Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  Enough of this. “Sonia, fetch a pail of water, please.” Sonia gathered her skirts and dashed off, leaving Elizabeth with the hysterical woman. When Elizabeth backed up, Cooper followed, moving away from the cross corridor and, perhaps, farther from curious ears. The maid seemed locked into her shrieks, unable to hear a word as Elizabeth tried to sooth her. What nonsense has been oozing through the women’s quarters? This is inexcusable, Elizabeth fumed.

  She heard running footsteps and hard breathing. Elizabeth turned and in a smooth motion, swept the pail out of Sonia’s hand and threw the contents into Cooper’s face, ducking out of the way of the splash and wincing as her shoulder pulled. Spluttering and choking replaced wails as the maid inhaled a mouthful of water. Sonia took over, pounding on Leigh’s back and calming her. “See that she gets to her mistress.” Elizabeth hissed, using the distraction to flee before she set Leigh off again.

  By the time supper ended, she’d made up her mind. For the rest of her stay, when she was not at an official gathering, she rode with the Poloki, studying their light cavalry tactics, or meditated in St. Michael’s. The royal horsemen proved congenial companions. While few women rode with the men, women could and did learn to fight on horseback, or to use riding tools as weapons, and Elizabeth alternated riding Snowy and Braun.

  One wonderful morning, the head of the royal stables, Master Pan, allowed her to try one of the fleet, light-boned Poloki courier horses. “This is Szary,” the bearded man informed her. The dun mare sported white stockings, a white snip on her nose, and a wild eye. Elizabeth studied the mare and her tack, which looked like nothing more than a basic bridle and a glorified blanket with a girth to hold it on. Once on the mare’s back, she discovered the hidden structure in the light saddle and she felt a bit more secure. She and Szary followed Master Pan and his mount out of the Citadel, down a steep back route that led to the fields on the north side of the hill. Soon they entered the open, grassy pastures and training areas. “Go,” Pan ordered.

  Elizabeth touched her heels to Szary’s flanks and they went. Szary exploded into the fastest run that Elizabeth had ever ridden and she crouched low on the mare’s back, her eyes watering from the wind of their speed. She turned the mare back in a great sweeping curve and slowed her to a ground-eating fast trot. As they approached a small stream, Elizabeth felt Szary shifting her gait and was ready when the mare leaped over the stream. It seemed as if she could feel every shift and step the horse made, and Elizabeth decided that she liked the odd saddle. But not for fighting. There’s nowhere to hang things, and nothing to keep me in place. And if the horse had a rough trot? Ooh, I hate to think what I’d feel like after riding that battle mare of Major Wyler’s.

  Szary sensed Elizabeth’s distraction and bucked, twisting. Elizabeth rode through it and pushed the mare back into a canter, riding along the creek bank until they returned to Master Pan’s side. “You belong on the plains,” he told her.

  That evening, the last before they departed the return to the Empire, she met with Lewis and Matthew. “You have no escort. Princess Ildiko is remaining here, to help Miranda and to meet Lord Pekka Courtland of Hämäl.” Lewis added, “Her father hopes Courtland will meet her standards.” Elizabeth worked to keep from snorting at his dry tone. “But that leaves you at the mercy of the men.”

  “Or vice versa,” Matthew grunted, a bit of wicked humor glinting in his black eyes.

  She took the bait. “Oh yes, my lord, I’d hate to have to explain to his grace Aquila von Starland that I’d corrupted his heir’s pristine virtue.” Matthew flushed, twitching, and she savored the moment. “In all seriousness, is it true that one of the carriages is coming back with us?”

  “Yes, for luggage and supplies,” Matthew agreed.

  “I’ll ride by day and sleep in the carriage. There will be multiple witnesses that I’m well protected and away from immodest eyes.” And I’m not sleeping on wet ground, for a change.

  Lewis, head tipped to the side, considered the idea. “We can lock her in, or better, she can lock herself in at night, and if the killer mule is close by, she can get out and fight if she needs to.”

  “Their highnesses will still be upset,” Matthew sighed, recovering from his discomfort.

  “My lords, whatever I do, someone will be upset.”

  “True.” Lewis made his decision. “You will ride during the days, and sleep in the carriage for modesty and propriety’s sake, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, your grace.” And so she did.

  5. Displeasures of Spring

  “I must regretfully inform your grace that the mule project, as first envisioned, has not been successful,” Elizabeth mouthed as she wrote. “The young mules’ temperament makes them unusable as riding animals. It is hoped that as they age, they will prove suitable for working in teams.” Which was really too bad, because some of the Oberland colts and mollies looked beautiful under saddle, she sighed. “You will be pleased to hear, however, that the Greyland mares produce superior offspring that seem ideal for riding mules.” Well, Lazlo had warned them what had happened when the Destefani family tried Oberlander mares with mammoth jack donkeys. “As you are well aware, your grace, nothing is certain until the mules are four years old. I have taken the liberty of breeding the Greyland mares again. May I have the Oberlander mares bred to Ricardo, if they will have him?” The stud needed to earn his keep.

  She finished the letter and sealed it. Another set of messages would go to Vindobona in two days, Godown willing, and she’d send the letter with them. She stood up, wincing at the twinge from her left foot. Bones healed faster than the muscles and bruising, Elizabeth was discovering. Never, ever am I going around horses without proper boots on. Godown as my witness, it had better be a dire emergency for me not to be properly shod. “Laural, have my uniforms finished airing yet?”

  The dark-haired woman looked up from her mending and shook her head. “No, my lady. Lady Ann says two more days should be enough, if the sun stays out.” She put her work into her basket and followed Elizabeth out of the office as the lady of the estate walked with slow and careful steps out of the house to the chapel. The two women bowed to the Presence, and Laural sat on one of the rear benches, giving her mistress privacy. Colored light filled the chapel and Elizabeth heard Laural’s sigh of pleasure. The young woman loved bright colors, and the windows made it look as if rainbows danced inside the building. Rich greens and reds glowed against a background of deep cobalt blue. Strips of golden yellow gleamed like little suns, and here and there bits of fantastically expensive purple glass added to the rich geometric patterns. They’d only needed one new window, once all the pieces were put back together.

  Elizabeth took her place and knelt, fingering her prayer beads out of unbreakable habit. Blessed be Godown, who sends rain and sun in their seasons. Praise Him for his kindness and mercy, praise Him for his love for His children, praise Him. All elements and seasons, praise your Maker, she recited in her mind. The statue of St. Michael-Horseman gleamed in its pool of clear light, below Godown’s symbol. At Archduke Lewis’s instigation, the saint rode a dark grey mule. Lewis refused to explain how he got the dispensation, and the image-maker must have complained vociferously before doing the magnificent work.

  After she finished her prayers, Elizabeth stopped by the small side altar to St. Gerald. She bowed low and lit a candle, offering prayers for the Babenburg family. As she’d requested, a little niche-shrine to St. Jenna stood between the next set of windows, and Elizabeth noticed fresh flowers. Hmmm, so maybe that rumor about Lazlo was right? But there could be any number of Jenna’s devotees here, she reminded herself. St. Jenna’s followers tended to be discreet, much more so than adherents to certain other saints she could name. She brought her thoughts back to more appropriate devotions and bowed again to St. Gerald. A faint “click, click, click, rustle, click,” made her smile. Laural could not keep from working with her hands, and Elizabeth said nothing about knitting in the chapel. Laural followed Godown an
d that was enough for Elizabeth. All worship in their own ways, for Godown accepts service, contemplation, and care for His children alike, so long as the heart is open.

  “You may return to the manor, Laural. I’m going to look at the Lander items, and then will be riding out to look at the bridge.”

  “Lander shed and then the bridge, yes my lady.” Laural would tell Annie Lei, the housekeeper, so someone knew where to find her and where she’d been going if she did not return on time.

  “I’ll be riding Ricardo.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” She curtsied and walked back to the manor as Elizabeth made her way around a flock of yard fowl to the locked shed where she kept the Lander finds until she cleaned them. She removed the padlock and flipped the colored board beside the door to show the whitewashed side, telling people that she was working.

  She opened the shutters and let light in, smiling at the gleam of metal and ceramic. One of the farmers, clearing new land for a field, had found a trove of Lander-made tableware and what had been a timepiece of some kind, or so she guessed. Why it only had one pointer she did not know, and as she studied it again, she wondered why the Landers had divided the day into thirty-five hours. She shrugged: it did not matter, really. She pulled on cloth gloves and picked up a set of tweezers. By now she knew enough to make drawings as she took things apart, and she picked up a gear off of the bench, tapped it against paper to make certain it was dry, and set it in the palm-sized metal case. The gears posed no problem, but it took her four tries to get the springs back in their places. After the third spring she quit. “I’m going to break something if I keep working,” she muttered. “Probably the wall.” She set a paper-covered frame over the half-finished device to keep dust off of the metal, shut the shutters, and locked the shed. Although the priest blessed everything that came in, some of her people still thought any Lander artifact carried blasphemy with it. There was no point in tempting someone to an act of foolishness.

  She changed from shoes to her riding boots, shook out her riding coat and found Ricardo waiting for her. “Eager for some fresh air?” He snorted. Snowy and Rowen, and most of the other horses, had been turned out into the paddocks the day before. “Poor beast, too valuable to let you step in a hole,” she soothed. She clipped a rope around his neck and he followed her to the crossties. There she groomed him, then tacked him up with her new hybrid saddle. She waited until he looked drowsy, and only then buckled the bridle behind his ears. He no longer panicked at the touch, but she still gave him plenty of warning and tried to avoid brushing or bumping the sensitive area.

  “Ah,” she sighed aloud as they trotted out of the courtyard and out into the sunny spring afternoon. The land glowed green and she raised her riding stick in salute when she passed farmers testing the fields near the road. They bowed or tugged their hats as she passed, no longer afraid of the manor lord’s wrath. The dark mud needed at least a week of steady sunlight to dry enough to permit plowing and planting, or so she’d heard. “I think, if the sun had not come out, I’d be adjudicating a murder case. At least one,” she told Ricardo. The warhorse ignored her comment, intent on the path and any surprises hiding behind the bushes. He hated bushes, especially knee-high ones that brushed against him.

  A quiet murmur reached her ears, one that grew into a rushing rumble as she rode south. The Donatello River, well out of its banks, provided ample warning of the flood in progress. Ricardo pricked his ears but did not protest when she slowed him, walking along the road. Water filled the low woods now, forming marshes that seemed unwilling to drain. She made a note to have the women make a batch of blood-fly repelling salve the next time they worked in the stillroom. It was going to be a bad year for the nasty pests.

  Horse and rider reached the Donatello River and she turned him uphill, into the fort built into the Lander ruins atop the volcanic knoll. “My lady,” one of the men on watch acknowledged, taking Ricardo’s head as Elizabeth dismounted.

  “Any problems, Sam?”

  “Not yet, my lady. Maybe the rumors were wrong.”

  “I pray they were, Sam.” She climbed up to the top of the wall. Seven months before she’d walked almost dry-footed across the river after a year of drought. Now the river almost licked the base of the hill, three hundred meters from the banks. One of the soldiers handed her a set of binoculars. “Thank you.” She peered out, looking for the other end of the bridge. “It seems we will be rebuilding the entire bridge.”

  He took a pull on his nicotiana roll. “Yes, my lady. The bend broke and let the water out.”

  “Has anything interesting floated by?”

  “Not really, my lady. No more bodies, and that island was the last one, Godown willing.” He blew a stream of smoke.

  “From your lips to His ears, Sam. Any dardogs?”

  He sucked more smoke. “Not yet, my lady.” She didn’t expect any, and he probably didn’t either, but after the past winter, neither wanted to conjure a pack by saying “no.” She and her men had killed two-dozen of the predators, and the farmers and shahma herders accounted for at least twenty. She’d paid for that many, and suspected that more had been killed and their hides tanned for home use instead of turned in for the bounty. The winter pelts trapped heat better than the thickest wool.

  “Good. If Captain Destefani comes by, tell him I’ve already pestered you.”

  She got a snaggle-toothed smile in return. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Elizabeth rode along the river, keeping a healthy distance from the edge of the muddy, cold water. A goodly number of overly curious people now rested in the Southern Sea, having discovered the river’s hunger too late. She made a blessing sign for the peace of their souls. “Not us, Ricardo.” They returned to the road and trotted back to the manor.

  Lazlo Destefani met them near the edge of the woods, along with two of his men. The riders fell in behind their captain and lady. “I do not think the foundations of the bridge survived,” she told him.

  “No, my lady. If they did, they will still need to be repaired and rebuilt.”

  “Speaking of bridges,” she ventured after several minutes. “Any rumors about the eastern border?”

  He waited until they’d cleared the last of the woods, returning to the more open farmlands. “No rumors but news. Raids. Not against the Empire, but the Turkowi are nibbling the counties south of Tivolia. Scheel fell just before the rains began up here.”

  “Blast!” She slammed her gloved fist against her thigh. “North or south this summer?”

  “Both, my lady.” They exchanged gloomy looks. “At least we’ll have a harvest this year,” he reminded her.

  “Godown be praised. I’d started to think that this region only had two types of weather: dry and drier.”

  One of the soldiers behind them snorted and she turned in the saddle. “You disagree, lieutenant?”

  The young man shook his head. “No my lady, but I’d add ‘bitter cold’ to your list, my lady.”

  Now she and Lazlo exchanged knowing smiles. The lieutenant had been caught helping one of the farmers’ daughters keep warm, and they were to be wed the next holy day. Neither of the young people had objected to the girl’s father’s demands, Elizabeth had noticed. Spring is indeed in the air.

  They reached the main road to the manor and turned, intending to ride to the paddocks before returning to the manor. “What?” Lazlo began. They all turned as a horse’s pounding hooves drew closer. She and Lazlo both drew their swords and the other men pulled pistols out of their saddle scabbards.

  “Ambush,” she ordered and they divided, two on each side of the road. The galloping horse drew closer and she caught a glimpse of a dark blue banner. “Stand down. Imperial courier.” Ricardo stepped into the road and she waited. The rider saw them and checked his mount, slowing the lathered beast to a trot.

  “Lady Sarmas?”

  “Here” and she raised her hand. Lazlo joined her in the road and the courier let his horse walk up, stopping beside he
r.

  “Urgent message, my lady. Trouble in the north, Frankonian troops. You need to muster and march.” He undid his saddlebag and handed her a baton and thick packet of papers. She felt all the heat drain out of her and her hand started shaking as she reached for the colonel’s baton and her orders.

  “Who else needs to muster?” Lazlo demanded.

  The messenger shook his head. “You’re the last ones. Can’t cross the Donau Novi, Donatello, or Sarki for at least another week, and then only if the rains stop and the snow doesn’t melt early.”

  “Good. You’re spending the night,” Elizabeth told him. She broke the seal on the message and skimmed the summary. “Come to the manor with us. Lieutenant, tell Hans Sparli that the horse militia will muster tomorrow.” She turned to Lazlo. “Grantholm only wants our mounted forces, Godown be praised, at least for now.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Come,” she ordered, mind already at work. “We’ll leave day after tomorrow, weather permitting. The roads are going to be horrible.”

  “Mud caulks and pulling, my lady.” He started to add something, but stopped and only repeated, “mud caulks and pulling.”

  6. Cavalry

  Just over four muddy and dusty weeks later, the Donatello horsemen reached Duke Grantholm’s rearguard. Elizabeth caught sight of the banners and waved her lead riders in. “Stop and close up,” she ordered. Harnesses jingled and the aching creak of the wagon wheels carried on the summer wind and she nodded to herself. They’d spent the first week crawling through mud, in some places as deep as the hubs of the wagon wheels. At least the wagons got lighter as they traveled. She’d tried to eat her own supplies as much as possible, then bought what they needed when they ran out of fodder. Godown bless, but draft horses eat a lot! She’d thought that Ricardo ate his weight in grass and grain every other day, but compared to the draft animals, he barely nibbled. She shifted in the saddle, ignoring the now-constant ache from her back and thighs.