by Alma Boykin
She slowed down but kept walking. Snowy limped behind her, exhausted and willing to be led. “I’m sorry, Snowy, but we need to get away from the border in case King Laurence’s men decide to risk an international incident.” Elizabeth did stop behind some rocks to let the mule rest for a few minutes, and so she could look at his hind leg. The hot spot had returned, and when she tipped up his foot, she found a nasty bruise on the frog. She rubbed liniment on the hot spot and once Snowy seemed rested, led him farther into the free lands. Godown had been with them. She felt sorry for the horse that had plunged in behind them and hoped that it had not drowned, or that its end had been swift. The man’s death, if he had died, failed to move her.
The watchers on the east side of the river had to have seen the commotion, but no one intercepted Elizabeth and Snowy or called to them. The town of Caapstaad lay in the valley to the east of the ridge, and she’d get help for Snowy there, if she could. And then? “We’ll decide once you’re better,” she told the mule. He brayed for the first time she’d ever heard, a harsh sound that rang on the rocks around them. “Me too.”
Chapter 2: Plans and Plodding
A day later, a footsore woman and her white mule waited outside the guest door of St. Brigid’s convent, an hour’s walk east of Martinstaad. They’d found no help in Caapstaadt and had continued on to the east. Elizabeth and Snowy both needed to rest, eat real food, and bathe. Well, Elizabeth smiled to herself, she needed a bath. All the perfumes on the planet wouldn’t make Snowy smell less like a mule. She stroked the grey-white nose and scratched around his ears and along his scruffy crest. “You need a trim.” He leaned on her and she poked him with the butt of her riding stick. “Get over.” He stopped leaning.
The wooden door creaked open and a young woman in a novice’s maroon habit and small wimple appeared. “Lady Elizabeth, Reverend Mother Agatha says you may stay two days, Godown willing. Come,” and she disappeared inside the doorway.
“Godown be blessed,” Elizabeth sighed, tugging on Snowy’s rope. He balked. She waited and he subsided and followed her. His hooves thumped on hard-packed earth in the public courtyard and Elizabeth led the tired mule to a small stable. Two other mules, several donkeys, and an old horse studied him with some curiosity.
“Here,” the novice pointed, and soon Snowy munched fresh hay as Elizabeth groomed him, then picked his hooves and slathered liniment on his shin and bruised hoof-frog. “You, ah, you can care for him yourself?”
“Yes, I can. Godown rewards those who serve the helpless and the servant, does He not?” Elizabeth finished and tried to remove some of the coating of mule-hair and dirt from her skirt and blouse. “I believe that I need to remove some road dust before I am presentable to the Sisters of St. Brigid’s calling,” she hinted.
“Um, ah,” the novice hesitated, stuttering in her confusion. Was she that gently reared, Elizabeth wondered? She heard firm footsteps and turned to see a green-clad professed sister gliding up to them. Relief washed over the novice like the waters of Martin’s River. “Sister Paul, guest Elizabeth needs a bath,” she blurted, then turned the same shade of maroon as her habit.
“While that may be true, Noni, it is not in keeping with hospitality to point it out so bluntly,” the sister admonished, her words gentle but firm. “Be welcome to the house of St. Brigid,” she told Elizabeth. “Godown’s blessings be with you.”
“And may His grace shine on all who seek His truth,” Elizabeth replied, bowing.
Sister Paul gave her guest a shrewd look but only said, “Follow me, please.” Elizabeth picked up her saddle panniers and trailed after the sister, crossing the courtyard and entering the cool dimness of the white-walled building. “You may leave your things here,” Sister Paul pointed to an open door. Elizabeth set the bags down and noted the plain, worn furnishings. No rope-mattress bed had ever looked as good as the one in the corner did, but she needed a bath first. “This way,” and Sister Paul opened a heavy door, glided down the corridor and nodded to a second door. “The bathing room is there. You will find suitable attire for your use until your current garments dry.”
Elizabeth bowed as she would have to Sr. Amalthea, then all but dove into the bathing room. “Ahhhh,” she sighed, pouring lukewarm water over her grimy self. After getting the worst dirt and blood off, she stomped and rubbed the dirt out of her clothes. Just getting her hair clean felt so good! She spotted a discreet cabinet with the women’s sign on the door and helped herself to a handful of the lint and scrap padding. She’d been very, very lucky that her cycle had not started until that morning. The plain linen underrobe and rough, grey wool overgown seemed like pure luxury after spending a week in increasingly dirty clothes. I am too spoiled, she sighed. She gave her heavy socks a final rinse and wrung them out, pleased that the water no longer ran grey. Clothes washed and rinsed, she ran fingers through her short scut of hair, fluffing it dry.
As she finished, someone knocked on the door and Sr. Paul reappeared. She blinked to find Elizabeth already clean and dry. “I see that you do not require assistance.”
“No, Sister, but thank you. Where should I put these so that they can dry without causing a nuisance or mess?” She held out the armload of wet linen and wool.
Sr. Paul picked up the hem of one skirt and sniffed it. “You can put them in that basket and our laundress sisters will take care of them.”
Elizabeth felt a faint blush rising at the criticism. She’d done her best!
The nun smiled. “Lady Elizabeth, our bath soap is not strong enough to get animal sweat out of that sort of fabric, no matter how skilled you are. Now, come. Reverend Mother Agatha is waiting for you in her parlor.”
Elizabeth curtsied low to Reverend Mother Agatha and kissed the seated woman’s ring of office. The prioress radiated competence and serenity both, giving her guest the impression that nothing could ever be too complicated for the Reverend Mother to solve. “Sit, please,” she commanded, nodding towards a comfortable looking chair. Elizabeth sat, trying to hide her wince as saddle sores met firm wood. “When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday afternoon, Reverend Mother.”
Dark eyes narrowed as the older woman studied the newcomer. “What did you last eat, my child?”
“Some black berries and a handful of wet journey bread,” Elizabeth confessed. She’d had to eat it before it ruined the saddlebag. At least the jerky and her precious books and miniature painting had stayed dry.
“I see.” Reverend Mother Agatha raised her voice ever so slightly. “Sister Gerald?” Elizabeth heard the door open behind her. “Food for one. I will take tea.” The door closed. When the door reopened, Sr. Gerald set a platter with a bowl of soup, fresh bread, and a slab of cheese on a small table, then moved the table in front of the convent’s guest. Two cups and a teapot appeared moments later. Elizabeth bowed her head as the prioress blessed the food. Elizabeth tried to take only small bites, as was proper for a lady.
“You are starving. Eat.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother,” she murmured, devouring the thick vegetable soup, dark bread, and sharp cheese.
“Now. What brings you to our gates? Do you seek sanctuary?”
Elizabeth cradled the teacup in her hands. “No, Reverend Mother, I seek shelter, not sanctuary. I am Elizabeth von Sarmas, acknowledged child of Count Anthony and Lady Olympia von Sarmas, very distant cousin of King Laurence V of Frankonia and niece of his Grace the Duke of Sarmas. I am traveling east, to the Empire, and seek only shelter for my beast and myself. And I owe a vow to St. Gerald.”
“The gate keeper says that your mule is lame.”
“He is, Reverend Mother, or at least he is sore. I hope that, if Godown wills, rest and care will keep soreness from becoming lameness.” She couldn’t bear to part with Snowy.
Two bells chimed the hour and both women bowed their heads, whispering the afternoon prayers. When they finished Reverend Mother Agatha inquired, “Do you go east on a task from King Laurence?”
“N
o, Reverend Mother. He ordered me confined against my calling. I go east because that is where Godown calls me to go. I have no religious vocation, despite my prayers and entreaties.” Which was true: she’d prayed for months, for hours at a time, but Godown had not changed her temper, her mind, or her heart.
The prioress pursed her lips, then frowned, black eyebrows coming together. “So that rumor is true, that the new king looks on holy houses as a dumping ground for the inconvenient just as his father did, may his soul rest,” and both women made the sign of blessing for the dead. “It is a sin to claim a calling one does not have as much as it is to deny a true vocation, my child.” Her frown relaxed and a serene expression returned. “You may stay until the morning after tomorrow. Our farrier will look at your mule. We have a memory chapel dedicated to St. Gerald where you may begin making good on your vow. And I shall write two letters for you. One to open doors at other houses, and one for Duke Aquila of Starland, should your calling take you that far.”
Elizabeth pushed herself out of the chair and knelt on the floor before the Reverend Mother. “Thank you, Reverend Mother, for your guidance and your hospitality.”
Warm hands rested on Elizabeth’s head. “Godown blesses those of His servants who the world persecutes, Elizabeth von Sarmas. May you find rest, peace, and discernment in this, His house, and may St. Brigit shine her light on your way. Selah.”
“Selah,” the younger woman whispered. She needed the nun’s help to get off her knees as her muscles locked up.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain to Sr. Harmonia that riding can be a form of penance,” a dry voice said, hiding a smile.
Elizabeth bowed. “I would be delighted to do so, your Reverence.”
The next day Elizabeth spent in prayer and contemplation, and reading. Her knees ached after a two-hour vigil in St. Gerald’s chapel, where she left a gold piece at his feet. She visited Snowy and found that the swelling on his leg had shrunk. He blew slobber all over her, just to remind her of her proper place. And she read the note that had been left with the rope and other supplies.
Lady Elizabeth, it began, should you reach the Empire, seek out his Grace the Duke of Starland. He is fair, has use for your knowledge, and is a master of translating ideas into deeds, if the rumors are true. Even if they are not, he knows how to find a place for you without forcing you to compromise your oaths. And if other rumors are true, his Grace will need every advantage he can obtain. A new Rajtan heads the Turkowi Protectorate and the priests of Selkow will undoubtedly urge him to show his thanks for his accession by bringing more souls under their dominion. And you must learn to fight from horseback and ride astride! You’ve been lazy for long enough. Godown be with you and tell his Grace to speak with you for the sake of the debt his family owes your great-grandfather’s name. It was signed, “a friend.”
“Written by a man who never rode sidesaddle if he thinks it is lazy,” Elizabeth sniffed before smiling. She memorized the letter and then burned it, mixing the ashes in with those of the wood so that there could be no trace of the words left. The small book made her smile even more, because hidden behind the ornately carved and colored leather covers of a lady’s devotional she found a commentary on Clausewitz and a copy of the mysteries of Sun Tzu.
Later that afternoon, while the sisters took recreation in the cloister, Elizabeth studied a map in the convent’s small library. She could not stay in the Staadtlander. The free cities, Freistaadter, kept their independence by playing the larger powers against each other and someone would decide to trade her to Frankonia. At least, she assumed that they would. If she had a reputation or a better name, Elizabeth might have been able to bargain her way out of a corner, but no one in the Empire knew anything about her. Although they might very soon, given the speed of heliographs and rumors both.
That evening, between the meal and the twilight worship service, Sr. Paul pulled her aside. “My Lady, there have been inquiries about you in the city. Sr. George did not linger to hear if it is a general search or if someone seeks to capture you for gain, but you need to leave before dawn.”
Snowy and I will look as pale as the cave creepers of legend before we reach the Donau Novi, Elizabeth sighed. She nodded. “Very well, Sister. I will leave as soon as the twilight prayers conclude.”
“No. Reverend Mother says wait until the midnight peace.”
“I shall do as she commands,” and she bowed her agreement. She’d already planned her route and darkness posed no problem.
When she returned to her chamber, Elizabeth discovered that someone had packed her saddle panniers and added a small back-bag for her. A quick sniff revealed the presence of soap and she smiled, shaking her head. Fresh journey bread, two blocks of dried fruit, a portable mending kit, a bag of material for her woman’s time, along with a refilled liniment container and a real horse brush, made the bag very plump. She removed her borrowed clothes and pulled on her own clean and dry garments, noticing that they fit more loosely than before. After wearing sandals for two days, Elizabeth’s socks and boots felt stiff and hard.
Just before midnight she eased out to the small stable and prepared to leave. She put Snowy’s blanket, saddle, and bridle on him. He tried to puff up but a knee to his stomach deflated the mule and she tightened the girth. “You will need these,” a voice cautioned, and the veterinary sister held out a better crupper and a breast strap. “They were left some time ago and we do not use tack of that kind.” They fit and Elizabeth took it as another sign of Godown’s will. “I added a hoof pad and more liniment to your left pannier. Do not try to ride over the Splinter Hills. Dismount and walk; it will be safer for both of you. Godown guide and protect you,” and the sister turned, fading into the darkness.
Reverend Mother Agatha met Elizabeth at the gate. “Thank you, your Reverence,” Elizabeth whispered, curtsying low.
“Rise, my child,” the prioress ordered. “Godown and St. Gerald be with you, watch over you, and lead you to grace. Take this.” Elizabeth lowered her head as the woman hung a medallion and chain around her neck. “St. Brigit’s light shine on your path and Godown bless you. We shall pray for your safety.”
“Thank you, Reverend Mother. I covet your prayers, and I shall send word when I reach the place Godown sends me, if that is His will.”
She led Snowy out the gate to the mounting block. She did not look back as she rode out under glittering stars.
Elizabeth turned north, along a minor trade route leading from Martinstaad to Nairo Nuovi. Snowy walked at a steady pace, his hoof beats and the night wind the only sounds. The road guaranteed good footing and after an hour without a sign of lameness, Elizabeth urged Snowy into his running walk. The kilometers disappeared behind them. As soon as the road began to leave the lowlands, climbing up into the foothills of the Triangle Mountains, she slowed him back to a brisk walk. Twice they stopped for water and once so Elizabeth could replace soaked padding. As she remounted and the pair returned to the road, she wondered if the stories were true about an herb found in the East that could block the onset of a woman’s time. If so, she wanted to try it! Even if the herb only stopped the flow, leaving the pain, she’d give thanks to Godown.
False dawn brought them to a ferry over the Nairo River. Nervous and tired, Elizabeth joined the group waiting to cross. A man complained to the ferryman, “River’s up late this year. Probably be drought this summer.”
The ferryman spat. “No, can’t be drought. The Patricians haven’t raised prices yet. Fodder and food are the same as last month.”
A woman wearing sturdy, dark-colored clothes added, “I heard that the storms are strong to the north, and that’s why the rivers are up. Or so one of the shepherds said when he brought the flock down for shearing and marking.” As she spoke she calmed a donkey half-hidden by bales of shahma fleeces.
The heavyset ferryman just grunted, too busy lowering the bars around the end of the boat so that the people with animals could lead them aboard. Moments after Elizabe
th finished coaxing Snowy onto the flat deck, the ferryman turned and looked towards a cloud of dust. “Always one,” and he stepped well out of the way as a young man on one of the best horses Elizabeth had seen cantered up to the water. She ducked her head and pushed a very unhappy Snowy two steps closer to the edge of the ferry’s deck, making plenty of room for the high-bred horse and rider. She kept her eyes down, hoping that her broad hat and plain-looking clothes would deflect attention.
“Perfect timing,” the young man called, riding his horse onto the ferry instead of leading it. At least he dismounted afterwards, Elizabeth sniffed. Even she knew better than to ride into the middle of a crowded place with unsure footing. She eased closer to her mule, mindful to keep her hat brim out of reach of his teeth. “Let’s be off, then, shall we,” the young man half-commanded.
The ferryman ignored the order, but the ferry pushed off not long after. Elizabeth braced, trying not to lean on Snowy. He began making nervous noises and she petted and murmured to him to keep him calm. She was not happy either. The ferry seemed to buck and twist, rolling side to side as it crossed the river. Three of the male passengers helped pull the rope, drawing the ferry over the water, as the ferryman steered, trying to ease the load on the guide ropes. St. Gerald, hear my prayer, blessed Godown, keep us safe and in your keeping, Elizabeth recited. She heard the faint “click” of prayer beads close by as another passenger joined in the silent supplications.
Despite the passengers’ worries, nothing happened until after the ferry touched the shore. As the bow touched land, the young man’s horse spooked and bolted, smashing into the fleece-laden donkey and knocking two passengers off their feet before leaping over the ferry’s bow rail and onto the riverbank. Snowy also spooked and his rider held onto his lead rope for dear life, doing her best to stay calm and to settle the unhappy mule before disaster ensued. The noble began swearing at the farm wife and her donkey until the ferryman brought him up short. “My lord, your horse is going to run loose unless you stop him.”
