Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  She saw very few people working in the fields and gardens and wondered where the rest were. Those who noticed the riders either ducked out of sight or glared at the trio.

  She lowered her voice. “Captain, question?”

  “My lady?”

  “As bad as conditions were here, why did anyone stay on the manor?” Even in Frankonia, if a lord failed to do his duty, his people had right of petition to the king or flight. Was Peilov complicit with the traitor?

  She heard Lazlo taking a deep breath. “My lady,” he answered slowly. “My lady, I have only rumors, and things Kemal says he heard from Lady Marie about Peilovna.” She glanced over and saw him lick his lips, dark eyes smoldering with anger. “Those who complained suffered accidents: house fires, lamed or sick animals, trees that withered. And those that fled to Peilovna, well, their neighbors got visits from strangers, and a few had accidents at Peilovna, or their new neighbors did. Theobald Peilov, ah, did not encourage them to remain unless they brought a good deal of wealth with them.”

  Elizabeth stared at Snowy’s ears as she counted to fifty, slowly, making herself calm down. That’s inexcusable. No wonder his majesty has reclaimed the estate. But why did no one petition? Unless they did, and Windthorst’s position let him… I’d better send a message to Archduke Lewis to look into the chancery and see what he can find. “Thank you. That explains a great deal.”

  As they rode to the top of one of the hills, Elizabeth drew to a halt. “Once past the river, there’s not a great deal to stop an army, is there?”

  “Nor raiders, no, my lady,” Lazlo agreed.

  Gary nodded, then spat. “We need to start work on the militia as soon as we can, my lady. Trouble comes from the northwest as much as from the south and east, and there’s no river that way.”

  She looked north and west, as if she could see as far as the Bergenlands and the skirmishes and raids still in progress. “True. Duke Grantholm can only do so much for so long, if Laurence V decides to get serious about capturing the mines and timberland there.” Which would put the empire in a nasty bind, because the only reserves of good iron and coal would be in Tivolia and south, right where the Turkowi happen to be nosing around.

  “Why should he, my lady, other than to spite the empire?” Lazlo shifted his weight in the saddle and wiped sweat out from under his hat. “Frankonia has access to the northern lands and their sea coal and other goods.”

  Elizabeth nudged Snowy into a walk before replying. “Frankonia did have access to the sea coal, but from what I understand, Laurence does not want to buy what he can capture. He thinks that armies cost the kingdom less than trade does. But more to the point,” she pushed on, “if he alienates the northern states and the sea cities by invading them and seizing the coal, assuming he can do that, then Frankonia loses access to the timber and grain reserves of their other trading allies, as well as to the luxury trade and probably some fishing grounds as well.” She shrugged, “As it is, the last time I heard anything, the sea-hunters were still restricting Frankonian fishermen to the shallows and southern end of the great spike-back grounds. If Laurence goes to war with the northerners, the first thing he’ll lose is the entire deep-sea fishing fleet.”

  Lazlo grinned to Gary, “And everyone knows that there’ll be a civil war if the Frankonians can’t get their fish sauce.”

  “They really eat that, my lady? I thought it was a story that grannies tell bad children, like the one about the Turkowi having tails,” Gary protested.

  Elizabeth shook her head and turned Snowy onto the road to the manor hill, a small lump on the horizon a few kilometers ahead of them. “No. They eat a lot of fish sauce, especially in the south. But the dried fish are more important. That’s what people depend on when the harvest fails or gets eaten in the fields. Be glad that glitterwings can’t cross the mountains. What they don’t eat they foul.” She shivered. She’d seen one swarm and that was enough.

  “Ah, that explains some things, my lady,” Gary replied.

  They returned to the manor without incident. Elizabeth finished introducing Snowy to the last of the hostlers (and vice versa), then retreated to her quarters for a quick wash before supper. She found a note from Ann about the menu for the next week, and a stack of ledger books. “You were right about the taxes. Found these hidden in the back of the still room, behind the bottles.” Elizabeth changed out of her riding boots before starting to look at the books.

  An hour later, head throbbing, she stood up and began pacing, running her string of Lander trinkets through her fingers. Where did the money go? Even I can see that it went, but where? The late Count Windthorst had been meticulous about noting the income from everything, and accounted for just over half of the outgo, including enough in taxes to keep the imperial auditors from visiting. That leaves half of the revenue unaccounted for. How much of it went east, I wonder? The numbers, showing which funds had been spent or otherwise disbursed, added up but the lines for the recipients remained blank. “I need an accounts calculator,” Elizabeth moaned.

  Someone tapped on the door and Ann poked her head into the room. “Ah, my lady, you found them.”

  “Yes, I did. And even I can see that the numbers match, but I can not decipher who got what.”

  Ann frowned as she walked in. “To make things worse, the numbers do not match the official account books in the steward’s office, my lady, at least those that have been found. The last two years are missing.”

  “So I truly need an accounts calculator, if only to know how much is owed to the crown.” Elizabeth’s head throbbed some more. “Please add that to the list to send back to Vindobona.” She paced again and then decided. “The house in Vindobona has to go to the crown. That should take some pressure off the estate as far as paying back taxes.”

  “But my lady, then were will you stay when you attend court?”

  “An inn, or a convent that permits guests.” She preferred the latter, truth be told. I’m still a postulant, after all. She’d not had enough time to seek release from her vows before coming out to the estates. Elizabeth heard an odd squeak, turned around, and found Ann staring at her as if she were out of her mind. “What? Don’t women of rank stay in the convents near Vindobona?”

  Aghast, Ann sank onto the stool by the wall. “Lady Elizabeth, the only convent near Vindobona is for unwed pregnant women or prostitutes who have turned back to Godown. I’m certain they would allow you to stay, but it would utterly destroy your reputation.”

  “Hmmm, that is a problem.” An idea suddenly formed in her mind, a wonderful, problem solving idea, one that could solve several dilemmas. She’d need to learn more about what the Babenburgs and the council of Vindobona permitted, but she doubted anyone would protest too much. “Then I stay at an inn or make other arrangements. And sorting out these,” she waved at the pile of legers, “comes first.”

  “Yes, my lady, it does. Oh, and the artist who painted the,” Ann frowned, “the sporting art in the second bed chamber is still alive. He only takes commissions for religious art, now.”

  “I imagine that…” she caught herself. “That he…” and stopped again. Ann won’t get the joke and I’m not supposed to know it. “Good. If his fees are not outrageous, or his waiting time too long, I’d like to have him do the chapel, once the windows are put back in and the floors and wall repaired.” Whoever had desecrated the chapel had been quite thorough, even ripping out the platform on which the altar stood and tearing up part of the wall to erase the niches for Godown’s light and for the holy oils. But the windows had been found in a storage room, intact. They were only color, not images, so why break them up when they could be reused elsewhere on the manor? The late count had been thriftier in some ways than in others, or his estate manager had been, whoever he was. They’d found no trace of the man yet. “Anything else of interest this afternoon?”

  “We found out where the shahma are. The flocks are up in the foothills, on rented pasture. They will come back for the winter next m
onth, unless the weather turns cold earlier.”

  “Oh good! How many?”

  Ann rocked her head back and forth several times. “Several hundred. I have no idea how good the combing will be, but that’s cash and winter work for the estate.”

  “And food.” Ann stared at her again. Elizabeth stared back. “Don’t you eat shahma?”

  “No,” Ann gulped. “I’ve never heard of anyone eating a shahma.”

  Elizabeth sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “St. Kiara give me clarity. Lord Armstrong got a few old ones every year from the herders, ones that were no longer having offspring and that had coarse fleeces, and slaughtered and put the meat up. Smoked some, made sausage from the trimmings, and pickled the rest, and ate the organ meats fresh.”

  Ann got up from the stool. “My lady, with all due respect, Frankonians are strange.”

  “I will not argue with you on that.”

  Four weeks later Elizabeth scandalized the entire estate. She’d stayed out of the way during the start of the apple harvest and the mammoth effort that was cherry preservation, but no longer. “I am going to watch,” she told the butchers. “Those animals,” and she pointed to the four old shahmas in a temporary pen by the burn pit, “will be butchered. Do it the same way you do pigs, except do not try and salvage the tail or the lower legs and head. Those parts are unclean.”

  “My lady, no one eats shahma,” one of the men protested.

  “Half of this continent does, and I do too. Butcher those animals tomorrow, weather permitting, and I’ll see to the rest.” She’d gotten permission from Archduke Lewis to cull the herd.

  The next morning she met the butchers just before dawn. They needed dry, cold weather, and Godown had provided. She watched as they set to work on the animals. The long-legged, barrel-bodied beasts dropped like stones after the kill hammer hit their skulls. The men worked quickly, bleeding the carcasses, skinning them, and quartering them before hanging the quarters from wooden frames to cool. Two kitchen women collected the lights, tripe, casings, hearts, and livers. “Not the kidneys,” Elizabeth warned. “I don’t know why but no one eats those.” The sharp north wind helped dry the meat, so that it could be taken inside by the evening.

  “Spice it like pseudo-boar,” she ordered. “Blacknut, sage, bitterleaf, and lemon sorrel. Use a stronger cure, with honey, for the soak.” As she watched, the staff followed her directions, although they gave her very odd looks, especially when she insisted they set aside some of the precious apple wood for smoking the haunches once the cure had soaked in.

  That night Elizabeth feasted on slow roasted shahma shoulder in cherry and blueleaf sauce, with fresh greens and bread. She invited the entire senior staff to join her, and most of them did. Ann, sitting at her right hand, speared a piece of meat on her fork, studied it, sniffed it, and nibbled. “It tastes strong, my lady.” But she ate another bite, and a third.

  “Yes. If we have enough lambs to eat a few in the spring, those have a much milder flavor and are not as tough.” Elizabeth doubted there would be enough to spare even one, no matter how much she might want to. “You can see why most of it is preserved.” The hides were being tanned, fleece on, to use for winter bed covers.

  “Why not treat it like beef, my lady, instead of pork?” Lazlo inquired from the foot of the table, looking up from his half-finished plate.

  “I don’t know. This is how Lord Armstrong’s people always did it.” She took another large bite and thought as she chewed. “Lady Orrosco told me once that ladies did not eat beef, so I have no idea how to prepare it, other than stewing or jerking. Dark meats are supposed to make one coarse, or so she said, and Sister Amalthea ate no beef or fish, and very little pork and shahma. Her order favored poultry, because the birds are thrifty.”

  Andrew Sims, the chief stableman, nodded. “Birds eat ticks from the paddocks and yard, too, my lady. Keep things clean.”

  The senior maidservant, Annie Lei, wondered, “What if you marinated the shahma in cider, my lady? It might help clear the flavor.”

  “If there is any left for sausage, the cooks are free to experiment,” Elizabeth replied. “I prefer to start with what is known and then move to the unknown.” Except life does not follow my desires, she sighed.

  After the dessert of baked apples had been served, Elizabeth and Ann left so that the others could talk and relax. Elizabeth missed camp manners and army ways. Well, at least tonight she had some letters to read. She did not like being cut off from the news. It made her uneasy, as if something might be approaching that she could not see. Well, Godown’s gifts do not include seeing the future or looking through mountains, at least not until we rediscover that technology, she scolded herself. No one, not even Emperor Rudolph, could know what the Turkowi or Frankonians planned.

  She made herself comfortable, added some wood to the fire, and read the letters in order of rank. Archduke Lewis inquired about the mule project. “I know that it is still too early to tell, but are the broodmares doing well? I want the foals trained from birth,” and more along those lines. She skimmed through another page of mule matters. “Half the shahma comb belongs to the crown, and the other half is yours to sell or use. Ask about dye plants and minerals. Dark blue is always valuable, and any red is worth pursuing. Oh, and you need to try more flax next year. But don’t foul the water with it.” Which do you want, Lewis? You can’t have linen and clean water both. Well, maybe she could see about having flax ponds dug. And perhaps she could use the quenching tanks at the foundry for flax as well, if she timed things right.

  The letter concluded, “The lowlands between the Tongue Sea and Dividing Range have been quiet this fall, and the raids seem to be tapering off, at least within the Empire. There are rumors about something south of Tivolia but nothing certain yet. It is hoped that this finds you well. Your presence at winter court is expected.” Below the official signature she saw a small, scrawled note. “Rudolph says convent in house useful. Proceed with research.”

  She smiled and let herself bounce a little in her chair. Now she needed to find a group of sisters interested in taking up the offer of the property. She had some ideas, including the order of St. Gerald Bridgemaker, her patron. She set the letter in the “to be answered” pile.

  “Dear Lady Elizabeth,” began Duke Aquila’s missive. “It pleases me to hear that my sister is doing well for you. She has a great store of common sense, on those occasions when she chooses to use it. You are right about forming the militia. Begin with the basics: commands and drills to get the men used to moving together. Pikes are safest and as you know, nothing can break a pike square except cannon, and even then the square can reform if the men are well enough trained and motivated. From there you must consider what the empire requires, and what you need to defend the estate. Don’t neglect irregular warfare, and don’t forget to create a core of full-time soldiers. Ask Capt. Destefani the Younger and Gary Alderson for advice, and see how the Peilovs arrange their troops. You will need to train with them, as well, once your men can handle weapons safely.”

  I have no idea where to start, Aquila, she thought back to him, staring into the fire on the other side of the room. But Lazlo should know, she reminded herself. She returned to Aquila’s letter. “The family is well. We still plan on including you when we go to the Poloki court next spring for the wedding, so make sure the killer mule is ready to travel.” She smiled. Who’d have thought that Snowy would be the most famous Frankonian refugee?

  Her smile died as she read the next lines. “The raids have stopped for the moment, but we now are finding claim markers and tokens. As we feared, the followers of Selkow claim all the lands their heretics crossed this spring and summer. Rumor has it that Laurence V is willing to listen to their lies. Godown grant that the rumors are as false as the one about the Turkowi discovering functional Lander weapons. Yours, Aquila.”

  The last letter came from a convent in the lands between Frankonia and the Sea Republics. “Lady von Sarmas, I have been a
sked to forward this to you, if it is true that you are residing in the Eastern Empire. Mother Brigit of the Sisters of St. Kiara, Baumlaand.” Elizabeth unfolded the inner letter and stared. Her heart seemed to stop and she forgot to breathe.

  When she caught her breath, she whispered, “Oh, no, not now. I do not need this. Mother, how did you know that I do not need this right now? I have enough to deal with.” She almost threw the letter into the fire unread. “Your gift of timing remains impeccable, Mother,” Elizabeth sighed. Olympia Sarmas-to seemed to know exactly when her daughter least needed her presence or advice, and barged in anyway. Elizabeth set the letter down and got a drink of water. What do you want, Mother? Probably just to give me advice on finding a man, as always. You’d make a memorable dowager: memorable for all the wrong reasons. St. Gerald, show me how to cross this bridge. Godown, give me patience, please.

  “Dear daughter,” it began, in very expensive blue ink. “It is said that you have found favor in the courts of the Babenburgs. If so, I congratulate you. There are several young men of influence with whom you should do your best to become acquainted. Remember that grace and wit last far longer than delicate looks, and that care in dress and manners can disguise or minimize many favors that nature has failed to grant.” Elizabeth looked up at the ceiling and counted to twenty before reading on. “If rumor is true and Rudolph still has unmarried brothers, it would be wise to learn about them and their circle, but always with tact. Do not press your case too forcefully, not until you are certain that you have their confidence.” In other words, Mother, don’t throw yourself at the feet of an archduke until you know he’s going to keep you in luxury? “Especially if the court is of a religious persuasion or if public piety happens to be in style.” Elizabeth felt a sour wad of gorge in her throat and she stopped reading that page. She skipped to the last, mercifully short, paragraph. “If it should be possible for you to assist me, I will be grateful. The price of fuel has risen because of his illustrious Majesty Laurence V’s policies on coal importation, in light of his pending victory in the Bergenlands. I can be reached at,” and Elizabeth frowned at the name. A mere count, Mother? My, what a disappointment he must be.