by Alma Boykin
She held out her hand. “No. We are both fully literate.”
He seemed surprised, but nodded and walked forward a few steps to give her the missive. The heavy paper must have cost a fortune, and she turned the packet, confirming the seal and address. She’d rather have opened it in private, but protocol required that the courier see the recipient open the letter in order to confirm that he had done his duty. She studied the stylized sun-in-glory and rearing wild cat, impressed at the gold tips on the cat’s claws and teeth, and the sun’s rays. Pretty, if nothing else. After she heard Edmund’s murmur confirming that he’d seen the intact seal as well, she broke it, unfolding the cream-colored, stiff, polished paper.
“His scribe has a lovely hand,” Edmund murmured into her ear.
“Yes, he does. I’m going to have to study this.” She began reading. After the first three long paragraphs and the detailed list, she skimmed to the final paragraph. I’m not certain how the best interests of the deSarm lands and Frankonia both include turning over a quarter of our income to you in exchange for a small allowance and the privilege of feeding your troops. Nor does betrothing my daughter to your grandson make my future more secure. Her other thoughts, had she spoken them, would have charred the wooden paneling of the lower part of the hall’s walls. “Master Roy, loosen your grip, please.” Her arm had gone numb from the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder.
“My apologies, my lady.”
She looked up at the courier. “I thank you for this. It will take time to compose a proper response to your master’s words, so I invite you to rest and partake of the hospitality of deSarm Hall until tomorrow. Does your mount need attention?”
“Yes, it does. I believe I need your ironsmith to look at two of the shoes. The mud on the roads is very thick this year.”
Marta nodded. “Certainly. We have heard reports of heavy roads and very slow going as far south as Florabi’s southern claims.”
The man’s eyes widened and he puckered his lips in a silent whistle. “Godown have mercy. I’d heard they had a dry winter.”
Edmund shook his head. “They were dry early, but after St. Basil’s Day the rains began, with snow in the Triangle Range. Heavy, wet snow, so much so that there’s a rumor that the roof on the guest lodge at the crest of the Barnhard Pass fell in from the weight.”
The visitor made St. Michael’s sign. “Godown be with them.”
Marta folded the letter and got to her feet, Edmund steadying her without being obvious. “Again, I think you for bringing this to me, and I will have a reply tomorrow. Tom will show you to a room and I will summon the ironsmith from the village.” No need to let him, and Phillip, know she had smiths on staff.
“Thank you,” and he bowed.
Marta kept her temper in firm check until she reached her office. Edmund went to tell Jacob to look at the courier’s gelding, then returned to the office to find Marta pounding her fist against the top of a stack of papers and books, her teeth clenched, face red with barely-contained anger. He shut the door and opened the shutter to let in light, not saying a word.
“He really does not understand, does he?” Edmund asked once she finished venting.
“No he does not,” she snapped. She unfolded the pages again and read aloud, “From Phillip of the Leblanc family, majestic in his grace and generosity, blessed of Godown, to Marguerite deSarm-Berlin, greetings and Godown’s peace be with you.” She stopped, rubbing her jaw and temple. “It is my hope that the Sarm Valley wintered without loss, and that the properties and people within remain in good condition.
“I have been patient with the ignorance and preoccupation of the Sarm family, knowing as I do the difficulties of dealing with harsh lands and unmannered people.” She looked over at Edmund, who had a red flush almost as dark as his hair rising on his cheeks. “Tell me how harsh Frankonia is, once you get away from the southern coast and the marshes?”
He snorted.
She returned to reading, “Because of those harsh conditions and impoverished fields, I repeat my offer, a most generous invitation: my armies will assume the duties of protecting and maintaining order on in and around the Sarm Valley, and my trade masters will assist bringing what few products the valley provides to market, in exchange for room, board, fodder, and a quarter of all revenue. In the interest of both protecting the deSarm legacy and ensuring closer ties between the Leblanc dynasty and Sarm, my grandson has indicated his willingness to take Antonia deSarm as wife despite the circumstances of her birth.”
Marta dropped the letter onto the desk and thumped into her chair, one hand on her belly. She took a long, deep breath, then another, and a third, calming her racing heart.
Edmund picked up the letter and finished reading it. “I am willing to overlook and forgive previous slights, knowing as I do the delicate and at times irrational ways of women. Protection of one’s household is to be praised, even when it is, perhaps, over-expanded in a way that could be considered misguided. I will provide shelter and rest for Lady deSarm-Berlin, and the women of my household will gladly assist in raising Antonia so that she will learn all womanly arts and be a true daughter of Godown.” He lowered the page. “Little Edmund does not exist, apparently. And neither do I.”
“I noticed that, beloved.” She swallowed, closing her eyes and counting to twenty. “His court must be a delightful place.” Bitter contempt colored her words. “Such back-handed insults and veiled threats deserve an equally nasty reply, but I do not want to stoop to his level.”
Edmund finished reading. “Should you refuse to contribute your just share to the defense of the Sarm lands and Frankonia and maintenance of the church, you will give me no choice but to take possession of the lands and collect what is due me by force of arms.”
She shook her head. “No. He has no grounds and there are no threats to Frankonia east of the Sarm-Frankonian border until you reach the Easterners, and that is assuming they want to take over the land in between. Do they?”
Edmund retrieved the clean wax boards and a pair of styluses from their storage slots. “No. And as much as it would be persuasive, sending his courier’s head and horse back without the body is not fair to the courier, even if he is Phillips’ man.”
“Is that what they do in the Freistaadter?”
“It has been done, yes, love. The easterners too: King Gerald had a rather blunt way of dealing with his enemies, or so my arms instructor said.” Edmund set one tablet and stylus in front of Marta before opening the door. “I’ll call for chokofee. We’ll need it. You write your answer, I’ll write mine, and we’ll take the most appropriate bits from both for the reply.”
“Are you ordering me around, Master Roy?” She smiled a little as she spoke.
“No, I am telling the mother of my children and manager of my household to take care of business before a more pressing emergency arises, such as the naked horseman riding again.”
There’s one naked horseman I could certainly stand to see right now, she thought, then bit her tongue. Settle down, write, be civil, and answer Phillip in a way that you can also send to the Episcopal Council without shame. “Dear? Would it be wise to send a copy of his invitation and our reply to the Episcopal Council, so they know to anticipate trouble this summer?”
“And so they know we are not starting it? An excellent thought, my love.”
They set to work, and after an hour by time candle compared their replies. Marta pointed to an especially interesting string of words. “Before I read any farther, is that anatomically possible?”
He tipped his head to the side. “Probably not, unless he has access to some of the lost technology that no one else rediscovered. But it’s rather satisfying to imagine.” He drew a line through the text. “And it probably would not help convince the bishops of our sincere desire for peace.”
“Not even if they agreed with it.” Which after the previous year’s mess, a few of them might, although they had to remain outside that sort of conflict. He drew a sim
ilar line through part of her words. “You disagree?”
He poured them both more chokofee. “No, but it would not help. Greg Berlin obviously is carrying a grudge, but there’s no point in mentioning him. Yes, his behavior reflects poorly on Phillip’s court, but it’s irrelevant.”
She pouted but accepted the change. I am so tired of that creature’s foolish spite. She wanted nothing more than to not hear of him again. I wonder what Phillip sees in him, anyway? Maybe’s he’s gained wisdom with age? No, not if he’s seducing married women while their husbands are still in the area.
By supper they had drafted a letter that, while blunt, remained civil and placed the blame for any hostilities squarely on Phillip of Frankonia. The couple spent time with their children before retiring for the night. “Love,” she asked as she waited in bed. “Is there anything to our east or south that warrants putting soldiers on our borders?”
“Not that I know of, and certainly not at this time of year. Only a rank idiot would try to come through the mountains for at least another month, unless he’s coming on his own with pack-leapers, if such things exist, or has one of those Lander flying machines. Frankonia has no enemies to the east or south, unless he means the Freistaadter, and as of a month ago they remained neutral but friendly.” He slid into the cool bed beside her. “I prefer warm and friendly.”
“Do you now? And what warm and friendly state do you have in mind?”
“Matrimony.” He kissed her.
The next day, once the courier rode out, Marta and a small escort ventured down to the village. The Sarmvale council would be having its quarterly meeting and she had a right to sit in, although she rarely invoked it. This time she did. Marta listened in silence to the discussion about ash disposal, complaints about house crowding and building additions without permission, and concerns about the snow on the slopes above the village. The men agreed to have the stones in the market square reset once spring truly began since the cold had heaved a few, making it dangerous for horses and pedestrians alike. Once they had finished with all the other new business, Marta gestured that she would like to speak.
“Goodmen, gentlemen, masters,” she stated, “You may have heard that a messenger from King Phillip arrived and has departed. I will be brief. Phillip wants to take over the valley, to protect us and to assist in our trading, in exchange for a quarter of all that the deSarm lands produce, and food, shelter, and fodder for his soldiers and their mounts. My daughter will marry his grandson and I will be retired to a convent.”
Goodman Rheinhart, acting as speaker, asked, “How did you answer, my lady?”
“Master Roy and I said no, pointed out that Frankonia has no enemies outside the Sarm valley to justify such a military presence, and reminded him that his understanding of our revenue is somewhat in error. As in, he thinks the valley is twice as rich at least as it truly is. I also repeated that if he brings troops, we will fight them off to maintain our freedom.” She took a deep breath. “Master Roy expects Phillip to arrive in six weeks or so, sooner if the roads dry up.”
Master Sylván asked, “What do you want of us, my lady?” The others murmured, giving her suspicious looks and talking among themselves.
“Nothing more than the militia to serve when called and not helping Phillip.” She raised both hands in a placating gesture, “I agreed not to ask for more taxes and I stand by that pledge. If any of you or your men want to help, you are welcome, but Godown willing there won’t be a need for more.”
Goodman Dupuy sniffed. “We’ve been waiting for this, Lady deSarm, and we decided back last year that if we have to have a lord, a deSarm in the Hall’s better than a king out there. We can keep an eye on you.”
Marta, a little chagrinned, said, “Thank you.” Well, that’s what you get for encouraging honesty. She was not happy at being the lesser of two evils, but she’d rather have that than having the men side with Phillip.
“He takes too much off the top, then charges high taxes, and he doesn’t keep the roads up or do much to stop highway stalkers,” Mr. Alessi, one of the senior wagon masters told her. “I wager he’ll start at a quarter and then raise it every year, like he and his father did to road tolls and the beer tax.” That brought grumbling and some very rude comments about the Frankonian king that almost made Marta smile despite herself. Once the men quieted down again, she spoke.
“I have nothing more, and I do not wish to keep you from more immediate business.” She nodded to Goodman Rhinehart and left.
The roads dried faster than Marta and Edmund had hoped. Two weeks after the courier’s departure, rumors of a Frankonian muster reached the Sarm Valley. “He’s mad,” Edmund exclaimed. “He can’t be moving this early.”
Master Laplace shifted in his padded chair, easing aching joints. “No, he’s certain he will not meet enough resistance to make him worry about spring weather.” He tapped the map with a joint-knot twisted finger. “He’s going to hit so hard and fast that we don’t have a chance to stop him, and once his troops are in the valley, they have loot and shelter enough that a storm won’t matter. And I wager he anticipated your refusal, my lady, and has been planning this since midwinter at least.”
Marta tucked her hands into her skirt to keep from wringing them. “What do we do, then?”
“You stay here,” Edmund said, Laplace nodding his agreement. “You keep your pregnant self and our children safe and be ready to defend the Hall if we can’t keep them out. No buts and no coming out to the ridge this time,” he warned, shaking a finger at her. “You and our children are proof of our claims to this valley, and you have to be safe. Not out in the cold mud, not up with the cannons, not riding with the soldiers. You can’t fight—you don’t know how—and if he captures you, he has the valley.”
Marta started to protest, then stopped when both men folded their arms and lowered their chins, perfect images of stubbornness. “Very well. I am not happy about having to stay here, with or without the children.”
“Happy doesn’t matter. Safe matters.”
She considered sticking her tongue out him. Instead she sniffed, swished her skirt, and stalked off to begin taking an inventory of the supplies on hand. Phillip had picked perhaps the second worst time of year to threaten them. The end of winter brought minimal reserves and lean rations until the first wild plants, and then newborn animals, arrived.
Aside from the time spent with Little Edmund and Antonia, Marta’s days centered on working her way through deSarm Hall, starting in the cellars. She tallied up the wine and distilled spirits, including those that could be used for medicinal purposes. One little cask of almost pure alcohol made her shiver, and she decided to send it to the sisters to use, assuming it was still good. Greg bought that for Phillip? It has more kick than an angry mule. She found more flour than she’d feared, and some war biscuit that could have been used in the cannons. In fact, it may have been older than her marriage, as she thought about the markings on the sacks, and decided to dispose of it. The past year had been a very good one for root vegetables, and she found plenty, and the cooks assure her that the meat situation remained good. “We’ve got a half-dozen shahma still to slaughter, my lady,” one man explained. “And sacks of dried meat yet. That first cold, dry spell made excellent meat-sticks.” Medical herbs they lacked, and she made a note to see about not letting the supplies get that low in the future. We’ve been assuming we could always get some from the sisters, and that might not happen, or they might be separated from us by a flood or something. She made St. Gerald’s bridge, warding off the thought.
It turned out they’d also been a little too efficient in remaking clothes. “No lint at all?”
Paula, the servant who looked after soft goods and similar things, shook her head. “No, my lady, just sanitary lint, no medical lint. We can make some, but I’d planned to use these for new dresses and nappies.”
“We need medical lint more. We have long bandages, but none of the shorter ones.” Marta could have kicked herself
for not asking sooner, except her belly was starting to get in the way, throwing her balance off.
And they’d need more hard bread. If it came to that, the women and children of the valley would flee to the Hall. They brought what they could with them, but it was never enough, Marta knew from reading the histories. “I need someone to warn them,” she thought aloud. “To go to every family and farm and tell them to be ready to flee to the Hall and what to bring. And what to leave.” I am not putting up with Goody Veauloy driving twenty milch cows up here, or thirty goats plus her fur-making lagoms.
“I’ll see to it, my lady,” Edmund said from over her shoulder. “Will the Hall be ready?”
“As best it can be, given the season and the time we have.” He’d started wearing armor again, a mail tunic with helmet and thigh and shin armor. He looked every centimeter a warrior and Marta both loved and hated seeing him like that.
“Good. You take care of the household, Thomi, and I’ll take care of the world outside the walls.” He kissed her cheek and returned to what he had been doing. She began calculating how much hard bread they’d need and how much wood and earth-coal it would take to bake it.
All the while she struggled to stay calm, for the people around her, for her children, and for the babe inside her. Phillip had already taken one child from her, and she refused to let another go if she could stop it. She started spending more time in the chapel in silent meditation, making herself be quiet and still, listening and resting. And no one dared interrupt her while she prayed, unlike the rest of the day’s minutes and hours.
“I think I see why you men go out to fight,” she announced one night.
“Why?”
“Because no one bothers you with requests and questions about ‘can we use this instead’ and ‘do we have to’ or ‘are you sure—we don’t really need that, do we?’ And if one more person asks if we’re sure Phillip is serious I am going to scream. Right in their ear.”
Edmund laughed, the first laughter she’d heard from him in several weeks. He rolled onto his side and embraced her. “True. Instead I get to deal with lazy horses, men who can’t remember that the pointy end goes toward the enemy, and teamsters who demand to know why the cannons have to be up on the ridge instead of at the bottom where they are easier to get to.”
