Elizabeth of Starland (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 1)

by Alma Boykin

  “Your grace.” She tried to curtsy. Her ribs made her squeak with pain and Lewis grabbed her, steadying her as she staggered.

  When they reached the remuda, Archduke Lewis gave Snowy a close inspection. “How old is he?”

  “Five or six, your grace. He was sold as a gentle lady’s riding mule,” and she glared at the white equine.

  “And you rode him here from Frankonia last year?”

  “Yes, your grace. He’s an odd mule, even for a mule.” Everyone knew that white mules possessed no stamina, had tender hides and soft hooves, and suffered from poor eyesight. Snowy had missed that message, apparently.

  Lewis scratched the mule’s crest. “What is his breeding?”

  She told him and he sighed a little. “Well, we’ll have to try something similar, perhaps one of my mammoth jacks with an Oberlander or a Poloki charger.” He scratched Snowy again, then patted his neck. “He seems docile enough.”

  “That’s the problem, your grace. He’s docile until someone makes him mad or he decides that he has a better idea. Then he bites, kicks, sulks, runs, or otherwise lets you know his opinion.”

  Lewis smiled. “So he’s a mule, in other words.”

  “A most mulish mule, your grace.” And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The noble’s smiled widened. “Good. Womanly women and mulish mules are treasures and should be prized. Ride well and may Godown speed your journey. I expect to find you waiting when I return to Vindobona, Godown willing, with a complete report ready for me to add to the other field commanders’ notes.”

  She curtsied as best she could. “Thank you, your grace. May He bless your doings and your family.”

  Elizabeth picked an eight-year old dun colored gelding with a kind eye, fox ears, and solid legs. She told the muleskinner to select a decent pack mule, preferable an older animal. Then she returned to her quarters and rested, wrote some letters, and rested again. After the evening meal she said the daily office and prayers for the dead, and then packed and went back to sleep.

  The next morning, she watched as a hostler put Snowy’s tack on, and she confirmed the fit of the crupper and breast strap herself. Duke Aquila seemed surprised to find her ready so early. “Eager to be gone?”

  Isn’t everyone? Who wants to linger around thousands of dead bodies in this heat? Wary of people listening in, she replied, “The cool of the morning is easier on man and beast both, your grace.”

  “That it is.” He handed her a waxed leather bag that rustled. “Open it.” She did, taking note of Lewis of Babenburg’s blue seal on the ribbons holding the report’s pages together. “You have seen the seal and the contents.”

  “I have seen the seal and the contents, your grace,” she affirmed. Aquila put the documents back into the bag and locked it. Only he or someone from the Imperial chancery could unlock the dispatch bag. Elizabeth approved of the security measure. At her nod one of the men added the dispatch bag to her off side saddlebag, adjusting the near side bag to keep the weight even. Capt. Switchlizard walked up and started to speak, saw Aquila, and shut his mouth with a snap. He did remember to bow, however, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. St. Brigit, give me patience, please.

  “Ride straight to Vindobona and give his grace’s report directly to his majesty. Godown be with you, Lady Elizabeth,” Duke Aquila ordered.

  She curtsied. “I will ride directly to Vindobona and will give his grace’s report to none other than his majesty. Godown also be with you and guide you.” The hostler gave her a lift onto Snowy’s back, and she hooked her leg around the horn. After arranging her skirts, she nodded to the Windthorst captain and saluted Aquila. “By you grace’s leave?”

  “Go.”

  By the end of the day, Elizabeth had blessed Snowy’s running walk so often that if holiness were visible, the mule would have glowed in the dark. Not only did they make excellent time, but Snowy’s smooth, gliding gait kept her ribs from aching. She’d picked well, and the dun gelding proved to be a steady trotter, at least when led. Captain Switchlizard and some of his men, on the other hand, sounded as if they suffered all the aches and pains that out-of-shape riders on underworked horses could encounter. The weather remained sunny with a south wind, good traveling weather for people in a hurry, and Elizabeth pushed as hard as she could without exhausting Snowy. The party travelled almost thirty kilometers that day. If they could carry the pace, they’d reach Vindobona in just under two weeks, she knew, but her escort had other ideas.

  Captain Switchlizard limped up to where she stood stripping Snowy’s tack and protested. “Tomorrow we walk at least half the day. Otherwise you and that demon mule are going to kill our bloodstock.”

  “Captain, I would think that, since you are accompanying a royal courier, you would want to press even harder.” She finished removing Snowy’s girth and straightened up. “Is one of your horses having difficulty?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “And you are a prisoner, not a courier. In fact,” he leaned closer to the mule, reaching for the saddlebags, “I’ll take those. Prisoners cannot carry sensitive documents and information.”

  The mule’s ears went flat and Elizabeth yelled, “Look out!” Switchlizard jerked away just as Snowy cow-kicked, almost planting his hoof in the man’s stomach. “Captain, I’ve warned everyone about crowding Snowy like that.”

  He tried to salvage his authority, informing her, “And there is no need to push past settlements and inns.”

  That’s your real concern, isn’t it? Sleeping out, even in safe places. She sniffed. You’d never last in a convent of the Sisters of Service. “Captain, you have your orders and I have mine. I’ve held the pace back for the benefit of the animals. It is a fine night with good weather, we have plenty of food, and I see no reason to burden an inn or spend money when there is good grass, fresh water, and a safe campsite.”

  That confrontation set the tone for the rest of the journey. Even worse, two days later she spent the night in a Lander ruin, much to the horror of several Windthorst men. They began making saints’ signs to her back when they thought she couldn’t see. You’ve called me a traitor and a criminal, and now you think I’m a blasphemer or a magic-worker. But you have not secured me in any way, and you don’t seem worried about my running off. Or is that the idea, tempt me to flee and then kill me? She rolled her eyes as she finished checking the dun gelding’s hoofs. At least they’ve not tried to rape me. She’d been worried about that, but apparently her ugly face and their orders were enough to keep them from touching her.

  As it was, no one felt as much joy as she did upon sighting the walls of Vindobona. If they hurried, they could get in before curfew, and without thinking she tapped Snowy with her stick. He accelerated into a choppy canter that made her want to cry as she rode to his gait. The men swore, forcing their animals to catch up.

  She drew rein a kilometer from the bridge over the Donau Novi and walked Snowy, Dun, and the pack mule the rest of the way. “Make way for a royal messenger,” Switchlizard called, from behind her, trying to force his way through the horses, carts, and pedestrians already in line by the river gate.

  “Wait your turn,” one of the road guards barked.

  “We are Count Windthorst’s men, with a message for the count and a prisoner,” Switchlizard growled back.

  “Well, which are you? Royal or the count’s men?” The road guard began lowering his halberd in warning. Switchlizard turned red with both heat and temper.

  As the men started arguing, Elizabeth caught sight of another guard and eased Snowy through a gap in the traffic. “Lady von Sarmas with dispatches from his grace Archduke Lewis of Babenburg and Duke Aquila von Starland for his majesty,” she told him, holding out her orders.

  The guard studied them and her. He jerked his head towards the argument on the other side of the road. “They with you?”

  “I’m sorry to say this, but yes. If you want to keep them, you have my blessing.”

  He snorted and shook his head a
s he returned her orders. “Not thank you, my lady. I have to work with enough overblown idiots as it is, begging your pardon. You may pass if you get them out of my road.”

  “I quite understand, and thank you.” She twisted and waved. “Captain? When you finish, I’ll be inside,” and she rode on without waiting for him.

  Alas, he caught up to her. A second group of soldiers, more professional looking, joined them inside the city gate. “Elizabeth of Frankonia? You are under arrest,” and their leader reached for Snowy’s reins.

  “I am Elizabeth von Sarmas and I will not vouch for your safety if you grab my mule. Show me where you need me to go and I will follow, but don’t upset my mount.”

  “She’s serious, Cal,” Switchlizard warned. “That mule’s dangerous.”

  The first officer frowned. “Very well, come.” He led the way through the streets and into the road to the royal precinct. Except, instead of turning to the palace, he stopped at a heavy metal gate and pounded on it. The gate slid open and the riders crowded around Elizabeth, forcing her and Snowy into the narrow passage. They emerged into an unfamiliar courtyard. “Dismount, Frankonia.” She did as ordered, pulling the saddlebag with Aquila’s report down with her. “Give me that.”

  “No. His grace gave me this under seal with orders to give it to none other than his majesty.” She worked both arms between the bags and held on as tightly as she could.

  The big man loomed over her. “Give me the bag.”

  “No.” He would have to fight for them.

  A languid voice called, “If the minx is going to be stubborn, let her be. She can turn them over during her trial, since his majesty already knows about the battle.”

  The guards backed away from her. “My lord,” one said, bowing to a middle-aged man dressed in white and cream. He wasn’t as tall as Emperor Rudolph, Elizabeth noted, nor as deathly lean. In fact, he seemed to have a slight potbelly beneath his blue and red sash of office. Cold green eyes studied her and Elizabeth wondered how much time he needed to curl his red-gold hair. The noble stopped several meters from the group and raised a scented handkerchief to his nose.

  “So you are Elizabeth of Frankonia. I can see why you would be willing to take Turkowi gold.” She held her peace and watched the man as he watched her. “Take her to her quarters. You will have a chance to explain yourself in two days, Frankonia, although I doubt it will do much good.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord?” She hesitated and raised an eyebrow, as if unsure of her host’s identity.

  One of the soldiers grabbed her injured arm and shook her. “That’s his grace Count Windthorst, Frankonia. Keep a proper tongue in your head.”

  “And you may remove your hands from the daughter of Count Anton von Sarmas, granddaughter and niece of the ruling Duke of Sarmas,” she told him in her best court manner. Then she curtsied to the count. “As I said, thank you, my lord Windthorst.”

  “Be gone.” She did not resist as the men led her to a set of rooms. The furnishings were spare at best, but they did include a washbasin and necessary box. She also saw a heavy door bar, on the inside of the door. So this is servants’ quarters and not a true cell. Interesting. The Windthorst guards searched her other baggage, pulling out each piece of clothing, looking at her prayer book and devotional, and emptying the pouches that held material for her monthly time. Whatever they wanted, they did not find it. Good thing I left all my money and valuables with Lazlo and Lord Matthew. She kept a tight grip on her saddlebags, not setting them down or even letting go of them until the last guard left the room and she heard the sliding click of the door lock. Two could play at this game, and she shoved the wooden bar into place. Only then did she sit down and relax. A peep of sunlight came in through a clerestory window at the top of the wall, giving her light to augment the candle she found.

  Right, I’m here. What now? She could not fight a duel of honor against Count Windthorst, not if Switchlizard’s first statement had been true and Empress Margaretha had also authorized her arrest. So was she supposed to be working with Frankonia or the Turkowi? Or both? She rolled her head from side to side, trying to loosen tense muscles. And what did she know about Count Windthorst and Margaretha of Babenburg?

  She ticked off the facts on her fingers. Windthorst and Peilov were having a border dispute. Peilov’s daughter was now Marie von Starland, so Windthorst could have a grudge against Starland. Eric Windthorst also struck Elizabeth as the sort of person who would be irritated by a blunt man of action. And Aquila, for his part, did not suffer fools or fops. Windthorst had been complaining about the state of the empire’s borders and about the frequency of Turkowi raids for at least a year. The Frankonian feint at the Bergenland mining area also drew his ire. Now, granted, everyone knew that the raids were a problem, but with Lewis of Babenburg and Aquila von Starland in charge, more or less, of defense for the northern and southern halves of the eastern border, the problems affected their positions the most.

  “This is as bad as those silly romances,” she sighed aloud, getting up and walking, then stretching her arms. She winced as the stitches pulled and stung. “All muddled identities, strange connections, hidden motives, but without the fluff and triple marriage ending.” Not that she was supposed to have been reading those sorts of books, but Sister Amalthea had been determined to find her doing something sinful every so often, so Elizabeth had gotten caught with some of the more harmless ones that her mother had sent her. “Caught with the harmless ones,” she whispered, going cold.

  No, Aquila would never do that. He’d never, ever sacrifice one of his people as a distraction from his own failures or actions. Archduke Lewis she knew nothing about, but what did he have to hide? The Kidron Valley victory was his, and he had no need to toss anyone to the bearcats.

  What about Empress Margaretha? She was… what? Oh, yes, she was an Eulenberg second cousin to the Babenburgs, making her distantly related through marriage to the Peilovs. Elizabeth stretched more and paced a little before sitting again. At least on the surface, the relationship suggested she would be closer to Starland than to Windthorst, assuming her name had not been invoked falsely and the conflict between Windthorst and Starland was what had led to this entire muddle.

  Or it could be something else entirely, Elizabeth knew. The caprices of royal courts provided fodder for endless stories and rumors, no matter which court one happened to be talking about. She shook her head. I can see why his grace Archduke Lewis supposedly prefers to avoid court. I wonder when he’s supposed to return to Vindobona? He could support my observations. Well, she had her plans and Godown protected the innocent. And even if the worst happened, a clean death by hanging or being shot was better than what the Turkowi or Laurence V proposed for her.

  That thought reignited her anger at Windthorst. Be careful, she told herself. Do not lose your temper or tip your hand. That could make you too dangerous to live until your trial. With that cheerful thought in mind, she set about trying to wash as best she could.

  She’d settled down to read her book of prayers when someone pounded on the door. She unbarred the door and stepped well clear, one hand on the saddlebags. Two women came in, carrying food and more wash water. “You need to be presentable,” the older woman announced.

  “Yes, I do. My clothes are there,” and she pointed to a neat pile. “They need a wash, as you can tell. I would be grateful if someone could take care of them, or could provide me with a wash pot.”

  “Miss?” Confused, the older woman looked from the bundle back to Elizabeth. Whatever she’d been told about the prisoner, Elizabeth did not appear to fit the description.

  “If it is not an imposition, I need those washed, please,” Elizabeth repeated. “And for someone to help me trim my hair back into something presentable, or I can do it myself.” What did they expect? She wanted her wig, but asking for someone to fetch it from Starheart might be too much.

  The servants decided to humor her. “Very well, miss.” They took the clo
thes and left the meal, which Elizabeth ate. Too much sage in the sauce for her taste, she decided, but she could have devoured two more bowls of the custard. She ignored the wine. It smelled like a red. She set the dishes by the door, washed again, then blew out the candle and fell asleep.

  She awoke with a pounding headache and a terrible taste in her mouth. Thinking required pushing ideas and words through a head full of maize mush. As she struggled to sit up, she noticed that someone had taken the stitches out of her arm, and the wound bled a little. They’ve been in here. Why’d they hurt my arm?

  Terrible fear washed over her. Did they…? Elizabeth checked herself and almost fainted with relief. No. They didn’t. Thank you St. Sabrina, thank you Godown defender of the helpless. But what else… oh, St. Gerald, please no. She looked around and panicked. Where were the saddlebags? She could not walk because her head spun, so she fell off the bed and crawled around until she found them in the corner. Oh no. Oh Holy Godown, St. Gerald, anyone, help me. Someone had opened the bag holding the Archduke’s report. She’d tied two of Snowy’s hairs around the lock and the clasp as an extra seal, just in case, and both hairs had been broken. She dragged the bags back beside the wooden bedframe and sat on the floor, trying to stay in control of herself.

  You can’t let them know that you know, she chanted over and over. Then she pulled her prayer beads down from the table and began reciting the morning litany. The familiar words, as much a part of her as her own hands and feet, calmed her down. By the time she finished the full litany, plus the prayers for the imperial family, and a short form of the prayers for the dead, she’d recovered most of her wits despite the lingering drug fog. The world stopped spinning halfway through the litany, allowing her to get up, wash her face, drink some water, and dress in her spare blouse and a thick underskirt. Her fleece-lined camp shoes helped. Elizabeth made the bed and sat down, hiding the saddlebags under the chair, behind her skirt.

  The serving women returned twice, once to remove and replace the water pitcher and nightsoil box, and the second time with food and Elizabeth’s clothes. She half-expected to find her uniform torn, stained, or scorched, but the laundress had not sabotaged it. She ate nothing from the tray but an apple, even though the food smelled delicious and her stomach growled. She needed a clear head.