Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

  “And how will you get them to move? No one wants to take the risk yet.”

  From behind Anderson, Landis snorted. “Make them, as the southern kings do. Any family with more than four sons, one must leave to the frontier. He gets free land and exemption from taxes for two years if he clears the land and plants a crop, builds a house. Otherwise half the children are claimed by the king for sea service or personal service in the spice fields and forests. Amazing how many young men are willing to leave, or their parents are willing to shove them into the arms of the settlement leaders.”

  “Interesting.” Pjtor stroked his mustache, then twisted one of the tips. He’d been considering something similar and the southern man’s words cemented his basic idea. That plus the beard tax would solve two problems. Godown had not spoken to him warning that he should do otherwise, and Pjtor hummed a few notes, locking the information into his memory. “There will be a feast of celebration for this year’s campaign, following the service of thanksgiving.” At this moment, not losing the land is a victory. The army lost the battle and too many men died but the Harriers remained away from the main settlements for the first time in years. That is worthy of honor. He’d already decided that this was different from what Sara and Grigory had done, claiming victories after defeats. He wasn’t claiming a false victory, and was not publicly rewarding failure. He was giving thanks for not losing. Totally different.

  And at that feast he would have all the nobles together. He looked over the other men’s heads imagining the scene. Yes, that would work very well. And the public feast would soften the news for the common people.

  Strella had agreed with her brother’s view of the matter. Alsice had not said a word, but then she’d been a little surprised by Pjtor’s request that she become his mistress. “Imperial master, is that not for you to decree?”

  He’d counted to four. “Yes, it is. But I will not have an unwilling woman in my bed or as a free member of my household. A mistress has duties outside the Homefold.”

  “And outside the bed chamber, imperial master?”

  “Yes.” Of course, or else there would be no difference between the mistress and a common servant that caught my fancy. Her resistance frustrated him.

  “Will someone teach me, imperial master? I know little of the running of a large household, or of the manners of the great nobles and court.”

  That makes more sense. He should have thought about that, but the Homefold was Strella’s to manage and women were hers to teach. “Yes. There are several women and stewards who can teach you comportment and the ranks and titles you will need to learn.”

  “And what becomes of me and of,” her hand touched her stomach, just starting to show a little roundness when she pulled her dress taut. “Should your favor change, imperial master.”

  “You will be supported, as will the child.” The emperors supported their bastards, as all men were supposed to do. Legitimate or not, all were children of Godown.

  Alsice took a deep breath, and finally looked up at him from where she knelt. “Then I accept your invitation, imperial master. Ah, I trust my duties do not begin at once?”

  He smiled. “No. The feast tomorrow is for men only. There will be separate celebrations in the Homefold and I encourage you to participate there. Until you deliver, if you prefer to remain in seclusion, it is permitted.”

  A lot of tension left her. “Thank you, imperial master.”

  He extended his hand so she could rise more easily. “And from this point until I say otherwise, use my patronymic or ‘my lord,’ as Geert does.” Her soft, warm hand gripped his with steady strength as he pulled her to her feet. On a whim he kept pulling, drawing her closer so he could put his other arm around her. She was soft and curved where he liked curves to be.

  She reached up with her free hand and brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “I trust my lord does not object to a slight delay before I take up all my duties?” Her green eyes glinted with something Pjtor would come to recognize as humor and mischief combined. “Travel clothes are perhaps not the most comfortable garments for—”

  His lips touched hers and she did not finish. Then he gently pushed her away. “Quite correct, and there is much to be done before tomorrow.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” She had curtsied, something she’d learned from Geert’s wife probably, and he departed.

  He reminded his appetites that they had more than sufficient time to be gratified after the meeting. “So, plan for next season.” He paused, an idea bubbling up. “How long until the Harriers have cannon and other weapons like ours?”

  The others exchanged looks and Poliko shrugged. Anderson tapped his pointing stick on the map. “Where would they get them? They have what they could capture from us, yes. But where else can they obtain metal, powder, and finished firearms? The southern kings?” He looked to Landis.

  “Nah, they love the Harriers as much as you do, as we do,” he corrected. “They raid south as well as north, sir.”

  “Through the Turklavi, perhaps, but they are in trouble, assuming the Turkowi of the Eastern Empire are the same people,” Paulson said. “The Eastern Empire has hit them so hard, is hitting them, that even with Frankonia supplying some big gonnes and other things, the Turkowi are falling back into the Grass Sea between the mountains. And how would they get past the Split Sea with that many supplies? I’m not saying they couldn’t, but I suspect it is very far and the Turkowi have more important concerns.”

  “From your lips to Godown’s ear,” Green murmured. Pjtor wondered if Godown really had ears, and what they would look like, then shook the idea away. Of such things were heresies bred.

  The next afternoon Pjtor sat in his great chair in the feasting hall, eyes narrow as he studied the nobles gathered to honor the year’s victory. Tabor remained on his lands, as was proper, given how late his harvest seemed to be running. And Tabor had begun trimming his beard more like Pjtor’s own and kept it clean. Some of the others, well, they were clean at the moment but come late winter Pjtor shuddered to imagine what grew in them. How could the men tolerate living with seam creepers and other insects on their flesh? Fleas were one thing, and ticks in the field and woods, and lice while on campaign, but here in Muskava or on their own lands? Nothing in the Writ discouraged bathing or the use of louse combs.

  Three courses had been served and removed, along with enough drink to satisfy even the thirstiest. Pjtor himself felt rather mellow, and caressed the shears concealed beside him. Now, I believe, is the time. He caught the eye of the chief servant and nodded, then made a cutting motion. The man gulped, nodded, bowed and disappeared. Pjtor drank more of the beer and waited as several soldiers appeared in the doorway and spread out around the hall. The nobles, if they noticed, ignored them. They had their knives and nothing more, as was law. Pjtor smiled to himself and stood, shears in hand beside his leg.

  He walked around the end of the head table and stepped down to the main floor. That was a sign and outside, he heard the sound of wood on wood as a bar slid into place, locking the nobles in. “So, my lords, it is time for a small change in proceedings.”

  “How so, imperial master?” Tarnoii asked. Pjtor crossed the distance between them in two strides. He held up the shears. “What? What are you doing, great master?”

  Pjtor reached down and took a firm grip of the black and grey beard. It stretched almost to Tarnoii’s waist. With a smooth motion Pjtor lifted Tarnoii and cut the beard off level with the bottom of the man’s collar. He dropped the hair onto the floor. Then he grabbed Arkmandii and repeated the gesture. Three more times the shears snicked and long beards fell to the ground before any of the stunned nobles could speak. “There is nothing in the Writ or the Rule of Blessed Martin about beards and devotion,” Pjtor said, barely raising his voice as he moved to the next noble. “There is much in the old writings about cleanliness and in the Writ about purity of spirit and body, is there not, Archbishop?”

  “Indeed there is, imperial majesty,
but neither is there ought condemning a man for cultivating a manly dignity.” The brown-bearded archbishop had eased away from the table. Pjtor had no intention of touching him, since he was head of the church and almost Pjtor’s equal in worldly matters. Plus he was clean.

  “What,” snick “is dignified about having creatures living in one’s hair?” Pjtor stalked back into the middle of the great hall. “From this day forward, any man who comes into my presence who is not a priest or peasant, and who has a beard longer than his collar, will lose it. Even better is a clean-shaven face and a clean body as well as heart, but winters are long.” Giddy with his success, he removed the remaining beards. Thirty piles of beard lay on the floor before he was finished. None of the nobles dared refuse save one.

  “No, imperial majesty.” Karlinov the Younger held up his hands as if to block Pjtor’s shears. “My beard is what makes me a man and not a boy. You have no righ—”

  Pjtor’s fist hit the young man on the side of the head, stunning him. As a soldier grabbed Karlinov before he could fall, Pjtor removed his chest-length red beard. “I have every right. I am Pjtor Adamson Svendborg, emperor of NovRodi, anointed of Godown. I have put a dagger in the heart of the Harriers, I have pushed the border back to beyond my honored great grandfather’s time, and I have spread the land pledged to Godown and held by Godown’s people. You hold your lands by my grace and favor. The books of honors have been amended once. They can be amended again.” The dead silence told Pjtor that the older nobles had taken his hint. They remembered the men dancing from the gibbets. Neither rank nor age nor degree of relation had stayed Pjtor’s hand and they never would.

  He returned to his seat. The soldiers departed and servants brought the next course, along with the first full beer of the season. No man looked any better than the others. The musicians began playing once more. He would have them sheared when they finished for the night. Pjtor drank and was content.

  “Oof!” Alsice hit the ground, flattening some of the lush spring grass as her horse trotted ahead. “Ow, my dignity.” She got to her knees, then stood, brushing off her skirts and sleeves. Pjtor rode up beside her. She shook her riding stick at him. “No comment about crossing the jump together with the horse, my lord.”

  He was more concerned about her safety, but grinned anyway. “No, I was merely going to observe that it is easier when one stays with the horse after the jump as well.” A service-slave caught the gray mare and led her back, then helped Alsice mount. Pjtor decided that teaching his mistress to ride as a soldier did was not quite a wasted effort, but not far from it either. She rode well and could handle small jumps, but preferred to ride sideways like the famed woman warrior of the Eastern Empire, Princess Elizabeth von Sarmas. One of the trading ships had brought back a woman’s sideways saddle that fit Alsice’s preferred horse, and while Pjtor still thought she lacked common sense about riding safely, he’d given up trying to convince her otherwise.

  She tapped her hat brim with her riding stick and trotted ahead, leaving Geert and Pjtor to catch up. “If I may be so bold, my lord, you did say you preferred a more spirited woman as spouse,” Geert ventured.

  “Yes, I did. I may live to regret that desire.” At least she isn’t as determined as Mistress Margit Fielders. Geert’s wife never hesitated to let the men in her life know what she thought, and that included Pjtor Adamson. In the two years since Pjtor had formally selected Alsice as his mistress, she’d born him a son and a daughter. He was rather impressed that she could still ride this soon after her confinement and purification, but she was a hardy wench. Margit Fielders thought Pjtor needed to marry Alsice and not-so-subtly hinted at that whenever they spent time together.

  As the men rode after Alsice through the fields around Hornand, Geert asked, “Will this be the year, my lord?”

  “Godown willing.” They’d lost the fort on the lake upstream of the Sweetwater Sea two autumns before, but the men had done their best to see that the Harriers paid a very high price and received little in return. They’d been successful in that, and spies reported that the Harriers had not tried to rebuild the outpost. Pjtor tried to be philosophical about it, failed, and ended up making a desk to replace the one he’d turned into kindling with his fists. Alsice, Godown bless her, had not said anything beyond ordering the service-slaves to make certain not to remove any papers or writing supplies as they took away the remains of the furniture. Pjtor spent the winter making a new desk, sized to fit him. He’d ordered some of the craftsmen to decorate it with inlay. He could not seem to master the finicky detail needed to do it to his own standards, nor did he have any patience when the delicate wood and other materials refused to cooperate with him.

  “I’m going south.”

  Geert almost fell off his horse and did lose his stirrup briefly. “Imperial majesty, are you certain?”

  “Yes, I am damn fucking certain,” he snarled. Geert flinched away and the horses drifted apart. After several meters of nothing but bird song and hoof beats, Pjtor grumbled, “But not to fight. I’ve been, ahem, informed that such would not be wise yet.”

  “Very good, imperial majesty.”

  Actually, what Captain Anderson had told Pjtor bordered on grounds for execution had it come from a man of NovRodi. As it was, Pjtor had almost broken more furniture, and Anderson’s servants had fled the house in terror at Pjtor’s outburst. The old man had sat firm, literally. “No, Pjtor Adamson. You think about it. You have two sons, true. And neither are old enough to take the reins of power if you die.”

  “I won’t die,” Pjtor had snapped.

  “You tell that to the bad water, to a wild horse, to a grass fire, to an accident with the guns like happened on board the Mighty Pjtor this spring, or to the Harriers hiding in the pockets and folds of the ground. I dare you. See if Godown will protect you from that much foolishness. The age of miracles has come to an end, if you recall, Pjtor Adamson.” The stinging truth in the words had penetrated Pjtor’s anger at being denied his desire and he’d flinched. “How are Alsice and Strella supposed to hold the empire together if you die now, hmm?”

  “They can’t. They’re women.”

  Anderson had glared up at his chosen lord until Pjtor looked away. It was a novel sensation and he did not care for it. He’d looked up at the odd open rafters of the former drying barn instead, counting the thin rods stretching from wall to wall in the main chamber. “Go down south, yes, my lord, on an inspection. Give justice, look at the land, remind the people on the edges who their lord is and how far your reach extends, but do not get in the way of the army. You’re the biggest target in NovRodi, literally.”

  Pjtor had clenched his fists, growling. Anderson puffed his pipe and ignored the warning.

  “Damn it.” Pjtor had calmed down and sat. “Damn it, I may have to raise you to the council if you do that again.”

  “Godown protect all of us from such foolishness.” He’d taken the pipe out of his mouth, pointed the long white clay stem at Pjtor and shook it like a warning finger. “How old are you, my lord?”

  It had taken some work for Pjtor to recall. The NovRodians counted years from first anointing, not birth. “Ah, twenty-six years?” He’d thought aloud, counting on his fingers. “I was eighteen when I overthrew Sara, nineteen in New Dalfa, twenty-one the year of the first battle in the south, no, I’m twenty-four or twenty-five.”

  “Still young enough to be impatient for glory but old enough to know better, in other words, my lord.” Anderson had pointed to the white hair that reminded Pjtor of curly snow on black rock. Anderson’s ancestors had come from Lost Benin, or so he claimed. “I stopped counting at fifty-five. Unless you want to die young, do not put yourself in more danger than you must. You will get a lot of men killed trying to protect the emperor, even if Pjtor Adamson just wants to see what the front lines are like. Or do I need to remind you what Green and Paulson have told you at least twice?”

  Pjtor had actually ducked. “No, you do not.” His memory still recoiled
from Paulson’s very professional, calm, quiet, ass chewing.

  “Good. Now you’ve had enough of a lesson for today, my lord, I do believe. And unless I go talk my maid and the cook down from whatever trees they’ve climbed to hide in, I will be cold and hungry this evening.”

  “They probably dove into the same barrel the grocer hid in to get away from the women last year.” The man had tried to short-change two of the foreign traders’ and craftsmen’s wives, assuming that they knew as little about math and accounts as did women of NovRodi. Two dozen had descended on his shop as a group and it was considered a wonder of Godown’s mercy that he’d escaped with his life and stock intact. Several of the women had very good aim with the rotten onions they’d found in his “premium stock.”

  Pjtor shoved the memory aside, concentrating on getting the brown gelding to pay attention to him and to ignore the grass on the side of the path. The foreigners could speak to him like that because they’d earned the right. Others had not, and needed to be reminded of that soon unless the came to their senses on their own.

  Splash!

  “What was that?”

  Geert shook his head and tapped his horse’s flank with a heel, picking up the pace and turning off the path toward a pond used for soaking flax. As the men rode closer they heard an angry woman using bad words in two dialects. “She did not learn that from me,” Geert assured his friend.

  Pjtor’s face felt warm. “Ah, no, she didn’t.” The emerged from a thicket of blue-needle trees to find Alsice standing on the bank, holding her horse’s reins in one hand and shaking the riding stick at the mare with the other. Several small pfiggies swam across the pond, making Pjtor blink. He had not realized they could swim. He looked around as Geert chuckled behind his gloved hand. “Where’s the sow?”

  “Oh shit.” Geert turned, looking for the sow as Pjtor rode toward Alsice.