Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  Please, Godown, may she carry my son safely to a healthy birth, he begged for the thousandth time. Barbara had refused his attentions more often of late, trying to avoid becoming pregnant again so as not to upset Kiara Ann further. Matthew didn’t care for abstinence but from the beginning he’d promised Barbara never to force himself on her. He’d considered bringing one of the serving women to his bed, but none of the current staff caught his fancy. Could I be getting old? No, he decided after more chokofee. I just don’t care for women who throw themselves at me. They want something, and after that bitch thought just because she warmed my bed once or twice she could order Barbara around, I’m not putting up with it.

  With a grimace Matthew finished reading the formal closing. “Your most humble, no.” He scratched it out. “Very respectfully, Matthew Charles Malatesta, servant of Godown, Duke of Morloke and Scheel.” I’m not Alois’ humble anything. Matthew stretched, added a log to the fire, then got fine paper and ink and set to work. He wrote with slow, measured strokes of the glass pen, transcribing his final version of the letter onto the phenomenally expensive rag paper. Once the ink dried, he sealed the pages with his black eagle, adding a touch of the gold ink on the edges and to the beak and claws. Hateful task done, Matthew snuffed the candles and lamp, then hurried to the garderobe.

  That night he went to his bedchamber to find Barbara waiting. She’d prepared the bed, but waited, still dressed, for his decision. His much-banked hunger burst into flame and he all but ripped her clothes off, tugging at the laces on her bodice and the drawstrings on her shimmy and under-skirts. She seemed as eager as he, and they tumbled like youngsters.

  Afterwards, he caught her hand when she rose to go to her own chamber. “No,” he whispered in the darkness. “Stay.” She lay back down beside him and he pulled her close, savoring her warm, soft presence in his arms. “What do you want from me?” he asked after several minutes. “Ask and it is yours.”

  Instead, she burrowed her face against his neck and he felt hot tears on his skin. He stroked her hair and arm, waiting as she cried in silence. I don’t understand women and I never will on this side of Godown’s paradise, he mused for the thousandth time.

  After the spate of tears ended, she whispered, “I’m scared, my lord.”

  “Scared of what?”

  He heard her swallow. “If, Godown forbid, something happens to you—”

  Matthew put his finger over her lips. “I have made provisions for that, my sweet. You and our children will be taken care of.” After Kiara’s threats against her, Matthew had written to Anthony and Paul Kossuth, asking them for advice and for a small favor. “And Godown has been with me, with us. He will not fail.”

  “It’s not Godown or the Turkowi that scare me, my lord.”

  He sat up, gripping her arm so hard she whimpered. “What did the duchess say? Tell me,” he snarled.

  “No—no—nothing, my lord. She told her maids that she’s afraid you’ll set her aside if she doesn’t have a son. One of them tried to correct her, and she lashed out, then fainted. She’s terrified, my lord, and angry too.” Barbara gulped. “I, I’ve been keeping Anthony, Don, and Sarah in the servants’ quarters, out of the way so she won’t see or hear them. And I’ve been praying for her, my lord.”

  He released her arm and lay down again, stroking her face. “Then you’ve done all you can. I’ll have a word with the herbwife and Fr. Andy. Are her maids causing trouble?”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. They don’t have time.”

  Matthew could well imagine. Kiara was demanding under the best of conditions, to put it mildly. He’d not thought about putting her aside, not seriously, although if she couldn’t bring a child to full birth … Matthew knew he could sire sons. But he needed Kiara’s father’s support just then. Maybe, if she didn’t have a son, and after he defeated the Turkowi, he’d consider setting her aside. Not now. Hell, he couldn’t afford to return her dowry right now.

  “So, what do you want?”

  Her response kept him from thinking about much of anything beyond the confines of the bed.

  According to tradition, the Feast of St. Basil marked the beginning of the new farming year. Lambing season, calving, preparations for planting, all began around the saint’s day, and so it made sense to celebrate the new year then, even if the calendar disagreed. Matthew and Kiara had both shaken their heads at the description in a book from just after the Great Fires, claiming that the year began just after the winter solstice. “That’s foolish. The worst of winter is still to come, there’s nothing growing, nothing new, no major feast day then,” Kiara had snorted. “If this is true, the Landers were mad indeed.” She’d picked up her next piece of embroidery, declaring, “St. Basil’s day is the start of the new year, as it should be.” Matthew had not disagreed.

  Now he stood beside her chair as the entire household and staff gathered in the great hall of Solva keep. Servants had moved the large table, normally in the center of the room, to the end, turning it sideways. Small leather bags with coins in them, bundles of fabric and lacings, some already-made garments, and assorted tools and small goods sat in tall piles. Between them, Kiara and Barbara had managed to stretch his coin so far that he suspected the eagles had squawked. Kiara, heavily pregnant, shifted a little in the wide-seated chair, trying to get comfortable. From the back of the room Kazmer Takacs gave a little wave, signaling that everyone had arrived. Well, everyone but Barbara and the children, but he’d give them their gifts later, well away from Kiara.

  Why can’t my women get along? For whatever reason, as Godown made them, they couldn’t, and that was that. He turned to Kiara. “My lady?”

  She smiled up at him, then took a deep breath and began, “Welcome, on this blessed feast of St. Basil, patron of shepherds and of the coming of spring.” She took another breath. With the baby riding so high, Matthew marveled that she could speak at all, let alone make herself heard in the great room. “Truly Godown is gracious and generous with His gifts, as He was to our ancestors and shall be to our children. It is right,” she inhaled, “It is right that we should all share His bounty, starting the year as we wish it to continue.” She spoke a few more words, then called, “Father Andrew?”

  The priest came forward. His hair had slipped back and turned grey, but he still reminded Matthew of a pole-arms instructor, with a temper to match. Fr. Andy gave Matthew a shrewd look, warning of a sermon looming at some point, but not today. Instead he turned and raised his hands. “Let us pray. Holy Godown, who sends Your bounty in season, we give thanks for Your generosity and blessings. Lord of all that lives, bless this land and the husbandsmen who work it, the women who tend it, and those who protect Your children and creatures. Grant us peace if it is Your will, great Lord, You who sent Your faithful follower Basil to serve as a model and guide. Bless these gifts, those who give them, and those who receive, and help us to do Your work, mighty Godown, lord of the land.”

  “Selah,” rang through the hall. Fr. Andy turned. “Your Grace,” he nodded to Kiara. She nodded in turn and he returned to the edge of the crowd. With that, Kiara began calling names. Matthew removed the appropriate items from the table and handed them to her, and she in turn gave them to the servant or staff member, with a murmured word of appreciation, thanks, or compliment. They in turn bowed and thanked her, many bowing to Matthew as well. He’d rather have distributed things by himself, but the ceremony made Kiara feel better and let her play generous duchess, lady of the manor, so he gritted his teeth and kept his thoughts to himself.

  The gifts had become a tradition by now. Almost everyone but the children got cloth and leather for clothes, and a sack with coins, little bits of jewelry, or other items that could be used for dowers and family expenses. The quality of cloth and amount of coin varied with the position of the individual servant, but even the pot boy and the girl who carried out the slops got serviceable, sturdy material and a few little copper and silver coins. Some of the older boys and men also g
ot knives, all-purpose tools for everyday use. Most of the women found bundles of ribbons and trim in their stack of cloth. That had been Barbara’s idea. “Just because she’s a kitchen drudge doesn’t mean a girl doesn’t like having a bit of color for holy days,” she’d pointed out the first year she’d assisted with the gifts. Servants with children got a few wooden toys, balls, and other things, while older boys received their first true weapons from Duke Matthew’s own hand at the feast of St. Michael.

  Gifts distributed, Duchess Kiara said a few more words and dismissed the staff. They had the rest of the day off, although her maids and the herbwife wouldn’t go too far. Matthew walked around and offered his wife his hand, helping pull her to her feet and supporting her as she waddled along the hall and up to her receiving room and bedchamber. As planned, her gifts waited there: several meters of the finest shahma-wool velveteen in black and dark blue, lace and delicate white cotton so thin you could read through it, and a copy of Reverend Mother Mattia’s “Meditations on the Lives of Saints Sabrina and Alice,” bound in deep red calfskin with gold lettering.

  “Thank you,” she said, delighted by the book. “Will you stay the day, my lord?”

  He didn’t want to. But neither did he want to ruin her peaceful, cheerful mood. Matthew nodded. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a moment.” He retrieved two books from his library, one about weapons and warfare on ancient Earth, and the other a collection of Turkowi children’s stories. He kept a cloth cover over the Turkowi books, just like the one on his most expensive religious volumes, and she didn’t bat an eye at them when he returned. He adjusted her footstool to her liking, added a log or two to the fire for her, and settled into the other chair. One of the smiths had devised a clever system of pulleys and chains extending from near her seat to the fire, and she could pull a pot of hot tea back and forth, adding water as needed, then returning the pot to the edge of the fire. They used a larger version in the well and cistern within the keep.

  Only when one of Kiara’s maids appeared with a light supper for her mistress and to light the lamps and candles did Matthew bid his lady a good night. She thanked him again for his gift and they embraced as he helped her out of the chair. The child seemed to rest a little lower, and he gave the maid a significant look, pointing carefully when Kiara turned her head to look at something else. The young woman gave a quick bob of her head before answering the duchess’s question with a compliment. I’d better have one of the men warn the midwife, then. Kiara dismissed Matthew and he went down to the kitchen and made up a meal of sliced meat stuffed into a bread pocket and slathered with meadow aglio, the earthy, pungent root that made roasted beef so good. Kiara hated the smell on his breath. Mistress Cevasco had too, calling it farmer food. All the more reason to like it, Matthew gloated, licking a bit of extra off his fingers.

  When he returned his books to his library, he found a letter with the imperial seal resting on the desk. He started to open it, then stopped. No, he thought to the twilight. If it is good news, fine. If it is bad news, I don’t want to poison the rest of the day, and whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow. He removed a certain item from under his desk, double-checked the locks on the cabinet, and left.

  Barbara, Anthony, Don Paul, and Sarah waited in their quarters, a snug pair of rooms not far from his sleeping chamber. I wonder what Barbara told them to keep them quiet? Well, quiet no longer: the boys bounded up to him, barely remembering to bow before pestering him with questions about the large bag in his hand. Sarah hung back, curtsying like her mother, beautiful blue eyes locked on the bag as well. For her part Barbara busied herself getting Matthew’s chair closer to the fire, stoking the little blaze into brighter life, and starting some chokofee brewing.

  Matthew sat and handed her the bag. “Thank you, my lord.” She opened it carefully, removing sturdy black fabric suitable for boys clothes, then softer material in browns and dull gold for her and Sarah. Creamy linen followed, along with brown and black ribbons and a small purse that she set aside. Next came two fine iron belt knives for the boys, near copies of Matthew’s own.

  “Thank you, my lord father, thank you!” Anthony exclaimed.

  Paul still quieter, nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Barbara handed the boys whetstones as well, and leather belts that fit, at least for the moment. The boys had started growing again, and Matthew had a shrewd idea that Anthony at least would be as tall as his father, if not more so.

  The bag yielded up three sheep and a shepherd doll for Sarah, who squealed with delight before clutching the sheep in her hands and throwing herself at Matthew’s legs, hugging him as hard as she could. He picked her up and held her in his lap, feeling the silky threads of her brown curls against his cheek. The boys began inspecting their knives. “Boys, if you decide to carve your initials in the table leg, or anything else for that matter, your mother has my permission to tan your hide until you can’t sit down,” Matthew warned.

  She would, too, and Paul put his knife back into the sheath. “Yes, lord father,” he gulped. Hmm, already planning trouble I see. It’s time and past that you moved into the barracks, I can tell. The boys could read, write, and do basic math, spoke a little Turkowi, and spent as much time as possible with the soldiers. Neither shared their father’s bookish streak, and Anthony reminded Matthew very much of long-dead Leopold. He certainly had the same spark of temper. Not tomorrow, but very soon. Eleven years old is almost a man as it is, and if they are growing again, they’ll be better off where they can’t break anything when they get clumsy.

  After a while Barbara took the children off to their room. When she returned and slumped into the plain chair by the fire, Matthew got up. “Stay where you are,” he ordered. He took a pouch out of his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it and inhaled, turning the black and gold broach over and over by the firelight. He slid the matching ring onto the index finger of her left hand. Both bore his black eagle, in enamels on the broach and carved into a signet-like black stone on the ring.

  “Th—thank you, my lord,” she whispered, eyes wide and damp. “These are beautiful.”

  “This goes with them. Do not open it,” he warned, handing her a tightly folded packet of paper with his seal on it. “If, Godown forbid, anything ever happens to me, give it to the person specified in my papers, and only to him. This, and those gems, will keep you safe.”

  Despite his orders she got up from her chair and kissed him. Their embrace grew warm indeed, and he put out the last candle as she banked the little fire in the hearth, then returned to his arms.

  The letter from Emperor Alois left Matthew with a foul mood and pounding headache. He wanted to saddle Socks, ride north, and shove the former crown prince’s head back into the ice-laden horse trough. Or into the Donau Novi, and Godown have mercy on the fish. “To our honored friend Matthew Charles Malatesta, Duke of Morloke and Scheel, greetings,” it began. “Thank you for your condolences on the death of His late Majesty, our lord father Michael Babenburg. Indeed, as you may have heard, his passing to Godown came as a great blessing, although he bore his final illness with great patience and forbearing.”

  I hope that means he was unconscious and didn’t suffer.

  He continued reading. “His wise council and steady hand will be long remembered. Her Majesty, our mother, has retired to the lodge at Heilbrown on private retreat.”

  The letter continued, “It is with regret that we are unable to assist you at this time.” Matthew’s free hand clenched as he read farther. “We will be candid. Problems within the court that remained buried during our father’s final illness have boiled to the surface, religious disputes that have set Vindobona on edge. We anticipate serious problems before summer, and have turned all our attention to dealing with the conflicts before they spread. There have been two riots already, with loss of life. It seems those who follow St. Donn are, shall we say, protective of their patron’s honor.” That brought a grim half-smile to Matthew’s face despite his ang
er. I bet they are. He’s the patron of watermen, dock-workers, and other people with short fuses and large fists. I’d rather throw Lander artifacts at a crowd of St. Mou’s followers than piss off the watermen. He skimmed the rest, noted the closing and seal and set the letter down on his desk rather than hurling it into the fire.

  “Well fuck. So much for your promise of aid if I ever needed it, ungrateful rat,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  The sound of running feet interrupted his building rage. “Your Grace,” a maid servant called, bursting in through the half-open door. “Your Grace, your lady is in labor. She wants you.”

  “Her chamber?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. The midwife is with her already.” Matthew brushed past her and ran down the hall, up the steps and back to Kiara’s room. The door sprang open as soon as he got near.

  “Take her hand,” the midwife ordered. Here she outranked everyone but Godown Himself, and Matthew had a shrewd idea that Goodwife Smalls would probably argue with even Him, if it came to that. Kiara cried out and Matthew wormed around the waiting women to sit on the edge of the bed and take his wife’s hand. She squeezed it as hard as she could, her face and body drenched in sweat. “Good, my lady, very good,” the older woman soothed. “You are doing fine. Just relax and wait, don’t try to push, not yet.” The amount of blood on the bedding appalled Matthew, but none of the women seemed the least bit disturbed.