Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  “Anything else happen overnight?”

  “No, my lady, besides the fire.” She could hear him shrugging. “I wonder if they fired and the blast caused the floor to collapse, dropping gun and gunners both.”

  Good thing they did not point it at us, she thought. “That makes sense. And if the floor was wood, or they had wood up there for the carriage, that explains the fire.”

  They turned and dog-trotted to where their horses waited. The other combat troops had already ridden out, leaving the support troops to finish packing and loading the wagons, in hopes of concealing some of the army’s movement. The camp tenders would move south after the battle, or so Grantholm planned. Elizabeth hopped onto a stump and then swung into the saddle, checking her pistols and sabre without thought as she urged Ricardo into motion. It won’t be hard to catch up with Marcy, since his people are already tired. Her night guards swore that Marcy’s people had never stopped moving after that first (and last) shot.

  She and Lazlo reached their position, on the east slope of a small hill four kilometers west the camp, without difficulty. “Any word?”

  “No enemy yet and no signals either, my lady,” Lt. Lee assured her. “Marcy’s over that hill,” and he pointed to another taller brush-covered lump north of their position.

  “Good.” As planned, the Donatello cavalry had spread south of Marcy, covering more ground but also in a better position to intercept any flanking attacks. The rolling land could conceal almost anything, and the recent rain and humidity damped road dust. Elizabeth watched and waited, riding at a steady pace beside Marcy’s troops.

  Three hours after sunrise the order flowed down the line to halt. As the artillery swung into position, the cavalry soldiers dismounted, rechecking saddles and giving their beasts a light feed. “My lady, a message from Col. Marcy.”

  She took the courier’s offering and skimmed the note. “Tell him I will follow orders until receiving new ones.”

  “You will follow orders until receiving new ones, yes Colonel.” The teenager saluted and darted off, rushing back to his post.

  Lazlo raised his eyebrows. She shook her head a little. He gave her a boost and she mounted, riding along the back of the closest hill, then up the slope just far enough that she could see over the brush on top. Oh. I don’t like this one whit. Even without her binoculars she could see Rohan-Roi’s troops drawn up in formation, artillery on the hills, waiting for the Imperial attack. He’s got the higher terrain, prepared positions, and larger numbers. From this moment on, all she could do was what she and her men had trained for, and she retreated, riding back to Lazlo and her own couriers. “Right. We watch for flankers and cover Marcy’s rear. I don’t think we need to worry about frontal attackers. He’s loaded the guns at this end of his line with canister.” Or so his message had warned. It had also accused her of letting the Frankonians get into the ruins.

  Lazlo flinched. He’d seen the results of canister shot. The others had not, yet, and gave him curious glances before tending to their own business. “Lee, I need someone on the hill watching for Grantholm’s signals. Everyone else, you have your orders.”

  They waited. It was up to Grantholm and Rohan-Roi now. The wind fluttered out of the north and west, carrying bits of sound and the scent of horses. Elizabeth felt her hands starting to shake and took a large gulp out of her canteen. The bitter taste of salibark tea distracted her from her churning stomach. She recited the opening of the litany of the day before beginning the list of saints. She’d gotten through St. Marko when a courier trotted up from behind the Imperial line. “Yes?”

  “New orders,” and he handed her a long strip of paper before trotting back up the line. The gathered officers exchanged puzzled glances and she wrapped the strip around her colonel’s baton, shifting it until she could read the coded message. Without a word she passed the baton to Lazlo, who allowed Sparli to read over his shoulder.

  “I don’t think, ah, that is, my lady,” Lt. Sparli ventured, looking from her to where Marcy’s forces sat, and back, confusion plain.

  She stuck her tongue out as she thought, started to speak, and stopped again. “Th…” She shook her head. This makes no tactical sense. No regular sense, either, and I’m not going to obey it. A dull pounding began, rendering her decision moot. Trumpets carried on the wind and the soldiers hurried to their positions, triple checking weapons. Elizabeth’s skirmishers had already moved out, leaving her with a hundred light cavalry. Now they formed up, watching and waiting. She rode ahead, into a pocket valley where she could watch the battle unfold as well as keeping an eye on the southern end of the mess.

  Trumpets blatted on both sides of the valley, and she heard shouts and the pounding of kettledrums rolling from the Frankonian lines. She studied them as best she could, noting how Rohan-Roi had massed his infantry in the center, heavy cavalry next outside, then artillery and more pike-wielding infantry. Elizabeth counted the banners, noting a few that she recognized, and breathed a sigh of relief not to see Lord Armstrong’s ensign. I don’t want to ever have to fight you, Anthony, she whispered in her mind. I owe you too much. His liege lord, on the other hand, she had no compunction about. Laurence had broken his vows to her, and now she served another, better, master.

  Lazlo came up beside her. Red and tan began flowing down from the other side of the valley and they felt the ground shake as the heavy cavalry thundered forward, probably aiming at the Imperial artillery. No one in his right mind rode into an infantry square or tercio, at least not without a death wish. She frowned, wondering why Rohan-Roi was giving up the high ground, rather than making use of all his advantages. Unless, that is, he had a surprise waiting, like a heavy flanking attack. Elizabeth rechecked the buckle on her helmet’s chinstrap and rode south, rejoining the bulk of her troopers. Nervous, they rustled and shifted as their horses picked up the riders’ nerves. Elizabeth stopped and glanced back at the battle.

  The tight formations behind her dissolved into individual melees and small-unit actions as she watched. At least, they did on her end of the line. She heard the boom of cannon and watched as smoke from the powder of thousands of muskets and other guns thickened, shrouding the battlefield in white fog. Horses and men screamed, trumpets sounded orders, and chaos spilled across the small valley between the two armies. Still Elizabeth watched, waiting. Ricardo sidled and she checked him. “Easy,” she murmured.

  There! Her skirmishers’ banner appeared, moving toward them as fast as a horse could run. “Here they come,” she told Lazlo. She pulled the scabbard strap from her saber and removed the safety cloth from her pistols. “Wait,” and she raised her hand, peering at the banner as it fluttered closer. “Now,” she dropped her hand and shifted her weight, sending Ricardo cantering forward.

  The skirmishers, fleeing ahead of a massed cavalry charge, split around Elizabeth’s soldiers, swinging wide to regroup behind the main mass. The horsemen surged into their attackers, disrupting the onrush and trying to turn it away from the artillery. The attackers split as well, or so it seemed, some turning north and the rest engaging with the Donatello soldiers. Elizabeth found her target and fired one shot. She didn’t wait to see if she’d hit, instead jamming the pistol into her open saddlebag and drawing her saber. She found another target and swung at him, ducking his return blow and slashing his thigh open before Riacardo’s momentum carried her past the man. She lay down beside the horse’s neck as a man in red slashed at her head. She stabbed at his horse’s flank, drawing blood and an equine scream. The soldier tried to turn and she sliced up, catching him under the arm. He dropped his sword and she wrenched loose, then cut at his neck. He’d not worn a gorget and her blade found his throat, cutting deep before she managed to pull free and wheel Ricardo around to parry another attack. She felt him tense and shifted her weight as he kicked with both hind feet, catching something that cried out in pain or surprise.

  Elizabeth and Ricardo broke free of the melee and she forced him around. Lazlo appeared at her side. �
�My lady, more coming,” he gasped. “From the south.”

  “Gather the men and we’ll drive them in front of Marcy’s guns. Do not let our people get in front of Marcy. Go,” and she sent him off. Another red-coated attacker bore down on her and before she could get clear, he’d slammed into Ricardo. The stud screamed, sitting down and almost knocking Elizabeth out of the saddle. She wrestled her second pistol free and fired into the other horse’s throat at point blank range, muzzle touching horse hide. The beast staggered back, choking, hide singed. Ricardo scrambled to his feet just as a saber slashed across her face, catching Elizabeth under the brim of her helmet. She tossed her head back, out of the way, before stabbing at the man. Godown was with her: she got another under-the-arm blow in before riding clear of the dying horse. Blood poured down her face, blinding her, and she urged Ricardo out of the fight.

  She pulled a bit of rag out of the bag with her pistols in it and wiped her face, clearing one eye at least. Elizabeth reloaded both pistols and slid them into their holsters. She spied the main body of her troopers and rode back into battle, harrying the Frankonian cavalry into the range of Marcy’s guns. Cannon roared, horses and men screamed and scattered as the canister shot scythed through the enemy formation. Godown have mercy on us all, she prayed, most of her attention on trying to see if any of her own troopers had been caught in the iron maelstrom. She didn’t see any blue among the red, but she didn’t stay to look more closely, either.

  Elizabeth rode back to the south, trying to see if any more attackers cantered through the wind-blown smoke. Lee and Sparli joined her. “His grace is calling for a general infantry advance,” Lee reported. “Signal says cavalry hold our positions.”

  She nodded and the world swum. “My lady, you’re injured.”

  “Just a scratch.” She patted Ricardo’s neck and watched, counting noses as more of her people gathered around her. She heard an unfamiliar trumpet call and swung around.

  Sparli blocked her. “No, my lady. Stay here,” and Lee nodded, turning his gray horse and herding the soldiers into formation for another attack. She wanted to rejoin the battle but knew better. You’re no good falling off from blood loss.

  Two more Frankonian attacks, each weaker than the last, lapped against the Imperial lines. The Imperials managed to block them, but not without cost. Just before sundown the Frankonians withdrew, leaving the field to the exhausted Imperials. We gained no ground, bloodied the enemy, and what? She had no idea. Godown forgive us, forgive me, for taking the life of these men. Holy one, source of all life and mercy, be merciful on us and on the dead. She dismounted and threw up, washed out her mouth, checked Ricardo for injuries, slipped the safety patches into her pistols, and began to gather her troops.

  Elizabeth found Lazlo, Lee, and Sparli, and mustered her remaining troopers, leading them back to a temporary camp near a spring-fed pond. The men drank, then watered their horses once the beasts had cooled down and settled. No one wanted to deal with a water-sick horse. The surviving officers counted heads, reporting to Elizabeth where she leaned against a black oak. “Ninety combat ready right now, and probably twenty more, including you, my lady, who just need a rest and patching up. Thirty are known dead, and eighty are missing or wounded.”

  “Good to know. Thank you.” Not much later, just as the sun touched the hills to the west, a courier walked up, his horse limping and exhausted. “Duke Grantholm sends his greetings. Camp in place. We have the field and we broke the Frankonian cavalry, including the mercenaries.”

  “We’ll camp in place until further ordered. Give his grace my respects, congratulations, and thanks.”

  The support troops found them as she spoke. Tents appeared, and the uninjured men and some support troops hurried onto the battlefield, lanterns in hand, looking for any Donatello men who might have gotten caught in the artillery’s blasts. Elizabeth found a farrier and got food for Ricardo, who seemed to have come through the day unscathed, to her great surprise. She ate field bread and drank a little watered wine. An orderly brought warm water and she bathed her head. Soon a cook appeared. “Here, my lady.” He handed her a jar of honey. She washed her hands and he tipped a thin thread of the golden sweet onto her fingers. She rubbed the cut on her forehead with it. He peered at her by lantern light. “That should help, St. Gerald willing,” and then bustled back to work.

  She must have dozed off. When she awoke, someone had laid her out on a field cot and taken off her boots. She felt around with one hand and found the boots beside her. She sat up, taking care not to move too fast. Her head stung and she felt terribly tired, but not dizzy.

  She picked her way through the camp until she found the medical tent, and almost lost her stomach when she saw the limb pile beside it, many still encased in sleeves or boots—dozens and dozens of boots, most with holes from the canister shot. Elizabeth shuddered, trying not to imagine what the field looked like near the infantry positions. Cavalry usually had slashes, broken bones, or were dead. The veterinarians fared worse than the medics did, in terms of workload.

  “My lady?”

  “How many wounded?”

  “Forty, ranging from scratches to a missing arm.” The nurse took a deep pull from his nicotiana stick. “Two died. One got shot in the gut, then stepped on. Nothing we could do, my lady. I’m sorry.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “You did what you could. Can I visit?”

  “No,” and he took another puff. “They need rest more than anything right now, my lady.”

  “Then I’ll leave them in your skilled hands.” She tried to speak to each of the soldiers on night guard before returning to her tent. Lazlo paced in front of it. “Can’t sleep?”

  “My lady!” He hurried up, limping. “Don’t vanish like that, please. There are stragglers.” She waved him off before he could finish.

  “Tie back the tent flap and come in.” Someone had lit a lantern and she set it on the camp table. She sagged into a chair and at her wave he followed suit. After a long silence she flopped her head back and closed her eyes, hands locked behind her neck. “I can’t believe our losses are so low.”

  “We were lucky, my lady, and Marcy helped.”

  “That he did.” She considered her next words, feeling as if the honey had filled her brain, sticking her thoughts together. “I’m not impressed with the Frankonian cavalry, at least with those we saw today.”

  “They don’t match the descriptions I’ve heard, my lady. They seemed,” and Lazlo stopped as if also searching for words. “The seemed tired and over-eager both, my lady.”

  They sat in silence. Finally she yawned so wide that she thought her jaw was going to jam, locked open. “I’m going to bed before I fall over.” With that she returned to the cot, asleep as soon as her head touched canvas.

  The next day she rode out with some of the uninjured troopers, following up the battle and making certain that Rohan-Roi had not left any surprises behind. They also found a few wandering Frankonian and Imperial horses, and some supplies that earlier looters had missed. As best as Elizabeth could tell, the Frankonians had retreated in good order, taking all their equipment, including cannon, with them. Or they’d had a protected camp far behind their battle line. She dearly wanted to know more about the incident in the Lander ruins, but Grantholm’s orders kept the Donatello horsemen from roaming too far. To her growing anger, they failed to find thirty of the missing Donatello troops, including some of the support personnel. Thinking about deserters soured her mood.

  That afternoon she finally had a moment to read her mail. One message from Lady Ann described the latest developments at the manor, including news that indeed, the bridge had washed away down to the riverbed, requiring new footings. Ann also mentioned that another letter from Elizabeth’s mother waited for her. Elizabeth wondered if sending her mother some of the loot from the Frankonian camp would suffice to keep Lady Olympia from pestering her. Not unless it is all gold and gems, she decided.

/>   The second letter, from the acting farm manager, warned of diminished wheat and oat quality unless the weather warmed and dried, and that water-born insects were worrying the cattle and horses. And the hens did not seem to be laying up to their usual quality, and that the milk seemed weaker, and could she get taxes reduced, and they needed her men back on their farms as soon as possible, and so on. Godown must have given Axel every ounce of pessimism left after He finished Creation. The third letter, from Count Peilov, warned her that she must repair the bridge over the Donatello immediately or he would “take steps.” She looked up at the top of her tent, took a deep breath of the death, smoke, and manure-scented air, and wondered if Peilov had any idea about the current military situation.

  The fourth letter began, “My dear Lady Elizabeth.” Surprised, she almost dropped it. She caught the page and started to re-seal it. Oh dear, I think his grace got two letters confused and sent me one for another Elizabeth. There are at least two other Elizabeths among the Imperial nobility that I know of. She checked the address on the outer sheet of paper and no, it read, “Lady Elizabeth Sarmas,” and the name of the army. Maybe he just got the first pages confused while drying the ink. Far too many romantic stories began with just such happenings, and she’d come close a time or two. Elizabeth glanced at the first page again and saw the word “mule” repeated several times. Ah, no, there’s only one Elizabeth the mule-breeder in the Empire. Why did he use an informal salutation? She shrugged and read the letter.

  Other than the salutation, the letter seemed as normal as any of Archduke Lewis’s missives. He inquired about the mules, agreed to let her try Ricardo on the Oberlander mares, and passed along news of a wheat rot reported on some of the Poloki lands. Lewis also forwarded Emperor Rudolph’s formal approval of founding a convent within Vindobona, but not in Donatello House. The Babenburgs had a different location, closer to St. Gerald’s Cathedral, one that they would provide. She still needed to raise the money and find an order to take up residence. And the marriage of Princess Ildiko and the Patrician of Hämäl had at last proven fruitful, with twin boys. Elizabeth stomped down the very inappropriate and disrespectful thought that bubbled up from her memories of her last encounter with Emperor Rudolph’s second daughter.