Elizabeth of Vindobona (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 3)

by Alma Boykin

  Thomas pointed over the soldiers and courtiers to the back of the room. “Countess Colonel Sarmas, you have been on the western front. What does his grace duke Grantholm say?”

  Yipes! She gulped and cleared her throat, bowing. “Your highness, I cannot speak for his grace. I can only say what I have observed and been told by his grace, and that is that no Frankonian army has been found on the empire’s western border this summer. There have been raids by mercenary cavalry in Frankonian pay,” she continued over the growing mutters and hissed whispers, “but none of his grace’s scouts or raiding parties had found General Michelet’s main army as of three weeks ago.”

  Gerald Kazmer’s green eyes narrowed. “But you are not a disinterested source, Elizabeth von Sarmas.” The implications in his voice stung and she heard Lazlo growling.

  “You are correct, your grace, I am not disinterested. I swore oaths to the empire and to his majesty Emperor Rudolph. I hold to those oaths.”

  Someone snorted and a snide voice called, “What good is a woman’s oath?”

  Major Wyler spoke up. “Godown made men and women equal but different. A woman’s oath is as binding as a man’s, and as many women, more I’d dare say, as men uphold their vows and promises. His grace Duke Grantholm and his grace Duke Starland trust Colonel Sarmas, and she has not failed them in her ten years with us. Is that not enough proof?”

  Gerald Kazmer did not reply, but the glare he shot at Elizabeth and her supporters did not bode well for any of them. Crown Prince Thomas waved his hand, silencing the men. “If we were facing a Frankonian invasion, Col. Sarmas’ origin would be a worthy topic for discussion, However, as a woman and worshipper of Godown, she has even more interest in repelling this invasion than do most of us,” he reminded them. “Of more importance is our plan for relieving Vindobona and driving the Turkowi out of the empire.”

  At last! She saw several heads nod their agreement.

  The emperor began, “After much discussion with Duke Starland and the council, before we relocated to DonauPlaat, I sent Prince Alois and Archduke Arpad to request aid, heavy cavalry, from King Bogumil of Poloki. That aid may not come,” he warned, resignation fighting with irritation in his face and voice. “As you know, the nobility must vote unanimously to agree to such an action, no matter how much the Polokian king personally supports our request.”

  Which explains why the Poloki have never established an empire or managed to accomplish anything, Elizabeth snorted. I can barely imagine what would happen to the Empire if every noble had to agree on something.

  Rudolph coughed again before continuing, “Duke Grantholm will remain in the west, with such troops as he currently has with him, should the Frankonians try and take advantage of our current difficulties. All other troops, including local reserves, will move to relieve Vindobona as soon as possible, whether or not the Poloki come to our assistance as our treaties require. The muster has begun, although I am informed that the Turkowi’s light cavalry raiders have already discovered the, shall I say, joys of dealing with the local militia in the Donau Novi uplands.” Several men and Elizabeth chuckled without mirth. Only an idiot thought free peasants, especially foresters, would let themselves be raided by anyone without an overwhelming mass of force. How many nobles had learned that the hard way over the millennia?

  “Countess Sarmas,” Rudolph called.

  She bowed low. “What are your orders, your majesty?”

  “You have the most experience fighting the Turkowi of anyone not currently in the field. You will lead the troops now mustering here at DonauPlaat south to join Aquila Starland.”

  But I can’t. I’ve never commanded that many men, I’m a woman, they won’t listen to me, I’m a foreigner, there has to be someone with more experience. Her heart seemed to stop beating as time slowed to a crawl. Help me, Godown! All at once peace and certainty flowed into her soul, driving away all fear and denial. No. This is why Godown brought me to the Empire. This is what He made me for. “I will lead the troops to Duke Starland, your majesty.” She bowed again.

  As she rose, she caught Gerald Kazmer staring at her with pure poison in his eyes, but he said nothing. Your brother overrode you, didn’t he? Do you want this command? No, but you do not trust me. He probably never would, she sighed, a little sad, but he was not the only one.

  “Sarmas, Midland, Albinez, Wyler, you will find your orders there,” Rudolph pointed to the table. “Go with Godown’s blessing, as soon as you can.”

  Gerald Kazmer sprang to his feet. “Long live Rudolph of Babenburg. Long live the Empire!” The others took up the chant and tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes as Rudolph smiled at them. She fought for Godown and Rudolph Babenburg, no matter what anyone else might claim.

  Rudolph dismissed them and departed with his sons, leaving Gerald Kazmer talking with a morose-looking Duke Midland. Elizabeth sent Lazlo to find their orders while she stole one last cup of still-warm chokofee and a bit of cheese. Count Albinez extended his hand. “Godown be with you, Sarmas,” he offered. “Better you than me.”

  She swallowed and set down the cup. “Thank you, I think,” and she smiled. They’d fought together during her second summer in the Empire, and after. The brown haired, blue-eyed, round-faced count was a good man and an average officer, and knew it. “How is Lady Albinez?”

  He wagged his hand back and forth. “Unchanged. Some days I have her, and some days,” his words trailed off and she gripped his arm, squeezing it with sympathy. His was an arranged marriage to an older woman, but he remained faithful to her even as she faded under the grip of mindwaste. “Thank you.”

  She released him. “You’ll be in my prayers.”

  “I appreciate that. Godown go with you.” He turned and walked over to find his orders.

  Lazlo returned, followed by Gerald Kazmer. “Major, you may go. Sarmas, come with me,” he ordered. Unhappy, Elizabeth followed him into a side room, probably a server’s pantry, judging by the shelves and stacked linens. “I do not care for this arrangement, Sarmas,” he hissed, eyes narrow.

  Well, she was not pleased with being trapped in a small space with his grace, either, but Elizabeth held her tongue and waited for him to continue.

  “If it were not for both his majesty’s and Duke Starland’s illnesses, I would insist that you be restricted to Donatello Bend, but I have been overruled, even though much of this disaster is your fault, since you are the direct cause of Jan Peilov’s defection to the Turkowi.”

  Eyebrows raised, she pointed at herself. “Me? Your grace, I was not the one who fled the battlefield at Platesford, nor did I ask Count Theobald to disinherit Lord Jan.”

  “No, but you humiliated him in front of the entire damn army and forced Aquila to dismiss Lord Jan,” he snapped. “Shut up, Sarmas. I cannot change my brother’s mind although Godown knows I’ve presented enough evidence. Know this,” he stuck his finger in her face, almost touching her nose. “If anything goes wrong, in any way, you are responsible, do you understand me? Do you?”

  “Yes, your grace, I understand perfectly.” She kept her voice calm and respectful, not clenching her teeth or snarling back at him. He wanted her to lose her temper, and that she would not do.

  “Go.” He pointed to the door. She bowed as much as the confined space permitted and slid out past him, very careful not to touch or crowd him, and to keep her hands in plain sight. She felt his glare boring into the back of her head as she walked back into the salon, grabbed the last, lonely pair of rolls off the tray before the servants could take them, and hurried out, down the painted hallway and into the courtyard. She needed to relieve herself but not badly enough to linger where she most certainly was not wanted.

  She looked around and found Major Destafani talking to Major Wyler. “Destefani—catch,” she called, tossing him a roll.

  “My lady Colonel, where is your battle horse?” Wyler asked.

  “He’s resting, Major Wyler,” she explained. “At least, he is supposed to be resting. He is
a stallion, after all.” It was an old cavalry joke, and the men within hearing distance chuckled, groaned, or frowned.

  “Ah. Well, good riding to you, my lady.”

  “Thank you. I must confess, Major, I was surprised to find you here,” she admitted.

  He nodded, expression turning grim. “Horses in a besieged city eat too much before they are eaten,” he reminded her. “The imperial war horses and stud are now on the other side of the river.” He pointed north.

  “Ah. A wise decision. Godown be with you, Major,” and she took Braun’s reins from the hostler, checked his girth, and heaved herself into the saddle. Wyler saluted as she and Lazlo rode out of the courtyard.

  6

  The Race to Vindobona

  As they rode out of DonauPlaat under the hot late summer sun, Elizabeth wondered aloud to Major Destefani, “Have you ever wished people did not trust you quite so much?”

  He took a very long time to respond. “My lady, I’m not quite sure that is the best description of the current situation,” he ventured, easing his horse away from her and giving her a wary look.

  “Truly, Godown gave you the gift of understatement.” She left it at that, too busy with weaving through the road traffic streaming in and out of DonauPlaat. The Imperial court’s relocation filled the river city to the bursting point, and the arrival of so many hungry soldiers and their baggage trains did nothing to ease the strain.

  Their camp at Barretsford seemed in order, more so than it had the day before. The first of the baggage and supply carts had caught up with them, and Capt. Will Krehbiel had begun organizing the teamsters and other support personnel. “Colonel, will any men be allowed into the village or DonauPlaat?” Lazlo asked as they dismounted.

  “Yes, but not today. We need to draw up a schedule and roster. I do not want more trouble than usual.” Unsupervised, bored young men, brought trouble with them wherever they went, especially in the presence of women and alcohol. “You have our orders?”

  “Here, my lady,” and he held up the very fat package. She held out her hand and took it, automatically verifying the seals before tucking it under her arm. They walked up to the large tent where meals would be served and looked in. It was empty at the moment. She returned the papers to him.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. When I am, you’re dismissed for, oh, an hour. When you return, please bring whatever maps you can scare up, and Capt. Krehbiel.” She went to the area designated for latrines and took care of business, rinsed her hands, and returned to the tent. Lazlo departed, leaving her alone for the first time since they’d left Duke Grantholm’s camp.

  She rested her head in her hands. Her bones ached, her hair and teeth itched, and all she wanted was a long sleep. She stared at the creamy-tan papers, not seeing them. This was what Godown wanted her to do, but how? He remained silent, giving her no signs or portents. With a hearty sigh she straightened up, broke the seals, and began reading.

  She read as far as the muster lists before Lazlo returned. He brought chilled tea, which she drank, and he explained, “Captain Krehbiel will be here in a few minutes, my lady. He’s sorting out rations distribution.”

  “That’s fine.” She finished her drink, nodding as he lifted the pitcher and raised his eyebrows. “There is a good news list and a bad news list, Lazlo,” she told him as he refilled her tankard. “Which would you like first?”

  “The bad news, my lady.” He caressed her hand as he steadied the leather tankard.

  “High Priest Mukara is serious. He’s brought the Turkowi’s best engineers and siege masters, along with the main forces, including light skirmishing cavalry. They have stripped Esterburg of any hint of Godown or of Tivolian presence. There are indeed 40,000 souls crammed into Vindobona, and the garrison at Geraldspont was not able to completely destroy the bridge there, although the damage was severe enough that only infantry can use the thing, at least as of four weeks ago. And if the Donau Novi stays high, it may finish the job before the Turkowi can complete their repairs. Right now they have a pontoon bridge downstream of the old one, for use by their teamsters, cavalry, and flocks.”

  Lazlo drained his own tankard in one long pull, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The good news, my lady?”

  “It seems that High Priest Mukara may never have conducted a siege before. His experience, according to what we’ve learned from other sources, is infantry battle along with religion. Archduke Lewis has been able to slip people out of the northern gate twice thus far, each time bringing back provisions and some livestock. After one scare, the gunpowder is now stored out of cannon range of the Turkowi, and there have been no fires yet. And our troops south of Vindobona have been harassing the Turkowi supply lines enough that Mukara can’t bring the full weight of the army to bear on Vindobona yet.” She grinned and leaned back in the chair. “And for reasons only Godown knows, Mukara left his heavy siege guns in Tivolia.”

  Lazlo’s jaw dropped. “He left the siege guns in Tivolia,” he repeated.

  She nodded, still smiling. That just might make the difference. Without heavy guns to batter down the walls or fire incendiary shot, Mukara’s engineers would have to undermine the walls, or bring siege towers up. Even as marginal as Vindobona’s outer defenses were, they’d still be a tough nut to crack. Bad weather favored the defenders in this case, so long as disease did not break out. It would, eventually. It always did. But rainwater from cisterns was safer than well water, and rain made sapping even more difficult. Especially since the closeness of the river meant that the sappers’ tunnels and trenches were already more prone to flooding by groundwater.

  “My lady, it sounds as much of a stalemate as any siege I’ve read about or seen,” he said after some thought. “At least for the moment.”

  “Indeed. And it explains why my books on siege warfare kept showing up in the wrong places on the shelves. Someone was borrowing them without my permission, not that I would have refused my permission had he bothered to ask.”

  They heard coughing and Elizabeth shifted, looking to the side. Will Krehbiel trotted up, puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. “I’m sorry,” he panted, “my lady. Had to break up,” pant, pant, “a fight over precedence.”

  “All the more reason to move as soon as we can.” Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do I need to know?” She certainly did not want to know.

  “You might, my lady. Count Jones and his people have just ridden in, and he’s claiming precedence over Count Albinez’s people on the grounds that his sister is engaged to Duke Midland’s son. Tried to force the teamsters to deliver Albinez’s supplies here.”

  “Right.” She glared at the tent wall. “For army supplies, they go first to those who need them, then by the commander’s time in service. For privately purchased supplies, that’s the commander’s prerogative, both to acquire and to protect.” After a moment’s thought she nodded. “Yes. That’s reasonable, and I trust you and the other quartermasters and supply specialists to know who has real needs and who’s being a nuisance or hording.”

  To her vast surprise, no one challenged her command right over the next few days and nights. They fussed about the roster and rotation of town visits, they screamed about supply allocations and precedence in camp, and St. Mou’s followers gave her dark looks during the commanders’ briefings, but no one overtly refused to obey or follow her. Proximity to the emperor played a major role, Elizabeth knew, since everyone assumed that someone in camp reported to one of Gerald Kazmer’s observers, and no one wanted to be hauled into DonauPlaat on treason charges during a war. The proximity of a known enemy also smoothed over the rivalries and envy: a large number of minor nobles’ families remained in Vindobona, or had fled into the city ahead of the Turkowi advance. Elizabeth doubted that the muster would be going as smoothly if they’d been fighting Frankonians instead of the Turkowi. “Laurence only wants to defeat us. Tayyip wants to kill us,” she muttered under her breath as she glared at the proposed plan of march.
“Would that everyone understood the difference.”

  Major Destefani and Captain Krehbiel both made sympathetic noises. Since she’d already had her command tent struck and packed, they and a few other officers sat at a large table under a shade tree, reviewing the preparations and the latest information from Vindobona and the surrounding area. She looked around. “Lt. Bonaventure?”

  “Here, my lady.”

  “Sorry I’ve been slow. What was Count Jones’s reply?”

  The young cavalry officer looked embarrassed. “My lady, it was blunt.” He handed her a folded page. She opened the copy of the orders and read the count’s reply, written in tiny, precise letters more like those of a scriber than a nobleman.

  “Red ink? Oh, of course,” she thought aloud—red for St. Mou. “That decides it, then. Thank you, Matt,” she told Bonaventure. “Unless you prefer to remain in liaison with Count Jones and Col. Brody, you may return to your earlier duties. I appreciate your assistance.” She made a little note on the page in front of her and smiled, “You’ve done well with a delicate assignment.”

  He sagged a little, relief clear to everyone around him. “Thank you, my lady. I believe I will return to my unit.”

  She’d thought he would. “Very well. Leave your courier’s badge and satchel with Lt. Brown and you are dismissed.” He bowed, handed the items over to Pete Brown and wasted no time hurrying off in the direction of the main encampment.

  Elizabeth added a note about finding a new courier officer to her growing list. She’d also make a formal note of commendation for Bonaventure. It was too bad he’d not volunteered to remain her link to Jones and Brody, she thought. He’d been one of the few who could work with St. Mou’s followers without causing offense. It’s bad enough that they follow St. Mou, but their prickly tempers make it much, much worse. She pulled Jones’s response closer and scrawled a note of her own, in black, along the other margin. “Kilo for kilo, I wonder if the army uses more ink or camp bread?”