by Alma Boykin
The other passengers turned their backs to the young man, who swore again, then hurried off up the grassy riverbank to try and catch his mount. “Think he’ll make it?” one of the foot passengers asked.
“Humpf,” the farm wife snorted. “Not before city gates close he won’t, I wager.”
Elizabeth kept her attention on Snowy as the others disembarked, then led him onto blessedly solid ground. Noble or not, the young man had been terribly rude, even if he was talking to commoners, she thought, then dismissed him from her mind.
Nairo Nuovi sat on a hill above the river, well protected from flood and attack both. Elizabeth peered up at the walls from under her hat brim and wondered what the city inside looked like. Supposedly one of the first churches built after the Landing still stood behind the grey and yellow stone walls and she wanted to visit it. But she also needed food and a place to rest out of the way of searchers. I am not crossing another large body of water in the near future, she promised herself. She decided to get food at a small market town spilling out of the city’s northern walls.
One meat pie and a bucket of grain later, mule and rider continued on their way. Elizabeth intended to stop at the convent of St. Kiara, a few kilometers east of Nairo Nuovi. As she and Snowy plodded along, she began reciting her bead prayers, followed by what she could remember of the Litany of St. Gerald. She’d memorized part of it just to spite Laurence V after he “requested” that the saint be replaced by St. François, purported founder of the kingdom. Not that there are anything more than legends about St. François, while documents and images remain of St. Gerald, Elizabeth sniffed. The warm morning sun made her sleepy and she pinched herself.
Fast hoof beats behind her jarred Elizabeth completely awake. Snowy half-brayed and Elizabeth kneed him to the very edge of the dirt road, out of the way of whoever approached. Couriers had the right of way over everyone. Only then did she turn and look. Farm woman lost her wager, she noted, catching sight of the young noble as he galloped up the road. She wondered what his hurry was, and bit her tongue as several uncharitable but likely ideas came to mind. Then she went cold—what if he was a courier with a message about her? No, surely not, not here in the free lands. But something made the hair on her neck rise and she kept her eyes down. He rushed so close to her that she felt the wind of his passage and Snowy snapped at the departing horse. “Easy,” she ordered, patting his cream-colored neck. As she watched, the rider took the fork leading to the town of Markoli and St. Kiara. Her heart sank at the confirmation of her fear. “Well, pfoo.”
She pushed on under the hot sun. The road climbed up, into the hills, and the trees began changing as a few evergreens appeared among the blacknut and oak stands. Instead of maize, arruzi nodded in the breeze. Very thirsty and tired, the woman noticed a small sign pointing to a shrine of St. Donn, the patron of springs. She and Snowy turned that way and plodded into the shade of more evergreens. The needles muffled the sound of his hooves and the cooler air perked up both mule and rider. Not long after they reached a small, well-loved shrine. Elizabeth dismounted by sliding down Snowy’s flank, landing in a graceless pile in the pine duff. For his part the mule picked his way to a watering trough and waited impatiently for his rider to limp her stiff and sore self over and pump him something to drink. He drank a little, waited, then drank more, too smart to guzzle the water and make himself sick.
On a whim, after Snowy finished drinking, Elizabeth led him into the woods behind the shrine. As she’d hoped, she found a crude corral. There she stripped off his tack and brushed him. She ducked behind some bushes and changed her padding, digging a hole in the soft ground and burying the old, soaked lint. She returned to the watering trough and rinsed her hands and face. The light reflected off the water and she used it to get the worst of the smudges and dust off her face. Too bad the legends about the effects of washing with holy water aren’t true. Or maybe it’s just as well, given how far I have to go. The impromptu mirror confirmed that she still had average eyes, a nose that on a man would have been called “noble” or “prominent,” thin lips, and no chin. Her unattractive and out-of-proportion face just fell away into her neck. But that face was now clean.
Only after washing did she enter the shrine, bowing to the figure of St. Donn. Water bubbled up from the image’s feet, then flowed into a small fountain. After offering her thanks, the woman drank, waited, and drank again. The water’s mineral flavor attested to the purity of the spring and the holiness of the site.
Elizabeth found Snowy dozing in a beam of sun in the corral and decided to follow his example. She hauled the saddle just out of sight of the corral, beside some bushes, and used it as a pillow. She could just see the mule’s legs from where she lay, but thought that she’d be out of sight herself. She’d just relax a little, not sleep but let her eyes rest…
Birdsong in her ear startled her awake. Elizabeth blinked and groaned at the cramp in her neck. “Oooohhh,” she tried to sit up and failed. Instead she rolled onto her side, then eased herself into a seated position. From there she rocked onto her knees and then managed to get to her feet. The shade seemed much darker than it had been when she shut her eyes. “Oops.” Snowy heard her move and brayed, bringing her running to the corral to shut him up. “Shhhh,” she hissed. “Quiet.” He swished his tail and gave her a look of equine disgust. She heard women’s voices and wondered if she should try to hide him. The voices came no nearer. Elizabeth heard the sound of the pump at the trough and a donkey’s call. The voices retreated and she relaxed: just a traveller watering an animal. She waited a little to allow the visitors to depart before she led Snowy to the trough and watered him. She found some grass and sweet-rush growing not far from where she’d napped and let him graze, trying to spare the kilo of grain that she’d bought earlier. Maybe her neck would not have been as stiff if she’d slept on the grain sack, she speculated.
As the light faded, Elizabeth tried to decide what to do. She needed to continue due east, at least as far as the Duchy of Tivolia, but she’d reached the edge of the details on her map. And once she crossed the southern part of the Triangle Mountains, she could no longer travel at night, not without a very good map and armaments; especially if the rumors about the political and military situation in that area were true. She watered Snowy one more time, changed her padding again, and tacked him up. One last night on the road, Godown willing, and she would be far enough from the border to be safe from Frankonian pursuit. Which just left wild animals, wild humans, horse thieves, and others to worry about. She mounted with a wince. If I ever meet someone who writes those romances about women eloping overland, I’m going to thrash them until they hurt as much as I do.
Three weeks later Elizabeth passed safely over the Barnhard Pass and she spent the next day in prayer at the monastery there, giving thanks and letting Snowy rest. The brothers had a separate, small shelter for women and Elizabeth washed in the cold water, then dried as she recited the first of her prayers. She left half of her remaining gold piece there as a thanks offering and took the rest in silver and copper coins. She’d traded a cheap but fancy scarf pin for food for Snowy two days before. As she prepared to leave the monastery, the brother on guard puffed his breath out in a long stream of steam. “Be careful, my child. The road is very dangerous for pilgrims right now. Do you have a saddle blade?”
“Yes, Brother,” she assured him. “And Snowy is faster than he looks.”
“Travel carefully, then, and remember: Godown forgives that which is done to preserve the soul. May His grace be with you and His protection overshadow you.”
“Blessed be Godown,” she murmured in reply, hiding a shudder of fear. So the rumors and the letter’s warning were true: Selkow’s priests had begun raiding again, this time with the support of the Turkowi Protectorate and the new Rajtan. As the mule clopped his way down the mountain trail, Elizabeth pulled her coat tighter around her and wondered if the Turkowi followed the same pattern they had under Slovan the Haughty. Then they’d raide
d the same area several times, until the natives fled, and then planted their own settlers. Men they caught could convert, or lived as slaves on their former lands, or died. The Turkowi, according to one author, did not permit women to convert. Just then Elizabeth wished that she’d not read that particular book. She should not even have had access to it, since she was a woman of gentle birth and sheltered, but Lord Armstrong had not locked anything out of her reach except for estate records and his personal correspondence.
A finger of wind touched her neck and she shivered despite the bright sun. So, how would one fight off Turkowi incursions? She snugged up the straps on her furry mitts and tucked the back of her skirt around her legs as Snowy walked on. Elizabeth knew that with a strong enough army, you could station soldiers on the border and fight off the raiders. But what would the troops eat and how would they feed their animals, she asked herself. And how many soldiers could stay in the field for how long? As she and the mule descended into the Tivolia Foreland, Elizabeth ran through different scenarios based on what little she knew about the topography and economy of the area, lost in thought. Snowy stopped after an especially narrow and steep bit of trail, bracing and relieving himself. She blinked, looked around, and noticed the lowlands for the first time.
“Oh, that’s beautiful!” On her left side, the bulk of the Triangle Range loomed to the north and east, forming a blue wall draped in glittering white that stretched across the horizon as far as she could see. Ahead, the dark green of the mountains faded into paler green in the hills, and then the lush, misty plain of the Tivolia Foreland. She squinted against the morning sun and imagined that she could see the Donau Novi River, the huge waterway that marked to road to the Eastern Empire’s heartland. The rich soil in Tivolia, Scheel, and Morloke produced some of the best grain crops known and lush pastures supported shahma, horses, and other livestock. Those blessings, along with the lack of natural borders to the east and south, made the area one of the most fought-over pieces of geography outside the Turkowi Protectorate. As Snowy began walking again, Elizabeth’s mouth twisted into a bitter version of a grin. “Rough lands and ugly women are both safe from invasion,” she’d been assured more than once.
Five days later Elizabeth led Snowy over the Tivolian border into the domains of the Dukes of Starland. Snowy’d started favoring his hind leg again and she decided to dismount and walk. Without her weight the mule seemed better, and Elizabeth needed to keep her blood flowing anyway. They’d been caught in rain that morning and she’d gotten soaked before she could pull on her coat and oiled hat. She’d traded the last of her least-valuable jewelry for food for both of them that morning. “Don’t waste time with coin,” she’d heard a merchant telling another traveler as she waited for her turn at the well a little before dawn. “People want small, light, and valuable. Town coin’s still good but gold and jewelry are better, especially close to the border.” It had been the start of a rough, long day.
They’d left earlier than planned, to get ahead of a pack train, and had stumbled into a robbers’ ambush. Elizabeth had taken to riding with her saddle knife tucked into her belt, and she’d slashed the hand of the man who grabbed for her reins, as Snowy kicked the fool who grabbed for his crupper. She smiled at the memory of the wet, smacking thud of the mule’s hooves pulping the man’s head. A proper woman would have been horrified. A proper woman would have fainted, or fled, or begged for mercy. Instead Elizabeth fought as best she could, startling the men into letting her and Snowy escape. She scratched his crest again and thumped his neck, smiling. Except the man’s head must have been harder than it sounded, because the mule had started favoring his leg a few kilometers later. Well, they were safe, so she’d dismounted and walked.
Some sense or instinct warned her to freeze. She stopped Snowy, listening. A few breaths later, three armed men appeared from the sides of the road. They wore matching grey-green jackets and heavy brown trousers, and their hats had a badge on them. “Halt,” one of the men barked, and she remained halted.
The man approached her with great caution and one of his companions pointed a crossbow at her. “Who are you and what is your business?” the border guard demanded.
She mustered what dignity she could. “I am Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas and I seek an audience with His Grace the Duke of Starland. I ask this for the sake of the debt owed my great grandfather.”
The man laughed at her claim. “Right. And I’m the Protector of the Eastern Empire. Who are you and who did you steal that mule from?”
He advanced on her and Elizabeth’s heart began racing. Damn it, this was not supposed to happen. Then she realized that he’d gotten close enough that he stood between her and the crossbowman. She turned her hand on Snowy’s lead rope and shifted her weight back for better leverage. She had not traveled six weeks and hundreds of kilometers to be turned back by a tree guard.
The guard lunged forward, trying to grab Elizabeth and Snowy both. Instead he caught a hard kick just below his kneecap and a handful of air as the mule jerked his head up. “Damn!” The guard staggered forward and Snowy sank his teeth into the man’s shoulder. “Ow! Ow, turn loose you,” and he flailed at the mule, who released him. Elizabeth beat him with the butt of her riding stick and the end of the rope, landing a few hard blows on his head and bleeding shoulder. Then she pulled Snowy back before the irate mule could do more damage.
In her sweetest, most lady-like voice she repeated, “I am Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas and I seek audience with His Grace in the name of my ancestor, Lord Edward Ironhand.” She did not want to fight. She could not defend herself against trained soldiers: the only reason she’d won this skirmish was that she’d caught the man completely by surprise. That would not happen the next time. “I have letters of introduction,” she remembered to add.
As their leader staggered to his feet, the border guards tried to decide what to do. “Right. Come with us and keep that dangerous animal under control,” the lead guard growled, trying to regain his dignity and authority. “Witch,” he hissed under his breath.
Elizabeth pulled on her best court manners and pretended that she had not heard the comment. “This way,” the one with the crossbow ordered, pointing up the road. She smiled graciously and walked as directed. Behind her she heard the men talking in low voices, and she suddenly realized that she’d put herself in a terrible position. They could shoot her in the back before she knew what happened. Damn, damn, damn, she thought. Never again.
The odd group halted at a guard post. Elizabeth did not try to stop Snowy as he gobbled mouthfuls of grass from the verge of the road. Instead she kept him between her and the men. As fond as she was of the mule, if she needed to run, well, she’d miss him but survival came first. She also loosened the straps on the closest pannier and extracted her last pouch of coins and jewelry, the small book, and her father’s portrait, hiding them in her skirt pockets and inside her coat. From the books she could recreate her notes, Godown forbid. And the coins might buy her entrance to a convent, especially of a laboring order.
“Right.” A fourth man, this one wearing tabs on his shoulders along with the Starland badge, stomped up to Elizabeth. Snowy jerked his head up and bared his teeth, making the man stop. He glared at the mule.
“You must pardon my friend,” Elizabeth murmured, stroking the thick neck. “He can be overprotective.”
“Right,” the man repeated, keeping a safe distance from Snowy. “We’re taking you to his Grace’s current residence. From there you are on your own to prove that you are not bait, an assassin, or a spy.”
His jaw dropped as Elizabeth started laughing so hard that she had to gasp for breath and leaned on Snowy’s shoulder for support. “A… spy? For Laurence of Frankonia?” She laughed again, tears rolling down her cheeks and leaving stripes in the dust. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed when she finally got herself under control. “The thought that I’d be working for Laurence of Frankonia,” and she fought to keep another gust of laughter from exploding. “I’m sorry.
You are not familiar with the history of the Duchy of Sarmas and the Frankonian kings.”
“No, we have more important things to worry about,” he snapped. “Mount up and follow me.”
The sun brushed the western horizon just before Elizabeth and her escort reached a newly fortified hunting lodge. She covered a shiver by adjusting her seat, trying to take some weight off Snowy’s hind leg. So the stories are true, she whispered to herself. Godown help the lowlanders and anyone in the way of Selkow’s priests.
“Wait here,” the guardsman ordered. Elizabeth dismounted with as much grace as she could manage without a proper mounting block or assistant. She loosened Snowy’s girth one notch, frowning at the wear on the leather as she did. Well, this was supposed to be a fine lady’s saddle, not a heavy journey saddle. She smelled cooking food and her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d not eaten since before dawn.
One thing about the past six-weeks exertions: they’d made her much more fashionable, assuming that Imperial styles favored the lean look just like those of Frankonia. She’d lost her hourglass figure, however, and Elizabeth sighed. She missed having padding on her rump, too. You’re a thousand kilometers from home, you smell worse than Snowy, you could be executed out of hand at any moment, your mule is limping again, and you are worried about fashion? She scolded herself.
She’d started dozing on her feet before the guard returned. “Come,” he ordered, spinning on his heel and striding into the darkness. She shook herself and led Snowy through the gate, noticing as she did the thickness of the wood and how it had been reinforced with stone and covered with hides. Leather did not burn, at least not as fast as dry wood, she recalled. Then she blinked as a woman and a torch-bearing man walked up to her. Snowy spooked and Elizabeth tried to hold him, calming the mule before he kicked or bit anyone.
