Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

  He had not mentioned his idea about the monastery lands during the church council. His observation that “ ‘Godown will provide’ covers a great number of shortcomings and excuses” had been enough to set the council at odds, with just over half the bishops demanding more priests be sent to them and to distant parishes, and a large minority and Archbishop Adam insisting that the number of vocations would rise as Godown willed it and to order urban priests out into the distant lands would not help matters. “The heretics on the Fallbroke River had priests enough, so that falls under Bishop Robert’s guidance,” Adam had glared across the room, adding, “or lack of guidance.”

  Pjtor had stepped in. “Bishop Robert, how many priests do you have for how many parishes?”

  “Eight for twelve, and those are double-parishes, a day’s ride across. At best, in fine weather with good horses and mules, my priests can celebrate liturgy at each church twice a month, and each church serves two settlements. For final absolution I have an additional twelve lay-brothers who have been taught by the priests and who are permitted to hear final confessions and to grant peace, but it is, my brothers, imperial majesty, not ideal. I request permission to train more lay-brothers and to allow them to do first anointings if the child is sickly and a priest is not available.”

  The tall, round-faced cleric’s words had started another uproar, one quelled only by Archbishop Adam and Pjtor both roaring “Quiet!” The vote to allow the additional emergency powers to the lay-brothers passed by two votes, and Pjtor made very careful note of who disapproved. He was disappointed to count Adam among the traditionalists. The council had also agreed, although by a wider margin, to send more priests to the south at least for now, and more with the army when it marched against the heretics. Pjtor sang under his breath as he memorized the faces and names of those who opposed the motion, aside from Bishop Robert. His objection was from the temporary nature of the assignment and from allowing priests to refuse the assignment.

  The church council’s decisions were what had inspired Pjtor to call the current nobles’ council to order. He regretted that Lord Arkmandii had thrown in with the heretics, and he wondered who to elevate to hold those lands, or if he should fold them into the crown’s holdings. That might be better, and if he parceled out some of the church lands to the lords it would sweeten the blow. Tarnoii had settled down a little, in part because he realized that the Harriers were not completely gone, and in part because he wanted to stay on Pjtor’s good side. Lord Tabor was also absent, due to sickness, and Pjtor had considered punishing him for harboring the heretics. No, the Harriers took care of that. He’ll be fortunate to survive and to be able to pay taxes. Tabor was not himself a heretic, he just closed his eyes to their presence. Given the man’s need for people and the number of Harrier raids he’d endured over the past five years, Pjtor was quite willing to let Godown deal with Tabor Himself.

  “I do not anticipate more business until after the campaign against the heretics concludes,” Pjtor said at last. “Unless there is something of interest?” He left the question open.

  Lord Broislov raised his hand. “Several of my fishermen report seeing sailing ships close to the coast. They are not stopping on my lands, or if they sent people ashore for wood and water I found no sign of them, but my people say the flag on the ships is strange to them.”

  That sounded odd, and Pjtor and a few others frowned. “What is the device on the flag?”

  “White over red with a green stripe corner to corner, and a white flower in the center over the stripe, imperial majesty. That is not one of the Sea Republics or the Eastern Empire, is it?”

  “No, it is not. It is Frankonia. They are probably sneaking in for water and then sneaking out again, since they have not agreed to acknowledge our trade and shelter rights and so we have not done so either.” Pjtor spoke a half-truth, but he didn’t want the fishermen trying to raid a Frankonian ship. They had gonnes and cannons. His fishermen did not. And it could well be that the Frankonians had been caught by storms at sea and needed water and a quiet place to do repairs using their own stores, something every country and city-state permitted so long as the vessel in distress stayed no longer than necessary and did not attempt to trade, raid, or spy. Pjtor made a note to ask Geert to inquire in New Dalfa. He’d be leaving in two days.

  For once Pjtor did not desire to ride with the army. Something within him recoiled from the idea of slaughtering large numbers of his own people, assuming they did not drown themselves first. They probably would try, even as low as the rivers had dropped now that full summer beat down on NovRodi. Instead he went to Hornand, taking his children with him, and sailing. To his great frustration young Pjtor refused to learn how to sail and showed no interest in Swift One. Alsice did, and while she’d never be a good sailor, she learned how to help with the sail and to hold the tiller.

  “Young Pjtor is angry with you, my lord,” Alsice told him one afternoon while they were crossing Lake Morava. High clouds streamed out of the west, taming the sun. The cool breeze on the water made the air a little less stifling.

  “Because I dragged him away from his tutor and friends?” He sniffed. The wind seemed to be shifting a little. This late in the summer that could be a hint that a storm lurked in the distance.

  “No, my lord. Because of Tamsin, the books, and the new tutor.” She peered over her shoulder, shading her eyes to see better. “I think the wind is changing.”

  “It is. Look at the tops of the trees.” He started working the sail and tiller, bringing Swift One around so she could reach the shore closer to where the service-slaves waited. “Master Tom was not the right tutor for a boy Pjtor’s age.”

  “That is so, my lord, but Pjtor is not at the age to understand that fully. And I fear Tom indulged him more than Master Stepan does.” She tied her headcover’s corners under her chin and snugged the brow bands tighter.

  “He’ll come to understand. I think we may get a little wet.” He caught the first glimpse of black on the horizon as the sunlight dimmed even more.

  They got very wet even though they reached the shore quickly enough that the service-slaves and Pjtor had the boat tied down securely before the first drops of rain. They still had to ride almost a kilometer before finding shelter, and the rain came like a flood from above, a cold flood. They returned to the manor farm house drenched and chilled. Hot drinks and dry clothes improved Pjtor’s mood, and he noted that he had no need to go to the steam house. All he had to do was stand in front of the open fire.

  Hornand lacked a true Homefold and Alsice retired to one of the attic rooms instead to dry and change. Her husband would have preferred she do it in his presence, but some of the male staff at the farm might be a little too attentive to her, something Pjtor could not allow or tolerate. He never doubted her fidelity and chastity, but she was his and his alone. While she dried off he went to the little chapel and led prayers for the safety of the crops, and for Godown to turn aside any hail that threatened.

  The next day a courier arrived. There seemed to be something about Hornand, Pjtor decided, that caused important news to arrive after storms. Strella had made a pilgrimage to St. Molly’s shortly before Pjtor went to Hornand, and she reported that the sisters were praying for Sara and were not entirely unhappy that young men no longer came seeking “spiritual guidance.” Some especially fine large fish had appeared on the market and she’d authorized the steward to purchase them for pickling and smoking for the winter. He set the rest of the letter aside for Alsice, since the homefold was her domain as well as Strella’s. Alsice had been reluctant to learn to read, but she could now do it more easily than Pjtor could.

  The other letters dampened Pjtor’s mood almost as much as the rain dripping down outside the manor house walls. Many of the True Spirits fled west and south into the unknown ahead of the Army. Because of the lateness of the season, the priests had agreed with General Green that further pursuit might hurt the Army more than the heretics. And if the heretics were seekin
g death, would it not be better to allow the elements and the Harriers to account for them? I do not like the idea of driving my people into the jaws of the Harriers. But they are not really mine any more, are they? Not since they refused to accept the church’s efforts to remove superstition and new additions to the liturgy and to devotions. The church is Godown’s representative in the world, and by rejecting the church they have rejected Godown. I am Godown’s anointed and they reject me as well. That realization eased his mind greatly, although he still did not relish losing people to winter storms, dardogs, wulfs, and the Harriers. Well, Godown would know His own and take them into His keeping, sorting the faithful from those who chose darkness.

  And if they fled to the grasslands, they were not fouling the rivers with their bodies. Pjtor could not understand, did not want to try to understand, men taking their women and children and throwing themselves into the waters to die. “Godown will protect our souls and wash away our errors and we will die in His grace and blessing” the latest message had read. Since the Holy Writ and later commenters permitted very, very few exceptions to the teachings against self-murder, Pjtor had serious doubts about their eternal fate.

  He made notes on a wax board that yes, the army had gone far enough for the season and that he agreed with Green’s assessment.

  In contrast to his feelings about the army’s news, Pjtor smiled at the results of his agents’ investigations into monastic land holdings and territorial claims. They’d gotten permission to look at the old books in order to “clarify some legal questions that related to the new lands.” It was not on Pjtor’s conscience if the monks and priests interpreted that phrase as being in their favor.

  The next letter sent him striding back and forth the length of the great main room. Alsice, trying to keep Adam and Klara from getting completely under foot, gestured for one of the maids. The woman and a nurse carried the children out and Alsice added a log to the fire before approaching her husband. “My lord?”

  Should he tell her? He probably should so she could correct the gossip that would flow and be prepared for petitions from the women. “Archbishop Adam, in his wisdom and concern for the future needs of the church, claims all the lands formerly assigned to the Arkmandii family, as well as the area south of Marshton where the heretics were found last winter, and in fact desires any property touched by the heretics to be given to the church for its use and benefit. And priests will be provided as Godown calls them to serve.” He returned to the sprawl of paper, shifted several pages and moving maps around until he found what he wanted. “We are here, at Hornand. Here is Muskava, here the Sweetwater Sea.”

  She touched each place as he named them and nodded.

  “The areas with faint stripes diagonal across them are where the heretics have been reported. I have some doubts about this bit here, since,” he snorted.

  She bent down and looked more carefully, then straightened and smiled just a little. “Bare rock without any water is probably safe from them, yes, my lord.” She measured the other section with her hand. “This is more than um, a quarter of the lands regained from the Harriers, my lord.”

  “It is, and Archbishop Adam also wants the Tabor estates, although Tabor and his family are in good standing with the church and the heretics left his lands last year, moving south and a little to the west and away from his protection.”

  Alsice wrinkled her nose and tipped her head to the side. “My lord, ah, your pardon if I overstep, but how much land does the church need? Are their holdings in the north plus our tithes and donations sufficient for the work of Godown, in most years, that is,” she added quickly. “Special calamities do require additional resources.”

  That was an excellent question and Pjtor suspected, no, knew that he and the archbishop had rather different answers to it. “I believe we will find out this autumn, Alsice. Because land requires people and,” he selected his words carefully, “I have some concerns about the, ah, discernment of vocations to be pioneer monks sufficient to hold these lands. But Godown will provide,” although perhaps not as Adam has in mind. Pjtor too was one of Godown’s anointed.

  Pjtor set the letter down on the table with great care, as if he were handling the most delicate of ancient plaztik or the famed Lander ceramics in the imperial treasure, the ones light shone through and that still bore such beautiful colors and details after all these years. Alsice had claimed a single cup and its tiny plate as her marriage night gift. Pjtor tried to stay at least a meter away from the shelf where she kept them when she was not using them. Small, delicate things tended to shatter it he came too close. Given the contents of the letter, Pjtor felt a great temptation to shatter the messenger as well as the sender. Instead he stood up, unfolding vertically out of the chair and looming from behind the desk.

  “A reply will come in due time. You may leave.”

  The pale, sweating junior priest bowed so low he might have been prostrating himself before the altar in Godown of the Endless Stars, and fled.

  Pjtor left the work room, stalked down to the woodshop, found an ax and began attacking one of the logs in the firewood pile. Chips of dark bark and paler wood flew left and right as he vented his fury on the hapless log. Pjtor turned almost a meter of log into firewood sticks before he felt confident that he would not kill a service-slave or frighten someone to death. Although going to the episcopal residence and jamming one of the land-claim maps down Adam’s throat still sounded rather enjoyable. Let’s see if he can chew what he’s bitten off, shall we?

  Pjtor’s messengers went out that afternoon, summoning the nobles of court to meet. Pjtor did not call Tabor, because he already knew Tabor’s feelings. The border noble’s latest letter suggested with great tact and circumspection that perhaps the church was in error in discerning the will of Godown when it had selected Adam of Westering over Robert of Marshton for Archbishop of Muskava and head of the church in NovRodi. And less tactfully stated that he was not turning his lands over to the church as an act of penance for having encouraged heresy because he had done no such thing. On the last point Pjtor had some doubts, but otherwise he fully agreed with Tabor.

  Of the other lords, only Broislov had not come to Muskava for the winter yet, delayed by more reports of Frankonian ships along the coast. He’d sent word that he needed to check every village and settlement within easy raiding distance, in case it was not Frankonians or if the Frankonians had mischief in mind. Pjtor approved the delay. The others came the next day just after breaking their fast following the dawn liturgy, filing in to the great throne room by rank and seniority. Some of the younger men, or those nobles seeking Pjtor’s favor, wore shorter coats and had shaved their faces, leaving at most a mustache like Pjtor’s own. The old men clung to long, embroidered coats and full but clean and well-trimmed beards. The patterns on their coats reminded Pjtor of the tapestries in the homefold, clashing colors and patterns that moved as the men walked. Old Karlinov had always reminded Pjtor of a walking roll of cloth, two meters tall with coats that brushed the ground no matter how wet and muddy the world outside might have been. Those days had passed—no man’s hems touched the floors any more. Pjtor pulled his mind back to the business of the morning and gesturing to the waiting servants. As the nobles entered the room, servants handed them each a page.

  Pjtor’s scribes had prepared copies of maps for them, showing the old lands originally given to the church as described in the books of the Rolls of Honor, and showing current holdings and Archbishop Adam’s claims. At least half the men could not read well, and this seemed the best way to get the information to them. And it provided solid evidence that Pjtor had grounds for changing things. After all, the land belonged to him.

  The lords bowed and then knelt to Pjtor, standing beside the throne, now carefully reinforced to better take his heavy frame.

  Pjtor sang, “Godown be with you.”

  “And with thy spirit.”

  “Blessed be Godown and all His works,” Pjtor sang back. Then he sat and a
llowed the others to stand. “Lords of the council, you will recall the matters we discussed last spring, including your thoughts concerning the distribution of the newly recaptured lands in the south and west. The campaign against the heretics took precedence over all else this summer, as Godown willed and permitted. The Harriers have not made major attacks against the holdings along the Sweetwater Sea or the dirt wall, aside from the burning raids of the late spring. Truly, Godown has been good.”

  “Ameen” several men replied, and all bowed their heads, as did Pjtor.

  “The time has come to settle those new lands and to divide them as is proper, in order to prevent strife among Godown’s people. Given the large amount of land in question, and other matters in the older lands, this is also a good time to redraw a few other borders and properties.”

  Several of the men began turning their fur trimmed hats in their hands, nervous. Pjtor wondered what part of their consciences had begun pricking them. Well, with Young Karlinov he knew damn well, because he’d warned the man off himself. If Karlinov tried to force another free farmer into service-slavery without just cause, Pjtor would beat him with the five-tailed whip himself and enslave Karlinov for four years, sold to the first bidder.

  “If you will look at the maps, you will see lands outlined in grey. Those are what was originally given to the church, including the houses founded within the last fifty years.” He stopped to let them look and discuss among themselves. Murmurs rose and fell, growing louder each time. Gretchalii, Alicorn, and Tarnoii seemed especially agitated, and Alicorn crossed the room to compare something with Tarnoii. Interesting, because usually those two are at each other’s throats, literally. Pjtor whistled under his breath, locking the observation.

  After several minutes, Karlinov cleared his throat. Pjtor acknowledged him. “Most worthy and gracious imperial majesty, the area of the original gifts appears rather smaller than the church now claims for its upkeep and support.”