Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  Odile found the short step, went a few meters more, then stopped. She undid her coat toggles and tucked her gloves into her deep pockets. The room felt a bit warmer than outside, but not too much.

  She stood waiting as the others came in. “My lady sends her apologies,” she heard Edmund Roy say. “Breakfast is delaying her.”

  Breakfast, or is she having herbal tea and dry biscuits because breakfast won’t stay? Odile suspected the latter, but that was pure speculation. A servant offered her hot sweet cider, which she accepted with gratitude, soaking in the heat through the thick clay of the mug.

  A very short time later, Lady deSarm arrived, along with her husband. The men, already waiting, clustered around Odile but kept a respectful distance. She heard them muttering, exchanging news and speculations.

  “I will bypass the formalities, gentlemen, your reverence,” Lady deSarm began. “Unless there is need?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well. I asked all of you to come so you could hear the news together and forestall any misunderstandings. That said, Master Sylván cannot be here because of a safety problem related to the re-opened mine on Godown’s Grace.” Lady deSarm cleared her throat. “Excuse me. We received word from the Episcopal Council four days ago, via messenger. Who, just so you know, says they’ve had very heavy rain and snow to the north. The Sea Republic ships have had to stay in port for the last month because of the storms, and all the rivers are up. The mountains have the heaviest snow pack the courier could recall seeing.” Odile shivered at the thought. That meant floods come spring.

  “The basic meat of the letter is that the convent stays open and remains outside Frankonian supervision.” Lady deSarm stopped to let the men sigh, “yeah,” and make other approving noises. Someone muttered, “I didn’t think they’d let Phil the not-so-majestic claim church property. Sets a damn bad example.”

  “Ahem.” The talk stilled. “In more detail, and Reverend Mother Odile can probably explain better what exactly the bishops mean, first, the Council holds that St. Gerald-Under-the-Mountain shall remain open and will continue to carry out Godown’s works among the people of the Sarm valley. However, the house will send five percent of its earnings to Bishop Paulus, for use in the larger church’s charities and missions, as a penalty for disobedience and failure to show proper respect for the duly selected church leadership.”

  Odile sighed. Win a few, lose a few, as Godown wills. And there are houses that truly need help after the droughts and glitterwing plagues of the past years.

  “The Episcopal Council reiterates that it is not the legal representative of any monarch, mayor, or other temporal power. And that no temporal leader is to interfere in matters of the church—unless it is to save a life?”

  That seemed to be directed at Odile, and she nodded. “Not long after the Great Fires, a convent and town disappeared because the local war leader refused to intervene when a fire broke out in a convent and spread, because the sisters at first denied that they needed aid, according to the few survivors. Since then the church has held that in case of emergencies, say a flood threatening a house, it is lawful for outsiders to remove the clergy, even against our will.”

  “Ah, thank you, your reverence.” Paper scraped as Lady deSarm turned a page. “The church does not recognize Phillip’s claims to the Sarm valley and denies the grounds he has put forth. First, no Diligence was performed for Geoffry deSarm and no wedding contract issued except for those pertaining to his marriage to Alice Marlow, my mother, and second, that the marriage between Marguerite deSarm and Edmund Roy is valid despite the, ahem ‘earlier irregularities’ associated with my status, and our children are legitimate. And we are no longer under ban, because we are not living outside the bounds of a church-recognized marriage.”

  A new voice, Edmund Roy’s added, “That is the good news gentlemen, your reverence. The bad news is that neither Bishop Paulus nor Phillip Leblanc are pleased with the decision. Apparently Phillip failed to understand how jealously the church guards its independence.”

  Odile heard an expectant rustle, as if the men had turned to look at her. “Indeed. There are histories going back before the Landers that describe the problems that arise when the church becomes an arm of the state, and the reverse. Theology and politics are best when separate, although rulers are to be encouraged to follow the Writ and the examples of the saints,” Odile said.

  Several people scuffed their feet on the floor, and she heard a few throat clearings. “In sum, the convent remains open, the Sarm valley is indeed outside Frankonia, and Phillip has no grounds to exercise any claim over the deSarm lands. Which means I expect his army to show up at the western gate as soon as the roads dry out next spring,” Edmund Roy told them.

  “Well, Master Roy, my lady, you made them look bad,” one of the men beside Odile said.

  Another snorted, “We made them look bad? They started it.”

  Odile cleared her throat, reminding them of her presence. She did not care to hear Bishop Paulus attacked in her presence, no matter what she or the men thought of him.

  “Whoever started it,” Lady deSarm’s tart voice warned that her temper was on a short leash “and we could argue that my father, of blessed memory and poor judgment, started it when he sent a detailed list of the valley’s resources to Phillip when he wanted to marry Phillip’s widowed older sister. Whoever started it, we have to be ready to keep Phillip out, if not this year than the next.”

  Trouble will come with spring, Odile knew with a terrible certainty, as if Godown spoke in her ear.

  “You do realize, my lady, that every time you go into labor, we have our hands full of Phillip?”

  Marta, mouth full of bland biscuit, glared at her husband. She sipped a little mint tea, swallowed, and pursed her lips. “So, do you want me to take a vow of celibacy to make him go away?”

  “No, not in the least,” he assured her, talking so fast that his words tripped over themselves.

  She managed a bit of a smile. She didn’t think she could last very long in a celibate marriage, either. She’d heard stories of such, but could not quite believe them, despite her own experience.

  The smile wavered and faded when Edmund added, “There’s an interesting story one of the silver traders brought with him, Thomi. It seems Phillip’s advisor Gregory Berlin is under church discipline for having sired a child out of wedlock and then attempting to deny it, even after the woman’s husband caught them in the act.”

  Marta bit into the biscuit, chewed with fierce energy, and swallowed hard. She drank more tea before observing, “Adultery might confuse paternity. Or at least confuse claims or denials of paternity.”

  “Indeed. And according to the trader, there’s enough time overlap to raise a number of questions, even though the husband swears the child is not his. The midwife avers that she has heard of pale children being born to dark couples if the mother spent a great deal of time in the snow or in white-painted rooms.” He shrugged, and Marta mirrored his gesture.

  “I’ve never heard of such, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or another. I am rather concerned about dealing with Berlin’s master.” And after this long without remarrying or having children, I have grave doubts about his inclinations and abilities.

  Edmund got up, walked around behind her chair, and rubbed her shoulders. “At the moment, we are well set for powder, both for the cannons and the hand cannons. We have stone and metal shot for both, ready to be moved up onto the ridge. The younger men are training again, now that we’re not having daily snowstorms, both with pikes and a few with the hand cannons and bows. You don’t have any true cavalry, but some of the younger men are very good at shooting arrows from horseback and then riding out of the way. And it is very hard for a man on horseback to get through a spear wall, my lady. Most horses won’t get close, and if they do, they or their riders get skewered. Sr. Sabina, the chief churigon,
says the sisters are preparing extra supplies, and insists that they will treat anyone who needs their aid.”

  Marta rested one hand on Edmund’s. “They’ve always done that, and as much as I loathe Phillip personally, I don’t have any real feelings about his men, the foot soldiers and such.”

  He squeezed her hand and her other shoulder. “I doubt you’d find many fanatics willing to fight to the death against us. This is about land and prestige, not, oh, family survival or religion, and not like what the rumors from the Freistaadter are saying about something to the east of the Babenburgs, on the other side of that big mountain range.”

  They heard a child’s voice calling, “Wheee horsie!” A red headed blur clattered past the open door, his stick-horse at full gallop and the nursemaid in hot pursuit.

  “Ed, come back here at once! You must finish dressing.” Sarah rushed by and the couple exchanged glances.

  “Your son.”

  Edmund pointed to himself. “My son? I can’t claim all the credit, my lady my love.” The innocent expression shifted to a thoughtful one. “Perhaps I need to wait before giving him a toy sword and crossbow.”

  “Unless you want to move him out of the nursery and into the barracks before the equinox, yes, you had better wait. I am not getting between you and Mr. Kittel if we have to pay for broken windows.”

  The crimson horseman galloped past in the other direction, Sarah not far behind him. Marta smiled and sighed both, braced herself and eased out of the chair. She was almost past the morning sickness, approaching the warm-glow stage where nothing bothered her. She still had not decided if that or the weepies irritated her more. Marta brushed her hands against the heavy twill of her overdress and sighed a little. She wasn’t looking forward to another summer pregnancy, even though it would be better for the baby.

  “Just imagine what he’ll be like when he gets to teach his little brother about—hey!” Marta thumped her husband on the arm.

  “Under your supervision, oh husband dear. Unless we have another daughter, one who delights in fine clothes, delicate manners, and has a dozen suitors lined up at the gates the morning she turns fourteen,” Marta warned him.

  His thoughts on his daughters marrying at age fourteen included some of those words she wasn’t supposed to know.

  With that they parted company for the next while: she to attend to valley business and he to review plans with Master Laplace. She paid especially close attention to the report about the new-old mine on Godown’s Grace. There’d been an avalanche early in the year that had revealed waste piles where they should not have been, and Marta really wanted to deny Dupuy and his partner another year’s permit. The men swore to Master Sylván that they’d left their material inside an old shaft, as required, and that the avalanche had just uncovered an old pile and made it look fresh. Sylván had not been completely convinced, but had agreed that it was possible. The men agreed to wait a little longer in spring before resuming work, in light of the enormous snow shelf that had formed, and now loomed over the Martins Valley not far above the mine. At least they have enough sense not to want to be buried inside the mine under twenty meters of snow and trees, Marta sniffed. So far the mine had produced a minimal amount of silver, more lead, and some pretty black rocks that took a polish and made interesting beads.

  Marta stood after an hour by sun, stretched, and went up to the nursery. Little Edmund rolled a ball against the big clothes chest, catching it when it bounced and rolling it again. Antonia stood beside Sarah, reciting her letters. She’d begun sounding out words in the prayer book, and Marta considered letting her look at some of the newer, simpler histories of Sarm, the ones without the terrible tales of the Landers and the Great Fires. In fact, I think I need to go through our little collection of saints’ lives and take out a few volumes for now. That one about St. Agatha gave me nightmares.

  “Good morning, lady mother,” Antonia sang out, abandoning Sarah for a hug from her mother. Edmund jumped up and grabbed Marta’s legs, hugging her through her heavy winter skirts. Marta knelt and hugged them back.

  “Goodness, how you are growing! You are going to be as tall as your father by harvest time,” she declared. Edmund began bouncing, his smile revealing little white gap teeth.

  “Do you mind my taking them out for fresh air and a little sun?” Marta asked.

  Sarah, twice as old as Marta with at least as much energy, smiled as she shook her head. “Not at all, my lady. Sunlight and air does wonders.” The women bundled the children in heavy jackets and boots. Antonia could manage toggle buttons on her own now, but Edmund still tried to get his boots on with the heels in front, then pouted when he couldn’t walk. Sarah, far more patient than Marta, rearranged him, then turned him loose. He darted down the hall, jumping from step to step down to the next floor. Marta and Antonia followed at a more dignified pace.

  Once out in the herb garden, she let the children run and play in the lingering bits of snow. A few small piles remained in shadowy corners, but the ground in the garden proper now stood dark and bare, soaking in the spring sun. A few of the evergreen herbs ventured green leaves, but most still slept—wisely, Marta thought. Winter still had several weeks to run, and they always got another heavy snow just around the time of the feast of St. Michael-Herdsman. I wonder if the tales are true, that the Landers on other worlds could change the weather, making spring and fall more predictable and stopping the worst storms? Or did they just build better shelters for their crops, like those glass-roofed growing sheds in the pictures? That made more sense, and writers often used fancy words for old ideas. How do you make that much glass that flat and keep it from breaking? Did they have travelling glassmakers who could do that on the farm, so the pieces didn’t break in the wagons? Well, another lost technology they’d eventually regain, if Godown willed it.

  “Mooommmeeeeee!” Antonia wailed. “I’m cooolllddd!”

  “No, Edmund, that’s cheating,” Marta scolded. He’d gathered an armful of snow and, after climbing onto the low wall, managed to teeter over and drop it on his sister as she bent over to look at something. It had gotten down her collar and into her dress, and Marta hurried over to help her daughter shake it out.

  Edmund grinned, quite pleased with himself. Marta scooped him up, sat down on the closest bench, and put him over her knee, giving the two-and-a-quarter year old several firm swats on his rump. She doubted he’d feel much through his thick baby-skirt and nappy, but it got her point across. “Do not drop things on your sister, Edmund. Do you understand me?”

  Several sniffs, a very large lower lip, and “Yeth, lady mother.”

  “Good.” She put him down on his feet and let him go run some more. He wouldn’t get cold, not as fast as he was moving, and Marta wondered how under Godown’s heavens mothers without nursemaids or other help managed to raise children. She knew daughters took care of the younger children, but what if you only had boys? If I only had boys, I do not thing a single stone of deSarm Hall would remain in place by the time they came of age. And I’d probably be petitioning the sisters for refuge!

  She grabbed Edmund as he trotted past, swinging him up onto her hip. “That’s enough,” she declared. “You too, Antonia.” Her daughter had inherited more of Edmund the Elder’s calm disposition and reminded Marta a little of Lord Geoff. They returned to the nursery to find hot, milk-laced tea and other warming food waiting for them. Marta left them in Sarah’s care and went down to her own dinner, her stomach growling a reminder about her very small breakfast.

  Phillip’s ultimatum arrived when the lowest passes opened. The courier rode through the western gate, carrying a messenger’s flag, and the men on watch sent him to the Hall without bothering him. Edmund and Marta decided to hear him out in the lesser audience hall once he had rested and taken some refreshments. She was going to abide by the customs of hospitality, even though she wanted to tell the man what Phillip could do with his message. “It could be that Godown, in His grace, has touched Phillip’s heart and h
e seeks a peaceful coexistence,” Edmund reminded her as Esmé and Andrea finished helping her into her most formal dress and head-cover, the one with the thread-of-silver embroidery that made it look a little like a coronet.

  “It could well be, my love, and I would welcome such,” Marta assured her husband as he straightened out his heavy green tunic and buckled on his sword belt. In which case I anticipate a spate of new saints, because it will be evidence that Godown is once more working miracles on Colplatschki. Her husband took her arm and they walked down to the lesser hall, four guards following behind.

  “You do not trust the messenger flag, Lord deSarm?” the courier asked after he straightened up from his bow.

  Marta replied, “We trust it, good sir, and only wish to grant your lord’s message the seriousness and respect which is due all honest messengers and noble men of good faith.” As usual, Edmund stood at her right side, just behind her chair. It reminded people who held the legal power in the deSarm lands, and put him in a better position to react if someone did something stupid. She really hoped the courier would not be stupid.

  Their visitor looked around, but when nothing untoward happened, he removed a flat, hard leather case from his courier’s satchel, undid the latch, and slid out a sealed document with purple ink on the edges. Marta’s eyebrows went up at the color and she wondered how much the ink cost. “His most noble majesty, King Phillip of Frankonia, called the Majestic, sends this word.” The brown-haired man hesitated, as if trying to find a phrase. “Do you need the contents read, Lord and Lady deSarm?”