Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  They reached the new camp in time to hear the end of some sort of commotion. A large mass of soldiers from several units gathered around an empty supply wagon. A senior sergeant perched on the edge of the wagon bed. “Heat stroke, his grace says,” the older man proclaimed to all and sundry.

  “Heat stroke my ass,” a man near the edge of the group grumbled. He waved away a fly.

  “Heat stroke?” Elizabeth called, curious.

  “Aye, my lady Colonel,” the sergeant replied, bowing to her. “Young Lord Peilov suffered heat stroke yesterday. He recovered enough to find the camp early this morning. Him being the heir and all, his grace is sending him south to recover as soon as the churigons give their leave.”

  “Good to hear, Sergeant,” and she tapped the brim of her helmet before riding on.

  Lt. Bonaventure, riding at her side, made a little snorting sound. “Begging you pardon, but that was graceful, Colonel.”

  “Some of us are more resilient than others, and Godown helps those in need.” She kept her real thoughts to herself. The men with her took the hint and they rode on in silence through the drowsy afternoon heat.

  She left the gelding on the horse line and walked to her tent, nodding to the men on guard. Lazlo, making use of her camp desk to finish some paperwork, stood up as she arrived. “Be seated,” she waved to him. She undid the straps on her chest and back plates, draping them on the stand before flopping into her chair and only then removing her helmet and gorget. “I’m not sure anything is as hot in summer and cold in winter as armor.”

  “Burns you both times, my lady,” he agreed, pouring her water. “I filtered it before putting it in the pitcher.”

  “Thank you. Anymore cases of flux?”

  “Two, my lady, probably drank from streams.”

  Several minutes passed before she sighed. “What are our numbers, both Donatello and Peilovna?”

  He ruffled the pages in front of him. “We’re missing two hundred Donatello men and half as many horses, mostly from Sgt. Vanhuevel’s group, my lady. Thirty dead, and two-fifty or so injured, ranging from a sprained ankle to a splinter in the gut.” They both shivered at that. The man was doomed—if the wound didn’t kill him, wound fever would. “Pike shattered. He’d braced it against his stomach, at the edge of the buffcoat, and,” he mimicked the piece of wood going down and in. Elizabeth shivered again despite the heat.

  “Of the Peilovna men, as best we can tell, we meaning Lt. Taylor Mulkey and me, a third are unaccounted for, mostly the cavalry. I called the sergeants and junior officers together and we’re going to blend our formations, except for the musketeers. My lady, it will limit us to having the muskets on the flanks, but his grace wants the men to redeem themselves and we need the bodies.”

  “We do and I agree with your decisions. I understand that we have charge of the Peilovna troops until we return home, and there’s no point trying to teach them complex march orders at this point.”

  “No, my lady. The simpler and more familiar, the better.” He shifted his chair to stay in the shade. “And yes, they’re ours now.”

  “As tired as we are, I hate to do this, but we need to drill them, at least on formation and orders. See to it, and arrange for as much extra rations as we can give them tonight or tomorrow morning.” She picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it, stopped, and reread it. “This is all of the Peilovna stores?”

  “It is, unless,” he shifted, uncomfortable about something, and then leaned forward and eased another page to her. “Unless we take these.”

  She looked at the second page. “Give me that.” She grabbed his pen and ink, found a scrap of paper and started writing. “Sealing wax.” He dropped a blob for her and she sealed the note. “Runner!” A young man appeared. “You know where his grace is?”

  “Yes, my lady colonel.”

  “Take this to him, Wait for an answer, yes or no, then return.”

  “Yes, my lady colonel,” and he scampered off.

  She sat back. “Secure all the Peilov supplies that can be used. Do not touch my lord’s personal items, or any alcohol except beer, but all foodstuffs and draft animals. I would not want anything unfortunate to happen to them before my lord’s departure.”

  Lazlo shook his head, obviously confused and worried. “My lady, what? No one would loot while in camp.”

  “Until his grace replies to my suggestion, protect the foodstuffs and draft animals, Major Destefani. That is an order.” Jan Peilov’s men needed his food and supplies far more than he did, even for his trip back to Peilovna. If he screamed, she’d repay his father out of her own pocket, or appeal to the crown. In fact, she doubted that he’d do more than whine, once word reached Prince Thomas, Archduke Arpad, and Emperor Rudolph.

  That evening she finally read Archduke Lewis’s letter. “Dear Lady Elizabeth,” and she frowned once more at the familiarity. “I want more Greyland cross mules,” and so on for the first page. She smiled at the orders. Yes, Lewis had mules on the mind. Well, mule raising was probably the most harmless eccentricity of any noble family she’d read about or seen. She skimmed the next page, stopped, backed up, and read it again. “His majesty Emperor Rudolph sends his greetings. As you have reached your majority, and in reward for your efforts managing his majesty’s properties and defending his lands, his majesty Rudolph of Babenburg has endowed the Sisters of Service of St. Gerald with property near St. Gerald’s cathedral to serve as an orphanage and place of nursing, and retreat for women of quality.

  “In addition, you may pick two of Ricardo’s offspring, and two of the Grayland mules as saint’s day gifts from me.” Tears started flowing and she buried her face in her arms, muffling the sound. She missed Ricardo already, even though he’d been a horse. And saint’s day gifts? Maybe Lady Ann was right, and Lewis was trying to court her. What was she to do?

  She took a deep breath and regained control of herself, wiping her face on her sleeve. “Take the horses and mules, give thanks for the foundation, and survive this campaign, not in that order,” she scolded under her breath.

  The letter continued, “After harvest, I will take possession of Donatello Bend.” Anger replaced confusion and she balled her hands into fists. The ungrateful… after all she’d done trying to build the estate back up, bringing in new settlers, expanding the farmland, planning for the cannon foundry, and now he wanted it back? She shook herself back to rationality. Donatello Bend was a crown property, taken from a traitor, not hers. It had never been hers to own—only hers to manage.

  Deflated, she skimmed the rest of the note. Lewis wished her well and hoped that the campaign would prove profitable. She snorted at the last. If she did not come out in debt she’d rejoice. But where would she live? She couldn’t stay at Donatello Bend or in Donatello House in Vindobona. “Godown gives and Godown takes and there’s many a mile before you reach that muddle,” Elizabeth muttered as she finished the letter.

  She wrote out a properly respectful reply, thanking his grace the archduke and his majesty for their generosity and assuring Lewis that she’d have the next generation of mules underway as soon as possible. “I hesitate to question, much less reject, your generosity, your grace, but you need to be aware that Ricardo was killed during the retreat to Plateford. Perhaps leaving his get to breed for another generation would not be amiss, in order to continue a bloodline that produced such excellent results.” She blew on the ink to dry it. Yes, that sounded tactful, and was the pure truth.

  “Your pardon, my lady colonel?” It was her young messenger.

  “Yes?”

  “His grace apologizes for the delay. He needed to consult with his quartermaster. His grace says ‘yes, you may’.”

  She set the letter aside. “Thank you. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, my lady colonel,” and as he spoke his voice cracked, rising then dropping. He looked aghast and she fought to keep from laughing at both his voice and his expression.

  “Go get supper. I do not anticipate any more m
essages this evening.” She raised a hand, “No need to answer, just go.” He went, vanishing as she buckled on her saber and pulling on her riding boots. She found Molly waiting by the tent and mounted, riding to the Peilovna section of her camp.

  “Major Destefani?” She asked a passing trooper.

  “That way, my lady colonel,” and he pointed at a large, canvas-topped wagon parked beside an ornate tent. As she got a good look at the wagon, Elizabeth decided that she needed one of those. It reminded her of Col. Marcy’s tent-on-wheels, but smaller. Then she caught a glimpse of the interior. Rugs in a campaign tent? Really? His Excellency the archbishop would send me to St. Marcia of the Snows if I even thought about it, she snorted.

  “Nice carpet, Major,” she called to Lazlo. “Your honored mother would love one, I do believe.”

  He shook his head as he approached and saluted. “And she would lock us out of the house so she could keep it clean, my lady. As you ordered, the draft animals and foodstuffs have been secured.”

  “Good. Prepare a detailed inventory. Separate out four of the best draft animals and sufficient food for my lord Peilov’s return journey, and add the rest to the company stores for distribution to the men.”

  Lazlo and the men within earshot all stared at her, some of them gape-jawed, probably at her audacity. “His grace has given express permission,” she added. “In writing.”

  Lazlo’s jaw snapped shut and a cold smile crept over his face before he composed himself. “Very good, my lady colonel.”

  “Any complaints are to come to me.” She doubted that there would be.

  She was wrong. The next morning, as the sunrise worship ended, Jan Peilov stormed up to Elizabeth, not even giving her time to put away her devotion book and prayer beads. “You! I will have you arrested, you thieving, ungrateful, lying robber. Whore’s daughter! How dare you touch my supplies and give orders to my men?”

  He stopped centimeters from her, his face almost touching hers. She smelled bread and liquor and something else on his breath, something that raised her hackles. “Whore!” He hissed. “Thieving outland bastard. What gives you the right to order my men?”

  Still calm and at peace following the morning service, she pulled her wood and brass colonel’s baton out of the case on her belt and raised it between them, forcing him to lean back. “This does, my lord,” she reminded him, her tone tranquil and respectful. He tried to swat the baton away with the back of his hand. She held it firm and his knuckles hit the metal with a loud “thwap.”

  He hissed at the sting and shook his hand. Undeterred, he reminded everyone around them. “I am Count Jan Peilov, heir of Peilovna, heir of the oldest family in the Eastern Empire. Your stick means nothing, will mean less than nothing when I return to Peilovna.”

  She pretended to misunderstand him. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s passing and will pray for his peace and for Dowager Lady Peilov.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “If you are count, your father must have died. I am sorry that I did not hear earlier, my lord. Please accept my condolences. No wonder you are overwrought, my lord, to suffer both illness and such a great loss.”

  By now a small crowd had gathered around the pair, and Elizabeth heard growls. Peilov did too, and his fists clenched. Peilov’s dilated eyes and fast breathing warned Elizabeth to expect the worst, and she shifted her feet, ready to duck a blow or dodge a charge if he lost complete control of himself.

  Instead he snapped, “Father’s not dead yet, thieving whore. But when he is, you’ll regret ever leaving Frankonia, mule-maker.” He shoved his face into hers and hissed again, “You’ll see.” He spun on his heel and stormed off, the crowd opening to let him pass.

  Counts Eulenberg and Jones appeared and the troopers began scattering back to their duties. “Is there a problem?” Jones asked, his voice pitched to carry.

  “No my lord.”

  “Just finishing my devotions, my lord.”

  “Godown be with you, Col. Sarmas.”

  Touching his hat brim in salute, one of Count Montoya’s supply sergeants explained, “No problems, my lord. My lord Peilov had a recurrence of sunstroke and asked Colonel my lady Sarmas to pray for his recovery and for safe travels.”

  She fought a smile as the two nobles exchanged wary looks. “Indeed, Col. Sarmas?”

  “Yes, my lords. He also expressed concern about the quality of leadership for his men, and the state of their supplies, but I assured him that they were well taken care of per army regulations and orders.” The cloud of calm that had surrounded her during the morning office remained with Elizabeth. There was no need to cause Peilov any more trouble. He caused himself enough as it was. Again, she wondered why he could not see how well off he was.

  Jones raised an eyebrow, but merely repeated, “Orders.”

  “Yes, Count Jones, orders.”

  The wiry man shrugged. “Very well. No doubt he is impatient to be on the road and to recover his health.”

  “No doubt, my lord.” The two men walked off, giving her time to put away her beads and book before returning to her tent.

  Three weeks later, Duke Starland called the entire army together, grouped by command. He thanked them for their service and dismissed them home. The first snow clouds had blown over the Dividing Range the night before, bringing campaign season to a close, at least on the northern border. “You have done very well,” he told the Peilovna and Donatello troops. “His majesty sends his thanks and remits this year’s in-kind taxes for all who served here, and for the survivors of the dead.” There were muted cheers, more from Donatello than from Peilovna, Elizabeth noted, but then Donatello was a crown property, with higher in-kind taxes.

  “Some of you are disappointed in the lack of loot,” he continued. “That makes two of us. Her grace Lady Marie has her heart set on new bed hangings and I understand that the Turkowi commander keeps some lovely ones in his tent.” The men laughed, as Starland intended, and Elizabeth grinned. “We stopped the Turkowi, held them, and cost them their new surprise weapon, the Frankonian carousel guns. And Godown be praised, they also lost their two heavy cannons, along with many horses and men.”

  Elizabeth flinched a little inside at that. She’d been with the group that tried to recover the cannon from the bog. They’d given up before they killed the draft beasts, and had spiked the guns instead, driving nails into the touchholes so the cannon could not fire. And she had nightmares of the half-burnt, half-drowned bodies they’d found around the guns. If she never, ever went near a swamp again, she’d die happy.

  “Godown be with you on your journey home,” he concluded after more general remarks. “And Colonel Sarmas?”

  “Your grace?”

  “Very well done. Your father and great-grandfather would be proud.”

  She could have floated all the way back to Donatello Bend after those words.

  12. Coming of Age

  It took a long six weeks to return to the Donatello River Valley. “I have heard, my lady,” Lt. Krehbiel commented, rain dripping off his hat and onto the neck of his horse, “that Godown will punish the world by water, not fire, next time.” The cold rain dripping out of low skies felt like a punishment, Elizabeth had to agree. It seeped into collars, drained people’s energy, made cooking almost impossible, and turned the roads into knee-deep mud that sucked boots, horseshoes, and wagon wheels into mucky oblivion. The last few kilometers to the estates felt endless.

  “So it is said,” she agreed. She hoped the people at Donatello had gotten the harvest in before the rain started. The grey gelding, which she called Grau, snorted and shook his head, sending water flying. She slapped his neck.

  One of the outriders yelled, “My lady, someone is waiting for us.”

  She startled at the call, jerking her head up and sending a cascade of water down the back of her short coat and onto her saddle. She squeaked at the sudden cold wet on her rump. “Can you see who?”

  “No my lady, but they look dr
ier than we do.”

  Tired laughter escaped the men around her, and Elizabeth had to smile.

  “Corporal Mueller, even the mud is drier than we are,” she reminded him. She rose in her stirrups. “Form up!” The horses ahead of her moved to the side, allowing her and Lazlo to ride ahead. The others sorted themselves out into a passable order of march.

  “Well met, Countess Colonel Sarmas!” Archduke Lewis called.

  He had a gift for knocking her out of the saddle, she decided. “Your grace?”

  “I said, well met, Countess Sarmas. Or did you not get my last letter?” He’d ridden up beside her. She shook her head and he sighed loud enough for everyone to hear. “His majesty has, in his grace and generosity, seen fit to raise you to countess of the empire, with all the rights and dignities that such title confers. You retain your rank of colonel as well.” He nodded to Lazlo. “And congratulations on your promotion, Major Destefani.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Lazlo replied, bowing in the saddle.

  “Before you panic, Countess Sarmas, I’m here to lead the Peilovna men back to their estate. I also have to witness a change of inheritance for his majesty, so I decided to spare you the extra kilometers journey.”

  It took several seconds for Lewis’s words to register. Only a major property required the crown’s permission to change inheritance, usually if there were no male heir. She put two plus two together and blinked. “Ah. Thank you, your grace.” She looked at Lazlo and watched the light dawn in his eyes.

  His eyebrows rose until they vanished under his hat brim. “Peilovna?” he mouthed.

  She shrugged. It was not something that needed to be discussed in front of the men, although she suspected that if it were Peilovna, the gossip had already reached every nook and cranny of Donatello Bend. Speaking of which… “Your grace, my apologies for my lack of manners, but if you will excuse me for a few minutes?”

  “No. I’m coming with you.” He stopped. “Unless you need privacy.”