by Alma Boykin
Captain Krehbiel, shaking out cramped fingers, opined, “Ink, my lady. We keep using it outside of campaign season, unlike camp bread.”
“An excellent point, Will.” She sat back. “Gentlemen, Count Jones has graciously decided to act as point for the army, and Col. Brody will be traveling with him as a reinforcement. They will depart tomorrow mid-day, after the first group of teamsters, and the rest of us will move out at dawn the following morning, Godown willing. Will, no changes to their supplies, so they do not need additional support wagons. Should there be complaints, I will be pleased to speak with the good count or colonel in person.” A few coughs and barely-concealed smiles met her words. Using their patron saint as an excuse to malinger had won neither man any favor with the other officers. Despite her training to respect all saints, Elizabeth’s regard for St. Mou, never high, was plunging rapidly thanks to the behavior of his followers.
Lazlo waved the page he’d just finished writing, drying the ink. “My lady,” he said, a thoughtful look in his eyes, “does it strike you as perhaps a touch worrisome that our greatest difficulty has been with those gentlemen? Are things going too well?”
Several men made surreptitious warding off signs. Elizabeth considered the question as she wiped the tip of her pen, cleaning it. “Not yet, Lazlo. If the weather turns cool and sunny, with light breezes from the south, and the Poloki ride up tomorrow as a messenger arrives from Vindobona with the news that a pox has broken out in the Turkowi camp, then we need to worry that things are going too well.” Quiet laughter rose from around the table, and she noticed a few of the men passing by smiled at her sally.
Several minutes later, as Elizabeth finished the last revisions to the order of march, she heard a mild commotion. “What news?” someone called. Another voice demanded, “Will they or won’t they?” Several of the most junior officers at the long table huddled together, whispering frantically about something while glancing furtively towards the source of the excitement. Elizabeth set down her pen and folded her hands in her lap, waiting.
An imperial courier walked up, rolling slightly from side-to-side as he walked. Two days of bristle covered his face and mud spattered his legs up to mid-thigh. His eyes looked sunken, another sign of his exhaustion. “Colonel Sarmas?”
She got to her feet. “I’m Col. Sarmas.”
“News and orders, my lor, my lady,” he caught himself. He unbuckled the strap across his chest and handed her two full pouches. His grunt warned her and she caught the heavy leather sacks, setting them down before she dropped them. One clinked, and she wondered who had sent currency, and why.
“Be seated. Black, get this man a drink. Has you horse been seen to?”
He sagged onto the empty stool across from her. “Yes, my lady. I changed in DonauPlaat, when I left the Imperial messages.” Black slid a tankard full of something to the man, who sipped it. “Thank you, sir.”
“What news?” Elizabeth asked, once the courier had caught his breath.
“The Poloki will come. That’s the most of it, my lady.” He took another drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “And the rivers are rising. It must be storming to the west, my lady, because the Donau Novi, the Kilmartin, the Maar, all are rising. The bridge at Kremsfield, downstream of here?” She nodded. “Shaking like a leaf when I came over, my lady. I don’t trust it. DonauPlaat’s the only safe crossing right now.”
Which means the damaged bridge downstream of Geraldspont will collapse and take the Turkowi pontoon bridge with it, perhaps. That could be good or bad. It could also mean that the rain would move east, and make travel even slower than usual. And it funneled everything through DonauPlaat, and if anything happened here… She shrugged. Godown controlled the weather. It was not her job, thanks be. “Good to know. Thank you.”
As she opened the heavier pouch, Lazlo asked the courier, “What rumors have you heard recently?”
The bag held papers and a fat, heavy pouch with a lock on it. Elizabeth set the pouch on her lap, careful to keep it from making noise. She opened the second dispatch bag and found more papers, a small cloth-wrapped book, and an envelope. As she’d guessed, the envelope seemed to have a hard, paper-wrapped object in it. She ignored it for the moment and listened to the courier with one ear as she unwrapped the book.
“Nothing important, sir. One rumor claims that the rinderpest came from Frankonian agents or from followers of some saint I’ve never heard of before, supposedly to force people back to Lander technology instead of using oxen and horses.”
The men all made rude or disgusted noises and Elizabeth snorted, “That’s beyond foolish. Even if the rumor is true, we don’t know what fuel drove the Lander vehicles, we don’t know how to make paths for them to travel on, and we barely know what some of them looked like.”
The courier shrugged. “I don’t know anything ‘bout the Landers, my lady, but I know rinderpest comes with long wet spells like they had last year. For the other rumors, one says that Vindobona has already fallen and been overrun, and the light raiders north and west of the city are really Turkowi cavalry ahead of the main army. Other folks say no, the garrison at Vindobona broke out already and they’re pushing south, or massacred the entire Turkowi army, or Duke Starland beat ‘em into submission and is chasing them out of Tivolia already. Oh, you’ll like this one, my lady, there’s a rumor that his grace converted the high priest to worship Godown and they are going to overturn Tayyip and the old high priest will become Rajtan in place of Tayyip and will swear allegiance to his majesty.”
“Would that it might happen,” Elizabeth replied as the courier finished his drink. “More likely, if Mukara does capture Vindobona, Tayyip will find a way to replace him, or the reverse.” The Turkowi were infidels but they were also human, or so she kept reminding herself. There was such a thing as being too successful in war, especially if your overlord was the nervous type.
Lazlo had a few more questions, mostly about road conditions, and Elizabeth turned her attention back to the dispatches and orders. One contained a report from Archduke Lewis and she read it avidly. The troops in the city had fought off the closest run yet, an attempt to drain the moat-canal on the south side of the city, but the Turkowi sappers refused to quit. A few cases of bloody flux had appeared in the city, and Lewis had put food and fuel rationing in place. He thought that if they trimmed the civilian rations the city had enough food to continue fighting for three and a half weeks, perhaps longer, barring fire, pestilence, or flood, but they needed help soon.
Lewis, we’ll be underway tomorrow. Two weeks, Godown willing, you have to hold out for two more weeks. She would not change her plans this late, but she would tell the others that as of a week and two days ago, Vindobona remained free. She skimmed over the other messages and, not finding any that required a reply, dismissed the courier.
That afternoon she rode through the different units’ camps, calling the men together and giving them the news herself. Each visit followed the same pattern, more or less. First she complimented their officers and sergeants, and then began her short speech. “As you know, we’re riding out the morning after next. We will meet the infantry en route. The Poloki Army will join us. Yes,” she met as many eyes as she could, “King Bogumil is bringing his army to fight alongside us. He sent word before they left Lvarna.” Several times cheers broke out at the news. Once they died down, she continued, “And his grace Archduke Lewis and the garrison at Vindobona have held off the Turkowi. Vindobona still stands, despite everything High Priest Mukara has tried. We will be the hammer to shatter the Turkowi, breaking them against the anvil of Vindobona’s walls. You will stop the Rajtan’s plans, and with the help of Godown and the Poloki, we will drive them back, licking their wounds east of the mountains.
“They thought they could scare us into surrender, but they are sorely mistaken,” she called. “You will show them just what fear is, and you will be able to tell your sons and grandsons just how you won that golden cup and silver plate standing above you
r fire.”
Cheers started, followed by chants of “Long live Rudolph, long live the Empire.” She acknowledged the cheers and rode on. At each camp, except those of Col. Brody and Count Jones, she repeated the message and encouragement, trying to hearten the men. They did not need much from her. The prospect of the loot rumored to be in the Turkowi camp inspired more enthusiasm than her fancy words could. But she needed to see the men, and they needed to see her, and they’d believe the news if it came from her instead of by camp rumor. Except for Jones and Brody, and she sent messages to them, including copies of Archduke Lewis’s letter.
Public speaking drained her and she sagged in the saddle, exhausted, by the time she got back to her tent. To her surprise she saw a large cauldron on a slow fire not far from the door flap, and some of her clothing draped on a line and flapping in the afternoon breeze. Her undergarments, a pair of breeches, and two shimmies hung behind a discreet wall of well-beaten blankets, out of sight of the men moving around the camp. “What’s going on?”
Lazlo appeared from inside the tent as she dismounted. A sturdy-looking woman followed him and curtsied to Elizabeth. Lazlo, sounding helpless, explained, “His highness Prince Thomas sent his compliments and some of his wife’s staff, my lady. Far be it from me to argue with either the crown prince or with women armed with laundry bats.” He winked at her.
“My lady, beggin’ your pardon,” the washer woman began, hands planted on hips, “but your bath water’s getting cold and we need the water to do your heavy things with.”
Elizabeth’s face burned and she glared at Lazlo, who spread his hands and shook his head, utterly innocent. “Since you can’t guard my possessions, at least you can deal with Braun and come back to guard my virtue.” He took Braun’s reins and winked again. She almost swatted him on the rump for his cheek.
She did not trust luck to keep people from barging in on her, and she washed in record time. She scrubbed until her skin stung. Her head needed special attention and only after the second dose with resin soap did she feel confident that her hair was truly clean. As threatened, the laundress hauled off the water as soon as Elizabeth stepped out of the “bath” tub and moments later she heard a loud “splash” and the sound of cloth being battered and scrubbed. The Donatello contingent had been forced to leave the laundrymen and other staff behind when the Donatello cavalry left Duke Grantholm’s camp, and she’d been too busy to send her clothes out to the local washing women once they reached Barretsford. She’d also had some doubts about everything coming back, since her petticoats and blouses fetched more in the market stalls than the men’s shirts and breeches did.
She dried off with a bit of old, mostly clean towel, pulled on a long shirt, and then began drying her head. As she rubbed, she noticed the sliver of light from the tent flap growing wider, and she cursed, then ducked behind a stack of bedding piled up on one of the pay chests. Someone, their arms full of her clothing, eased into the tent, pulling the flap shut behind them. As he came closer, she realized it was Lazlo. “Before you panic, my love,” he whispered, setting the pile onto her cot, “the washerwomen seem to believe that I am one of those who are incapable of harming any woman’s virtue. I saw no need to disabuse them of that belief.”
She emerged from behind the pile, still clutching the towel, and caught his inquiring and appreciative look. After a glance at the front of his trousers, she warned, “I, on the other hand, am not convinced of that inability.” Elizabeth took a few steps closer and found herself in a very tight embrace. “Love, someone might walk in.” But she dropped the towel and began fumbling with his belt buckle as she spoke.
“Cavalry are known for our fast charges, are we not?” He grinned, before kissing her and using one hand to help with the buttons on his trousers as the other hand lifted her shirttails.
Not long after, as he helped her dress, she informed him, “Next time it’s my turn to surprise you after your bath.”
He caressed her firm, muscular rump through the fabric of her breeches, lips on the back of her neck. “I believe that I shall be able to rise to the occasion,” he assured her. Then he twitched the soiled toweling, and the small pile of bedding the laundresses had missed, up and carried them out, along with a pile of letters she’d written earlier and that had not been collected by the day’s messenger. She finished dressing and tied open the tent flaps, then rolled up a panel on the opposite side to let the breeze flow through.
The laundress returned with more of Elizabeth’s clothes, which she added to the stack on the cot. “My lady, your uniforms will be dry this evening.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “How much do I owe?”
Affronted, the sturdy woman shook her head. “Nothin’ my lady. His highness paid us out of his own pocket, he did. Said he owed you for a slight.” The woman patted her clog against the tent floor. “No disrespect to his highness, but a man his age should know better than to comment on the look of a woman’s clothes, ‘specially if she’s nobility.”
Elizabeth turned her surprise into a cough. “Thank you for your work, and I shall tell his highness that I am most grateful for his generosity. Do you and your women need transportation back to DonauPlaat?”
“No, thank ye, my lady. We’ve our own goat carts for the cauldrons and kit, and yer Jennaman got some troops to load the heavy gear.” She curtsied and bustled out, leaving a very amused Elizabeth wondering what was going to hit her next. And who had suggested to the women that Lazlo..? And far more important, did this mean there was a split in the royal family, between the crown prince and his uncle? It seemed to. That could be good or very bad. After chewing over the thought, Elizabeth shrugged and set to work drafting her final pre-departure report to his majesty.
Two days later any worries about things going too well washed away in the cold rain that drenched the soldiers riding southeast from Barretsford and DonauPlaat. It started just after midnight, quenching the cooking fires, soaking the sentries, and turning the remudas into mucky morasses of mud and manure. Elizabeth took it to be a good omen: if things were miserable now, they could only improve. It helped her mood that they were taking an old river road with good, solid footing. The way ran along the top of what had once been a flood control wall, wide enough for five horses abreast. The men, many yawning despite supposedly having gotten plenty of rest the previous nights, stayed quiet. Elizabeth reviewed her plans and recent events as they rode, turning over in her mind the meaning of the heavy pouch now tucked into one of her saddlebags. As she’d guessed, the envelope had contained a key and instructions to give both to Duke Aquila Starland. The bag’s contents did not feel like coins, but she suspected that someone had added padding to the inside to further conceal whatever the leather pouch held.
She found the answer to her questions after four more days’ hard riding. A guide met them on the road ten kilometers from Melkin, a small village near an old religious foundation and river castle. “My lady colonel, his grace Duke Starland sends his greetings. Because of the large number of troops gathering, you need to follow me to your assigned area.” The rider looked around and added, “and tell your men not to attack the Magvi riders. They follow Godown, not Selkow.”
“Very good.” She passed the word back, sending Lazlo with the message to make absolutely certain that everyone knew. She wanted to ask what had brought the Magvi so far north, and how they’d gotten around the Turkowi to join Duke Starland, but kept her questions to herself.
The messenger led them at a fast walk. “You have a dry camp, my lady, both high and a kilometer from the closest spring. His grace thinks that you’ll not mind the inconvenience.”
“Not the way the river has been rising, I don’t.” The Donau Novi had passed the first flood lines the day before, even though the rain had stopped a day earlier. The steep slopes limited most of the farming along this part of the river to orchards and vineyards on the hills, with a little produce and some dairy cattle pastured on terraces cut into some slopes. Not easily
flooded, or at least, not anymore, she thought with a touch of grim humor. How many times did people have to lose their crops before they moved out of the river meadows? “Did his grace say how long we’d be here?”
“Not long, my lady. I’d say one or two days at most. The Poloki have crossed the Donau Novi and are two days behind you.”
Her jaw dropped and she stared at the messenger. “By Godown and St. Michael, that’s almost unbelievable.”
He raised his right hand as if giving his oath. “I heard the message read to his grace with my own ears, my lady, and saw the imperial seal with my own eyes.”
Her mood rose on wings like a hunting bird rising to the sun. Thank you, holy Godown, blessed one, lord of life and mercy. Thank you, guardian of the defenseless, protector of the innocent. She shook herself out of her joy—they still had to break the siege and drive the Turkowi out of the empire. This was only the first step, with many more to follow.
What remained of her joy died that evening when she and Lazlo answered the summons to the command tent and saw Duke Aquila Starland. He’d lost weight and his eyes looked yellow. His grip, when he squeezed Elizabeth’s shoulder, felt weaker. “Godown be praised, I’m glad to see you,” he told her. Quill’s voice sounded thinner than she remembered, but still hearty.
“And you, your grace. I was sent with this,” and she handed him the pouch and envelope with the key. He took them and set them aside, then sat. He waved her and Lazlo into seats.
“And what mischief has the Destefani baby been up to?” Quill’s eyes twinkled and he winked as he waited for her answer.
Elizabeth and Lazlo exchanged a glance. “Your grace may assure Kemal that I have taken our father’s desires to heart,” Lazlo replied, straight-faced. Elizabeth admired his aplomb.
“Indeed?”
Lazlo nodded. “Indeed, your grace.”
