by Alma Boykin
“My lord, you mean that this glass is Lander made?”
He nodded without stopping or even breaking his stride. “Yes. If the records are correct, what’s left of them, the Landers built this section as a pleasure pavilion of some kind, where people came to look at the view.” He snorted. “I can’t imagine anyone putting up a fancy building just so they could look out of it. But supposedly they did.” A maidservant curtsied and opened another door, and he called, “Christiana, Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas, the pest who upset my plans for a new bridge. Sarmas, my wife Christiana. Sarmas brought nuts.”
Elizabeth curtsied to the very pregnant, plump young woman. “My lady.”
Christiana, as pale as her husband was dark, smiled. “You are welcome, Lady Sarmas. Pardon me if I do not get up to greet your properly.” Elizabeth had to strain to her the quiet woman. The baby sat very high in her belly, suggesting that a new son would soon grace the Peilov line. “Please,” and she waved in the direction of a dark chair with ornate carvings on the top of the backrest.
Elizabeth ran a finger over the beautifully carved pack of hounds before sitting. “Your lordships, this is the most beautiful work I’ve seen outside of St. Gerald’s Cathedral,” she told her hosts.
“There’s a very talented family of woodcarvers here on the estate. Over the generations they’ve made the fittings for both the chapels here, and for the family quarters,” the count informed her. As he spoke, two maids set out hot tea, fresh bread, and butter, along with tiny pots of different jam and potted meat. After he helped himself, Elizabeth accepted a serving from one of the young maids. “About that bridge.”
“My lord?”
“The old location is terrible. Banks are too high and wide, plus that hill on the other side, the one with ruins? It threatens anyone crossing. Building over the ford made much better sense.”
Er, ah, what do I say? She took a bite of bread and drank some tea before replying, “I’m afraid I know nothing about building bridges, my lord, other than what everyone knows. However, your side of the bank is higher at the ford than my side, my lord. To build a road to the bridge, one that did not run from the hill to the ford before crossing, would require raising the land, building a high road almost a kilometer long, and clearing a stand of blackwood trees that belong to the Crown.” He pursed his lips, grey eyebrows drawing together and she added, “This past spring, the floodwaters extended almost two kilometers back from the river just above the ford, my lord.”
“That’s a nuisance. Godown be praised, we drained all our swamps a century ago.” He ate more bread. “Well, can the hill be torn down and the dirt used to raise the road?”
“No, my lord, not without much more effort than I have people for. The core of the hill is solid stone, but it is crumbly once you dig it out.”
“Bah. Once again, Windth, er, what are you calling it now?”
“Donatello Bend, my lord, the earlier name.”
“Once again Donatello Bend gets cursed with the worst of all worlds.” Christiana nodded her agreement but gave Elizabeth an inquiring look, as if she wanted to ask a question.
“For each ill, Godown sends a good,” Elizabeth quoted. “The pastures give the horses and mules solid bones, my lord.”
“Indeed.” He seemed to have finished his store of words and took a large slab of bread, slathered half a jar of potted meat over it, and took a big bite, giving Elizabeth a glimpse of uneven teeth.
Christiana accepted a cup of pale green tea from a different pot and sipped. Her small, pink lips, round face, and very pale pink skin made her golden hair shine, and her light pink over-gown caused Elizabeth a pang of envy. “Lady Sarmas, my lord says you brought nuts?”
“Yes, my lady: one sack of red cheches, and one of paperhull. The estate also produces finger-black and pfeekahns, but I was not certain of the quality of those this year.”
“Thank you. I look forward to trying them. I understand the soil here does not support red cheches or finger-blacks.” She looked to her husband.
“Grain, Sarmas. Grain, oilseed, and porkers. Grapes on the southern property, reds for the most part. The soil sours whites.” He stood, motioning for the women to remain seated. “I need to check on Neger. If that fool of a son has ruined his mouth, I’m going to tan him.” With that he limped out of the room.
Tan the horse or the son? Elizabeth accepted more bread. “The red, please,” she told the servant. The tart, deep-red jam blended into the creamy butter and complimented the sweetness of the bread. “Are these to your recipe, my lady?”
“No,” and Christiana’s eyes bulged a little and she touched her stomach. “He’s kicking,” and she smiled.
“Your first, my lady?”
The young woman nodded, still catching her breath. “Yes. And no, the jams and potted meats belong to the Peilov family.” She swallowed, recovering her composure as Elizabeth smiled. “Do you know my lord husband’s daughter, Marie?”
“Not well, my lady. My duties and hers kept us apart during the time I was a guest under her roof.” That and we get along as well as oil and water. “She is an excellent lady for the Starland estates, my lady, and her children bring honor and joy to the family.”
“That’s good to hear. She has not replied to my letters, and I’d worried.”
Oh dear, what do I say? “My lady, I understand that young Roland keeps her very busy, as does running Starland. You are aware that she is acting as her own chatelaine?”
“No!” Christiana shook her head and drank more tea. “How does she manage? Godown must have blessed her.”
“Godown has blessed her indeed, my lady.”
Not too much later Elizabeth excused herself. “I apologize for my lack of manners, my lady, but one of the mules I brought is young and untrained, and the other does not care for strangers. Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”
The young woman waited until another flurry of kicking subsided, or so Elizabeth guessed from her quick intake of breath and little “hic!” “Is it true that you are a religious?”
“Not entirely, my lady. I am a professed postulant, not a sister.”
Christiana whispered, eyes wide, “Can you pray for me?” Only someone made of stone could have denied the scared young woman’s plea.
Elizabeth got to her feet, then knelt before the countess and took one hand between her own. St. Sabrina, but her hands are like ice. This can’t be good, can it? “Yes, my lady. Who is your patron?”
“Kiara and Katiri. St. Graham is the Peilov patron.”
“I will implore Saint Kiara to give you clarity, Katiri to strengthen you, Graham to give you his grace, and St. Sabrina, patroness of all women in need, to protect you.” She raised her right hand and touched thumb, ring finger, and little finger together. “Godown, lord of all, hear our prayers. Be with Your daughter in her time of need; grant her Your strength and peace. Hold her in Your arms. St. Sabrina, we pray you to add your voice to ours as we beseech Godown’s goodness and care on your supplicant daughter.” After a moment for silent prayer, Elizabeth finished the benediction. With a servant’s help, she got to her feet. Christiana seemed to have fallen asleep, and Elizabeth, worried, looked at the old woman sitting beside the gravid girl. When the woman put a finger over her lips and smiled, Elizabeth nodded and minced as quietly as she could out of the room.
One of the older maids followed her. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but thank ye. Her grace, well, my lady, she’s heard too many old tales about childbed, an’, well, she can’t rest.”
“You are welcome. Remember that Godown and St. Sabrina help those most in need of their aid.”
“Yes’m.” The maid showed her out of the residential section of the keep. Elizabeth took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight. It didn’t seem as bright as it had earlier, and she glanced up. Sheets of thin clouds covered the sky and she shivered. Storm sign? No time to waste, then. She found a groom who brought Snowy and the molly to her. She adjusted Snowy’s tack a
nd made certain that the ropes and straps on the packsaddle had been fastened down. Flapping straps made for excited equines.
Someone moved in the shadows by the kitchen wall. Elizabeth watched a thin man in dark clothes slink along, as if trying not to be seen. She recognized Jan Peilov when he stopped and glared at her, one cheek bright red and the other already bruising. He shot her a look of pure hatred and loathing, and she guessed that he blamed her for his father’s anger. She met his eyes, cool and calm. If he wanted to begin trouble, she and Snowy would finish it. Instead he ducked and continued along the shadow of the wall.
Once clear of Crownpoint, Snowy trotted for several kilometers through the quiet land of Peilovna before Elizabeth slowed him. She didn’t want to exhaust the young mule, especially if the three-year-old was teething and not eating well. As they ambled along, Elizabeth noticed that the wind had shifted during her visit. An east-northeast wind chased the leaves now fluttering and skittering across the road. The air smelled wet and sour, or was she imagining things? “I’ll let you trot again once we cross the river,” she told Snowy’s ears.
The molly did not care for leaves in flowing water. Or something. She snorted and balked at the river’s edge, two feet in the water and the other two planted deep in the muddy bank. Snowy, well into the cold water, protested. He leaned forward against the lead rope tied to his saddle, pulling his breast-strap tight. Elizabeth waited for the molly to give up, stroking Snowy’s neck and scratching his crest. After what felt like an hour the brown molly shifted her weight forward and took one step, then another. As the lead rope went slack, Elizabeth got ready for a bolt. Snowy started forward and the molly charged, rushing past him to get out of the water. Snowy jumped, taking the bolt as a challenge, and scrambled into a flat run, almost dragging the molly off her feet when she slipped on the wet rocks of the ford. “Easy,” Elizabeth called, trying to check him before he ripped the halter off the poor molly’s head, or broke part of the saddle. He stopped stock still and she almost flew over his head.
After that excitement, the rest of the trip seemed easy. Before they got back to the manor house Elizabeth felt bruises developing from getting thrown around during the river crossing. “You are too literal for your own good, you mule.” Snowy ignored her words, intent on getting home, where he knew a rub-down and grain waited — and maybe another opportunity to eat someone’s bedding. Instead, Elizabeth made him walk. The molly kept up the pace, although her low-hanging head revealed how tired she was. They passed several farmers and laborers hurrying to get animals into shelter or bringing in tools, wash, and in one case a load of cut wood. The molly spooked at the wagon, but couldn’t muster the energy to do more than sidle and jump a little. The afternoon grew darker as the clouds turned leaden gray, masking the sun. The northeast wind picked up strength. “You should be grateful that you have warm stalls and stout loafing sheds,” Elizabeth informed both equines.
As soon as they clopped into the courtyard, Andy Sims appeared from the stable block. “How did she do, my lady?”
“She’s a good goer, Master Sims. A few spooks and one balk at the river, but she took everything else in stride.” Elizabeth dismounted and slapped Snowy on the rump. He brayed at the indignity and the servants and soldiers passing through the courtyard laughed.
“Good to hear, my lady. His grace will be pleased.” He took Snowy’s reins as a younger man led the molly away.
“Master Sims, a question. Can a warhorse be neck-reined or knee-guided if he’s been trained to the bit?”
The quiet man frowned. “Depends on the age when you retrain him, and the skill of the trainer and rider, but usually no.”
“So if his mouth is ruined, he’s no good except as a parade mount or at stud.”
“Yes, my lady. Is there a problem with Ricardo?”
She looked up at the sky, frowning as she saw a gaggle of grey-wings flapping past overhead, running south with the wind. “No, but I may be buying a very good stud with an iron jaw, if things are…” She stopped before she said too much. “Thank you. Is everything ready for the storm?”
“Yes, my lady. You feel it too? The beasts have been edgy all afternoon.”
She walked off without answering. Snow or rain? Either is welcome, now that the bridge pilings are protected and the crops are in. Someone opened the door for her and she strolled into the house, still thinking about her winter preparations.
By nightfall the wind howled around the manor hill, rattling the shutters and trickling in through any possible crack or pinhole. Elizabeth fell asleep not long after praying for Countess Peilov. When she woke, rain pounded down from a blue-gray sky. The wind had subsided but even so the air felt like wet needles when she poked her head outside. After that she tucked herself into a chair by the fire, reading Neo-Jomini and drinking hot cider. Winter had begun.
9. Spring Battles
Elizabeth leaned into the currycomb as she brushed Snowy, taking her frustration out on his winter coat. Glad to be rid of the itchy, hot hair, he did not seem to mind. “I do not care for the quiet,” she observed at last.
Lazlo Destefani, standing well clear of the cranky mule’s teeth and hooves, nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Me either, my lady. The eastern frontier, well, ma’am, I don’t recall going this long with out at least a heavy raid in force. It’s been almost a year and a half since anyone has reported finding anything more than a scouting force. Kemal’s getting twitchy, and his grace,” Lazlo kicked at an invisible rock. “His grace is planning for an all-out attack from the south.”
Before she could answer, Master Sims bustled up. “My lady,” he began protesting, “Cliff was assigned to care for Snowy. There’s no need for you to deal with him, my lady.”
“I need to care for him, Master Sims,” she corrected, still brushing. Clouds of white drifted around the woman and her mule, and Lazlo shifted out of the way of the hair fog. “Do not worry, I’ve left the messy bits. He needs his sheath cleaned, I’m sure.” She hated that job. Even though he was sterile and had also been gelded, Snowy needed to be cleaned just like every other male equine. She heard coughing and waited until it stopped before looking at the two men.
“Very good, my lady,” Master Sims agreed. He bowed and rushed off to take care of his other charges.
“How many foals do we have right now?” she asked Lazlo.
“Horses? Three colts and three fillies as of this morning. At least twelve new mules, my lady. The Greyland mares have all delivered.” Lazlo smiled and she winked before giving Snowy a few final swipes.
“His grace’s observations about the Oberland mules have proven accurate,” she reminded Lazlo, expression grave.
She watched him struggling to match her tone. “Indeed, my lady, his grace has an eye for equines.”
Archduke Lewis, after two painful experiences, had sworn off any further attempts to cross Oberland mares with his prize jacks. The mules, foul-tempered even by mule standards and thin-legged, disappointed him terribly. Some breeds did not cross well, and that was all there was to it. However, Lewis gave himself complete credit for the success of the Greyland mares, and for the promising results of Ricardo’s amorous attentions.
“I don’t know, Lazlo,” Elizabeth decided after trying to shake mule hair off of her hands. “We expect an attack from the south. The Turkowi have consolidated their position in Scheel, Morloke can’t stop them if Taiyyp puts the full army out this summer, Tivolia might, might be able to resist for a few weeks, but that still leaves a lot of ground to cover before the end of campaign season.”
Lazlo followed her over to the pump, and worked the lever, drawing water for her. “All true, my lady. I wish there were some way to put spies on the east slope of the Dividing Range and keep them alive.”
“Your lips to Godown’s ears, Lazlo,” she sighed, rinsing the last hair off. She started to wipe her hands on her skirt, caught sight of the white covering, and shook them dry instead. “There will be fighting this summer.”<
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“Oh yes, my lady.” Lazlo cupped his hand under the pump’s mouth, caught the last trickle of water, and drank. “There will be fighting.”
The next day a messenger brought thick packets of mail for Lady Ann, Lazlo, Elizabeth, and letters for a few others. Elizabeth skimmed over the news from the capitol, then stopped, rereading the last paragraph. Oh no. That’s not good. Emperor Rudolph is too young to be sick. Or was he? He’d never been exactly robust, or so she’d heard. If Rudolph is sick there is bound to be war.
Especially since Tayyip the Invincible faced growing discontent, or so merchants from Tivolia had told Aquila Starland, who passed the warning along. “His people want more. Scheel wasn’t enough, or so the men have heard. The trade routes and sea towns mean nothing to the Turkowi, as you well know,” he wrote to Elizabeth. “They want land. Scheel had people and not land. Now the Turkowi look to Morloke and Tivolia. They have a year-round base of operations, a depot, and faster access to Frankonia because of the sea towns. Rumor has it that a number of Frankonian merchants and soldiers have been seen in Scheel, but the men I spoke with could not confirm the tales. I suspect the priests of Selkow are goading Tayyip, telling him not to waste Selkow’s gift by hesitating. And he’s young in his power. The internal split among Selkow’s followers hurt his position, as you well know, and he lost his spies in the Imperial court. Young men act, they don’t think.”
She smiled at the last line, wondering what Lord Matthew Starland had been up to recently. Probably not longing for the glories of war, unlike some of the younger Frankonian nobles. Her mother’s latest missive reported a growing desire among the third and fourth sons for “a great war, so they can prove their manhood.” Her mother’s opinion of that manhood had made Elizabeth’s face burn. Lady Olympia refused to take “I don’t want to hear about that,” at face value, her daughter was learning.
“Which front and when?” Elizabeth asked her empty office. “The passes will open by the end of next month, and after the mild, dry winter, the marshes between the Tongue Sea and Dividing Range will be passable, unlike last year.” Her eyes strayed to the map on the wall. An errant shadow from the windows pointed at the Tongue Sea lowlands, as if confirming her guess. “Godown be with us, give us Your wisdom, help us guard Your people,” she whispered. If the Turkowi came from the north, she’d be among the first called up.
