Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  “Just before the equinox, and only a few hundred. Plus his guards and soldiers.” Greg sat in her chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers together behind his head. “He’ll be here for three weeks, hunting and looking at the mines. That’s about the only thing Sarm has to offer, after all.”

  Marta thought her head would explode from the pain. Her temples throbbed, her hands shook, and she only remembered to breathe when a grey curtain like mist appeared before her eyes. “Ah, I see, my lord. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything else I should know?”

  He stuck his lower lip out as he thought, then shook his head and made a shooing motion. “No. The other things we need for his majesty’s visit will be coming later.”

  “Very well. I bid you a good night and fair rising, my lord.”

  “Good night.”

  Teeth grinding, Marta retreated to her chamber. If Greg came to her, wanting… would she? Could she? But he didn’t, and she fell asleep curled up in an angry ball, head, neck, and shoulders aching.

  The rest of the summer passed as fast as a day, or so Lady deSarm thought in the moments she had to think. The rush left her drained of energy. She played the perfect, deferential lady in the presence of her husband and his servants, not questioning the exotic foods, elegant bedding, and other luxuries that drained her coffers dangerously low. In order “not to disturb him or his preparations for the pending visitation,” she heard petitions and adjudicated disputes in the miners’ meeting hall in the town. The change pleased the farmers and townsfolk, and Greg didn’t object, although both Tony and Lady Francis made unsubtle comments about Lady DeSarm’s lack of womanly discretion and comportment.

  If they’d known what she was also doing, Marta suspected Lady Francis at least would have had a screaming fit worthy of the tales Marta recalled of her father’s mother. Not only am I doing my so-called husband’s duties to my people, but I’m also taking over his duty as defender of the deSarm lands. Yes, Francis would throw herself into a shrieking spell, I believe, Marta thought one hot, slow afternoon as she, Andrea, Master Laplace, and two guards rode up the hill to the hall. Master Laplace had come with her on the last two court sessions to remind unhappy plaintiffs that threatening the judge remained counterproductive no matter where court met, and to “discourage familiarity,” or so she’d told Greg. That Lady deSarm and her chief man-at-arms discussed Lord Greg and the defense of the valley did not need to be mentioned. Marta had “accidentally” let slip about Lord Greg wanting the quarter’s pay returned, and any loyalty the soldiers might have felt to him had unraveled, or so Master Laplace informed her.

  “My lady, I’m afraid there is no other way to say it. Lord Gregory has sold your lands to Frankonia.” Marta nodded, her lips tight, teeth in the back of her lips, eyes on the road ahead of her horse. Just because the mare had not misbehaved before did not mean she might not today.

  “I see. For what?”

  Leather creaked as Laplace shifted in his big gelding’s saddle. “For a place in Phillip’s court, and a title, or so my agent says. There are also rumors of a less savory sort, but only rumors, and I don’t want to cry fire over what turns out to be trail dust, my lady.”

  “No, there’s no need, I agree.” I can well imagine. And if they knew that our… wait. If the rumors are what I suspect they are, then I can use that. That gives me an additional legal ground! Thanks be to Godown! “Thank you, Master Laplace. And how are your nephews doing?” They’d agreed on a code to use for certain other matters.

  “They are quite well, thank you, my lady. My sister asked if they might come visit, and they’ll be here in a few days. I’ve arranged lodging and they’ve agreed to help Master Oldstones with his harvest in exchange for bed and board.”

  The additional men will be here soon, and the little outpost on Godown’s Grace is ready. Thank you.

  That evening Marta approached Greg with a request. “My lord, would you object to my taking a three-day retreat to the convent?”

  His black eyebrows pinched into a V and his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I vowed fasting and prayers for your safe return, and I wish to fulfill that vow before your honored guest comes.” She reminded him, “Slower given, faster forgotten, my lord.”

  “You are not trying to escape your duties to his majesty, are you?”

  Marta’s eyes widened and she shook her head, hands clasped in front of her breasts. “Oh no, my lord. I simply want to fulfill my promise to Godown. And it is only three days, my lord.”

  His scowl cleared. “Very well. Go and get it over with, then get back here so you can oversee the preparations.”

  “Thank you.” She bowed and left, hands still clasped, this time to keep from slapping the superior look off Greg’s face.

  I will be fasting and praying, but not just for your return, Greg Berlin. I also need to scout the land around Godown’s Grace and find out how to stop the western gate. St. Sabrina and St. Michael be with me, because you won’t be with me for much longer Godown willing.

  She rode out at dawn with Andrea, Esmé, Master Laplace, and a clean conscience.

  Sister Odile Kiara bowed to the altar and Godown’s symbol, straightened up, and leaned back just a hair farther, easing her aching back. So much for the tales of the sisters leading lives of pampered contemplation! Odile smiled a little despite the dull pain in her low back, shoulders, and knees. She’d finished a rotation on water duty the day before, and her body still complained about the exertions. I wonder how our guest is faring? She certainly seems to have the novices a twitter. The stranger had come into the chapel as Odile finished her mid-morning devotions, but took a place in the back to say bead prayers, resting the beads on the wooden book platform where they made little rolling and scraping sounds. Odile dipped her head in the direction of the ever-burning lamp of Godown’s Presence, turned, and glided out of the chapel.

  After four years in the convent’s walls, two of those as a full sister, Odile knew every centimeter of the convent of St. Gerald by heart. She also knew better than to venture into the courtyard this time of morning during harvest. To her chagrin, Odile had quickly discovered that she and beasts did not enjoy each other’s company. Two days on stable and guest-beast rotation had been her only two days before Reverend Mother Alice and the novice mistress barred her from those duties forever. Not that it kept her from delivering water to the animals when called to do so, Odile’s knees reminded her as she walked up the long hall from the chapel to the dining commons. She heard rapid steps behind her and eased to the right, clearing the way for Sr. Ann, the current novice mistress. “Thank you.”

  Odile slowed her steps again before entering the dining commons. A quick sniff told her that Sr. Martina had decided to finish using the last of the previous year’s sweet basil. Given the need for speed and agility in the kitchen, Odile had also been excused from the cooking rotation, although she still cleaned up and assisted with preparing the dining commons before meals. She took her place in line behind Sr. Ann. They rinsed their hands as a novice poured water for them, then dried off and picked up platters. With so many of the sisters working on harvest and preparing the convent for winter, they ate when they could, and those on kitchen duty kept hot food ready from an hour before dawn until one hour before midnight.

  “Godown bless you and that in which you partake,” another novice said, setting a very full dish onto the wooden platter.

  “Godown bless you and that which you serve,” Odile replied. She turned and walked with careful slow steps to her seat, eight down from the head of the long table, the hem of her habit’s skirt brushing each chair as she passed. Then she stopped, set the platter down, and sat. Unlike normal meals, each woman could pray and eat as needed during harvest. Thank you Godown, giver of all that is good. Thank you for this food and for those who grow and prepare it. May it nourish and strengthen us to do Your will and to be a blessing to others. Selah. She found a spoon in exactly the right place and began to eat.

/>   The thick soup, almost a stew, featured basil, fish, eggs, and oohh, fowl? Odile tasted carefully. Yes, she added a yard fowl. I wonder which one? For an uncharitable moment Odile hoped it had been the mean rooster, the one that crowed two hours before dawn and that had chased her around the meditation garden in full view of the reverend mother and novice mistress. She brought her thoughts back to more suitable topics, eating with due respect for the efforts of the cooks. A novice stopped beside her chair. “Sister, a piece of bread?” The older woman uncovered the basket and Odile felt as well as smelled how fresh the bread was.

  “Thank you.” Odile took a bun, juggling it a bit to keep from burning her fingers. She waited just long enough for it to cool, then broke it open, inhaling the wonderful, yeasty perfume. She used half the bun to sop up the last bits of soup from the bowl and ate the other half plain. Mmmmm. She appreciated the filling meal all the more since the previous two days had been fasts as the sisters offered prayers for safe harvests for all in the valley.

  “Oh, fresh bread!”

  That must be our guest. I don’t recognize her voice.

  “Yes, Guest Marta. Take and be blessed,” the novice offered.

  “Thank you, and Godown’s blessings be with you,” Marta replied.

  Odile tried to place the name, then blinked. Is that Lady Marguerite deSarm? Oh, her saint’s name is Thomasina, that’s right. I wonder who shortened them? She gave a mental shrug and waited for the guest to move before scooting her chair back and taking her platter, bowl, and spoon to the cleaning area.

  Odile didn’t think much about the visitor until later that afternoon as she helped bring in the wash. The convent did laundry once a month in summer, less often in winter, so each washing normally took a day and a half from drawing the first water to folding the final dry garments and linens. This time it needed two days because of the sisters out in the fields, and even the oldest and youngest of the convent’s residents had been pressed (or dragged) into service. Odile had filled the big water pots the day before, when she wasn’t filling the animal troughs. Now she took a place at the folding table, working with Sr. Geraldina to sort and fold the clothes, cooking cloths, bands and lint-holders, towels, and bedding. In practice, Odile folded the smaller items, both women folded the larger ones, and Geraldina sorted them into the correct little sacks for delivery, since Odile still could not read anything, and one sack felt just like another.

  “Have you spoken with our guest?” Geraldina asked.

  “No. I confess, after I finished evening prayers, I fell asleep.” She’d woken up an hour later, half on her knees, half flopped across her bed, with aching shins and a knot in her neck.

  Geraldina chuckled, a cheery sound filled with sympathy. “Indeed Godown made our spirits stronger than our frames, did He not?”

  “Last night He did.” She frowned, feeling along the seam of the sheet. “The stitches have come loose.”

  Geraldina’s thick fingers poked at the spot Odile held up. “Yes. The entire seam is giving way. I’ll set that aside for now. Thank you.” Instead of folding it, Odile rolled it so the sister on mending duty could tell at a glance that the item needed attention.

  They’d folded and sorted a dozen more pieces when a crashing clang rang through the building, followed by the sound of flowing water and hissing. Odile jumped. “Holy Godown, what—” She heard yelling, gurgling, and screams.

  “Oh St. Sabrina be with us. The wash boiler!” Geraldina hurried off. Odile hesitated, then rushed toward the sounds. She heard water under her sandals, then felt little stings as hot water splashed her feet.

  “Grab her! Pull her out,” Sr. Alicia called over the shrieks. Something waved past Odile’s face. It waved again and she grabbed an arm, hissing at the heat in the wet sleeve. “Good, pull, for Godown’s mercy’s sake, pull.” Odile hauled back, not worrying about dislocating the other woman’s shoulder. The body moved and the shriek faded to a chilling moan. “Again. Amalthea’s habit’s caught and I don’t dare reach in to free it.” Odile leaned her weight into the pull and the body shifted more.

  “I’ll help,” a stranger’s voice offered. “I’ve got her shoulder. On three. One, two, threeee,” and both women heaved. The thrashing sister followed, landing on top of Odile. Someone lifted the body enough for Odile to scoot clear, her habit drenched. “We need to get her clothes off before the scalds start sticking.”

  “Let me,” Odile volunteered. Her nimble fingers worked quickly, undoing laces and ties, and removing pins. The other woman lifted the heavy sister’s body when necessary.

  “I’m here,” Sr. Sabina Anthony, the churigon, announced. “What—St. Misha be with us. You, go tell the infirmary sister to clear a bed. You, go see if the house has any large tanned hides, hair off mind you, and if we do, take one to the infirmary as fast as you can.” A hand closed on Odile’s shoulder. “Well done. Now go get your hand bandaged before you bleed all over.”

  Odile scooted backwards a little more, making room for Sr. Sabina. Someone gave her a hand up, half-pulling her to her feet. Her wet habit weighed her down and she shivered at the sudden coolness. “I’ll go with you if you like,” the stranger offered.

  “Thank you.” Odile didn’t need help, but she heard discomfort in the voice, as if the woman wanted an excuse to get away from the wash building. Several sisters brushed past them, and someone stopped.

  “Guest Marta, are any of your escort medically trained?”

  “I’m sorry, no. But if you need a courier to get someone from the Hall or town, I’ll give the order.”

  “We may need to, thank you.” The sister hurried on, her footsteps accelerating.

  Odile shook her head. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, Sister. I was outside, helping turn the old hay, and heard a sound like metal breaking, then screams. I think something gave way, and boiling water drenched one sister and—” she stopped. “I don’t know. I saw you trying to help, and did what I could. It reminded me of when the potboy pulled a cauldron of water over onto himself by accident. I don’t know,” she repeated.

  Because of harvest, three sisters took infirmary duty in case of accidents. As the second prepared to receive the injured, the junior sister took care of Odile’s hand. “You cut it, but it is clean and not deep enough to get the tendons, Godown be praised. And you have light burns on both hands.”

  “Godown is to be praised indeed.”

  Odile noticed Marta following her as she went to her half-chamber to put on a dry habit. “May I help you?”

  Marta tried to laugh. At least, that’s what Odile thought the shaky sound was. “I’m sorry. I was going to ask if you needed help with anything.”

  I don’t think, Odile tried to flex her hands. The right worked, but her left hand refused to close around the bandage, and she felt the scald pulling. “Thank you. A little help would be welcome, Guest Marta.”

  “…Godown grant her mercy. She overbalanced and fell onto the edge of the boiler, then in. The weight made the seam on the boiler give way, and the flood caught Sr. Amalthea. Godown be praised, the other sisters and Guest Marta got her out and her habit off. Sr. Sabine believes she will survive, if Godown wills,” Reverend Mother Alice concluded. “Night prayers for the peace of Sr. Alexandra’s soul will begin at sundown, and Fr. Thomas will be here tomorrow to officiate at the celebration of Alexandra’s life. Because of her injuries, Fr. Thomas agrees that she will rest in her finished shroud in the chapel.” Odile made St. Kiara’s flame. Beside her, Guest Marta shuddered. Truly, Godown was merciful. Alexandra died quickly, may peace attend her spirit.

  Odile fingered her beads with her left hand. Holy Godown, grant all of us the mercy of an easy death. Even as simple as her habit and headcover were compared to most women’s dresses, and even with her guest’s help, the effort to change clothes left her drained. But Odile had insisted on returning to the laundry, Marta trailing behind like a shadow. Indeed, Marta worked with the sisters to finish the laundry.
Sr. Geraldina accepted her offer, and after minimal instruction the guest set to work turning the heavy wringer, then folding alongside Odile. No one spoke of the accident, except to praise the late Sr. Alexandra’s diligence and care in her work, and her gifts as a copyist.

  The next afternoon, during recreation, Odile heard Marta’s distinctive steps coming beside her, and she stepped over to make room. Marta said nothing, matching Odile’s pace as they walked around the perimeter of the meditation garden within the convent walls. Bees buzzed among the flowering herbs, the thyme and sweet-sorrel, false-lavender and basil. The afternoon sun baked the garden, and the bees sounded sleepy. Thank you, Godown, for sun and shade, for summer’s heat and winter’s chill, for all things in their season. Thank you, Lord of our days and nights. All Your works praise You, giver of all that is good. Odile heard Marta clicking her beads, and sighing once or twice. “Something troubles you, Guest Marta?”

  “Yes, Sister. I pray for discernment, but my thoughts will not be still and my heart is torn.”

  “Your husband?”

  A little gasp told Odile that she’d hit the mark. “Yes. How do you know?”

  Odile smiled. “It is not a special gift from Godown, alas. Godown made man and woman complimentary and different, and sometimes the differences seem like chasms.” She let a hint of exasperation into her voice. “Or so my mother and sisters remarked, rather frequently at times.”

  The woman beside her chuckled. “So I am not alone, at least not in that. Godown be praised. I’d started to worry.”

  “Half the women in the Sarm Valley would not be named something Sabrina if you were alone in having troubles.”

  “Indeed.” They walked along, sandals and slippers making little scuffing sounds on the stone pavers. The women turned another corner and Marta took a deep breath. “The man called my husband has given my inheritance to a stranger. He has never done his duty as husband and mate, or as lord. I have been praying for guidance and strength for eight years, Sister, but Godown has neither shown me the way to Greg’s heart, nor guided him to me.”