know if additional remuneration will be helpful.”

  “It might in the near future, my lady.” He unfolded a map of the deSarm lands and spread it on his worktable. “Where are the places you found that people have come in, my lady?”

  She pointed to the rivers. “Here, and here of course. This old, now ruined road here in the north, and these two trails north from the mines. And goat trails and pack tracks to the east, but they seem less important, and my great-grandsire noted that this one, across the shoulder of the White Widow, is impassible even to mules because of the gravel and loose rocks.” She looked up. “And I found a watching post on Godown’s Grace that we need to bring back to use.”

  James Laplace smiled a little, the expression marred by the scar that pulled the left side of his mouth down into a permanent frown. “Ah. Is that what it was? Lord Geoff thought it had been a religious retreat of some sort for the convent in the valley.”

  “No. It dates to just after the Great Fires, and William Karl, the first of the family, built it as a second line of defense.”

  “Do you know why? Not the Hungry Years and Time of Terror, my lady, but the practical reason?”

  She nodded. “I think so. It overlooks the river both ways, so you can see people coming and going. It is high, so you can shoot arrows down or maybe roll rocks. Someone snooping would have trouble finding it, since the color of the rock would blend into the mountain, and it is close to the western gate.”

  “Very good thinking, my lady. There were probably other reasons as well, but I’d need to be there in person to find them.” He made some notes on a wax board. “So, my lady, based on what you read, where are the weakest places?”

  “The two gates on the river, then the old Lander road to the north, and the trails there. I did not find any others that people used. And it would be very hard to bring much over anything but the river roads, and perhaps the old Lander route, but it has been cut at least once by land slips.” She thought a little. “But anyone wanting to force a way in would not use the front door, would he?”

  Laplace shook his hand from side to side. “If he knows that you expect him to attack there, my lady, he might not. But if he thinks he can surprise you, the easiest way is, well, the easiest way. He knocks, you open the front door and invite him in, and,” he turned his hand palm up and swept it to the side, showing callouses and more scars.

  “What do you need of me now?” Beside her, Esmé gave a quiet little gasp and Marta corrected. “What resources does Lady deSarm need to provide in order for you and your men to be able to defend the valley?” The happier sigh made Marta and Master Laplace both smile a little.

  “We need to hire more men, and to see how many of the townsmen and villagers are able to take up arms. They’ll never be trained soldiers, but they can help.” He rested one elbow on the worktable and ran the other hand over his hair, smoothing the grey-brown braid in the back. “Lady deSarm needs to explain why keeping—I’ll say strangers—out is a good idea and something they need to help with.”

  And do it without Greg finding out, at least for the moment. St. Kiara grant me clarity of thought, Godown give me strength, please. “Hire men first, from the Freistaadter,” she ordered. “I have gold you can use, from my dower and personal budget, that won’t be on the estate records.” Esmé made another unhappy sound but her mistress shrugged. I’d rather not spend it, but better on soldiers than on feeding Phillip uninvited.

  “It’s late in the year, but I should be able to find a few we can trust.”

  “And tell them they will swear to a woman. If they can’t do that, I don’t want them.” She leaned forward and tapped on his worktable’s battered top. “They must agree before they come.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  She sat back. “And I will think of how to approach the men of the estate.” That’s going to be hard, and I do not think the chronicles include much of use. But Godown will provide.

  To her mild surprise, a secondary chronicle described how William Karl rallied the other people of the valley to help keep out armed intruders. Marta read the supposed speech twice, shaking her head a little. This seems a little strong. ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers?’ Really? ‘He who sheds his blood with me today, no matter how poor or if he is indentured, shall be my brother?’ I wonder what in-den-too-red means? I think he’s saying that anyone who helped him would get property, and I can’t really do that. On the other hand, telling the men that Phillip of Frankonia was coming to take their land and tax them would probably encourage them to help her. Maybe.

  Greg returned from his diplomatic visit to Frankonia and Louvat the next day. She greeted him at the door as was proper, squinting a little at first against the bright sunlight shining on the pale stones of the walls and half-paved courtyard. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him and searching his dark eyes for any hint of attraction. She’d worn her prettiest blue dress and a matching head cover with little flowers embroidered on the brow band.

  “Thank you. It is good to be back.” He nodded and brushed past her into the doorway. She bit her lip, turned, and followed without trying to catch or hold him.

  Servants trailed along after them, carrying bags and boxes. Marta blinked at the array, wrinkled her nose, and pointed to the smaller hall. “Leave those there, unless my lord has given you other instructions.”

  Tony, Greg’s personal servant, answered, “No, my lady, no special instructions except for the wines and liqueurs. Most of these are for his majesty’s use, so we’ll need to make storage space until his visit.”

  Marta pretended to be surprised—it helped cover her dismay. “Oh? King Phillip will be visiting us? Very well. I’ll speak to Mr. Pernau about making room for these.”

  I hope these are just the things Mr. Kittel has already paid for and not additional purchases, please Godown may these not be extra. As she watched, a s
mall mountain of bales and boxes and sacks grew until it took up a corner of the hall. Where am I to hold court sessions? In town? Oh, that just might work, as I think of it. Thank you for the idea, Holy One.

  The cooks prepared a special supper to celebrate Lord Greg’s return. He ate heartily, although he complained about the lack of variety and the too-strong flavors. “The lowlands breed more subtle game and beasts,” he informed Marta and anyone listening. “This is not bad, but the Frankonians use lighter, more delicate flavors. The Freistaadter as well,” he added with a rush.

  “Indeed, my lord? How interesting. Perhaps our harsher winters have something to do with the difference.”

  “It could be. Their wines and spirits certainly excel deSarm varieties.”

  Since both Frankonian and Freistaadt merchants paid a premium for deSarm frost-wines, Marta frowned just a little before finishing her last bite of cheese. “Tony said that you brought Frankonian wines back, my lord?”

  “Yes, but those are not to be broached until his majesty comes. I certainly can’t expect such an honored guest to drink anything as rough as what we have to make do with.” He waved away the manservant. “No, no more.”

  He left the table, again without waiting for her. Marta counted backwards from fifty, then allowed the table and kitchen servant, Berthold, to help her out of her chair. “Thank you. Please tell the cooks that supper was excellent.”

  Berthold bowed a little. “Yes, my lady.”

  Marta guessed where her husband would be going and indeed, found him in her office, thumbing through the account book. “This will never do,” he informed her as she hesitated in the doorway.

  “My lord?”

  He closed the book with a thump. “You need to reclaim half of the wages you paid the men for the quarter. They’ve done nothing but eat and stand around, and I need the money for his majesty.”

  She gaped at him, appalled at the very thought. If I do that, we’ll have no soldiers. She gulped and closed her mouth. “I will see about that tomorrow, my lord.” I’ll take the money out of my dower so the men won’t leave. “When is his majesty coming, my lord, and how many people will be coming with him, do you know?”