Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  Book 5 of the Colplatschki Chronicles

  Alma T C Boykin

  Book 5 of the Colplatschki Chronicles

  Alma T C Boykin

  Kindle Edition

  Published by

  IndieBookLauncher.com

  EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-37-9

  Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-38-6

  Copyright 2014 Alma T C Boykin, all rights reserved.

  “Marguerite Thomasina Antonia deSarm stop that at once!”

  Marta dropped the sticky bun and clasped her hands behind her back as Mistress Elko bore down on her. The older woman grabbed Marta’s arm and dragged her from the hot, yeasty-smelling baking house, almost wrenching her arm out at the shoulder and leaving bruises. Marta wanted to cry, but didn’t: tears only stoked Mistress Elko’s anger.

  “Greedy little brat, you know better than to go near the kitchens.” She shook Marta. “Godown will turn those sweets into worms in your stomach.”

  They never turn to worms on holy days, the girl thought at her senior maid, but only thought. Even though Marta was Lord Geoff deSarm’s daughter, heir to all the deSarm family lands, and about to be married to Martin Gregory Berlin, the second son of the Count of Louvat, Sarah Elko felt no compunction about whipping the girl into compliance. Small for her age, Marta’s attempts at fighting back had brought only more pain. Complaining to her father led to only temporary respites. When I’m married, I’ll eat everything I want, go where I want, wear what I want, and have my husband beat you until you know what it feels like, you ugly old hag.

  “Those are for your wedding guests, not for you. If you make your father look stingy, both he and your husband will have every right to punish you.” Marta knew the next part of the lecture by heart. “A woman’s place is to be an ornament to her father’s and husband’s families, to bear strong children and to provide a clean, soothing, and sheltered home for her husband and children.”

  As if you’ve ever soothed anyone, the twelve-year-old sniffed.

  The lecture continued, “Godown made women different from men. Their food is too strong for us, their ways too rough. Our duty is to our families and hearths, and to serve Godown through prayer. Godown’s ways are right, and the only path to His glorious land is through obedience.” Mistress Elko stopped and shook Marta so hard her teeth rattled. “Obedience, Marguerite Thomasina Antonia, a virtue you entirely lack.”

  “Yes, Mistress Elko,” Marta murmured, eyes downcast, free hand tucked behind her apron to hide her clenched fist.

  “Since you can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble, you had best stay here until the wedding preparations are finished.” The tall, strong woman shoved Marta into the sleeping chamber that Marta shared with Liza. Marta caught herself before she fell and heard the sound of the door bar dropping after Mistress Elko closed the wooden panel with a loud “whump.”

  “Thppppth!” Marta made a rude sound once she knew that her maid couldn’t hear. Then she flopped onto the bed and stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. At least Sarah Elko no longer locked her into the chapel, forcing her to recite the bead prayers until her head ached and her knees bled. Father Rudy had threatened Mistress Elko with a ban after he caught her punishing Marta and her sister Liza that way. “You denigrate Godown by using His prayers and name to punish children,” he’d thundered, resting his hands on the girls’ heads. “There’s no better way to drive these little ones away from the church than to make our holy Lord into a bogey man.”

  “But, Father, they blasphemed,” Elko had protested, twisting her white apron with her knotty, calloused hands.

  He’d frowned and looked down at the cowering girls. “What did you say, little one?” He’d asked Marta.

  “I, I said I wanted Mama back. That if Godown loved us, he’d send Mama back.”

  Fr. Rudy had crouched down, gathering Marta and Liza into his arms. “That’s no blasphemy, woman. That’s the cry of a hurting child.” He’d scolded Mistress Elko some more, then took the girls back to their chamber himself. When Marta asked about Mama and Godown, he’d promised to explain later. And he had. Marta had worshipped him from a distance after that, until Godown took him home just after the last winter solstice.

  Marta climbed onto the chest by the window. If she scooted to the end of the heavy wooden chest and kept one leg stuck out to the side to balance, she could just see out the narrow window. It revealed a strip of blue sky and some early clouds, the dark stone of the wall opposite her and Liza’s room, and a bit of courtyard. Beyond the brown stones of the outer wall, the higher peaks of the Triangle Range blocked the morning sun, leaving the castle called Sarm Hall in shadow. Marta heard the usual sounds of mid-morning-animal hoofs thudding and clopping on the ground of the courtyard, yard fowl clucking their protests as people shooed them out from under foot, the musical clangs of the iron smith as he worked on something, and people calling back and forth. The party from Louvat had arrived the day before, not that she’d been allowed to greet them, and twice the usual number crowded into the castle and swarmed the courtyard to tend animals and personal needs.

  Marta watched for as long as she could before her knee went numb. Then she wiggled back across the chest, climbed down, and flopped onto her bed again. She should be reading one of the saints’ lives, or that black-covered book of wifely duties that Mistress Elko drilled her on, or be doing needlework. Instead she rolled onto her stomach, kicked off her slippers, and sulked.

  I should have said I was testing the buns to make certain they would be good enough for the guests. A wife’s supposed to do that, after all. I should have told the old bat that I didn’t want father to look bad, or the baking women either, so I needed to test one of the buns. And I’d taken a corner one that looked browner than the others, Marta decided, ten minutes too late. She always came up with ideas ten minutes too late.

  Like her wedding dress. At least that time her father had stepped in, but only after Liza described it to him. Mistress Elko had tried to make her wear a fancy white shahma wool dress with all sorts of lace and pale-colored ribbons. “But Mistress! It will get dirty, and if it is all white, I won’t be able to wear it again after the wedding night.”

  That had earned her a stinging rear, especially after she refused to tell Elko which of the other maids had told her about what happened at weddings. “You,” swat, “should not,” swat, “know of such things.”

  “Why not? She’s of age and has started her courses,” her father’s voice came through the open workroom door.

  Elko’s eyes had gone wide. “What?” The skinny woman turned from a hasty curtsy to Geoff deSarm, grabbed Marta’s shoulders, and started shaking her. “You should have told me. How dare you not tell me? I am your maid.”

  “Because the blood only started yesterday morning,” Marta had protested. One of the junior laundry maids had told her about women’s courses a few months before, and had shown her where to get the band, belt, and lint for padding when her time came. Mistress Elko never mentioned such things, leaving Marta to learn about the ways of man and maid from watching animals and listening to servant gossip.

  “And this is a proxy wedding, Elko,” her father reminded them, coming into the room, Liza following behind. “She’ll need something nice she can wear for holy feasts and other things, since it will be at least seven years before they consum—” he’d caught himself, remembering Liza. “Before the wedding is fully official and binding.”

  Now Marta kicked her legs in a most inappropriate manner before rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. She’d wear a blue and brown dress with lots of lace on her shimmy and on h
er veil. Elko detested the dress and Marta smiled, thinking of the woman’s complaints and protests. The dress revealed too much breast, the lacing would cut off Marta’s blood, the lacing was too loose to “hold her properly,” the skirt required too much material and smacked of waste, the lack of beading and lace made Marta’s family look miserly, and all of that about the same dress! I think she wants to wear the dress and to put me in a brown sack, so she’ll look better. Maybe she thinks she’ll catch a man that way.

  She heard the door bar lift and sat up. The door opened and Liza came in, carrying a heavy tray. A serving maid followed with a pitcher and two cups, then left, locking the door behind her. “Here, Marta. Cook Bethy sent these.” Marta got up and helped Liza put the tray on top of their clothing chest, then lifted the cover to reveal hot meat on bread with bits of sorrel, and two sticky buns, still warm. The pitcher held nothing more exciting than buttermilk. Liza waited for Marta to say grace, then crammed half of a bun into her mouth.

  Marta started to scold, then stopped. That was Elko’s duty, not hers, after all. And they didn’t need to use company manners. Despite what Elko said, Marta didn’t think that Godown really cared, as long as they ate everything, gave thanks for it, and didn’t waste food by making a mess. Marta ate the meat and bread first, then took her time unrolling and enjoying the luscious sticky bun. The bakers had used cane sugar to make the caramel, and Marta savored the rare treat.

  Liza devoured the second half of her bun more slowly, then ate the bread and meat one piece at a time. She licked her fingers clean before wiping them on the wiping cloth, then sat in her chair in the corner with one of their dollies, the one with the black sheep-wool yarn hair, and hummed. Marta didn’t mind the sound today. She cleaned her fingers carefully and drank a little of the buttermilk. Liza never drank with a meal. One of the cooks, joking with the girls, had told them that drinking with a meal made the food wash through too fast. Liza believed the first thing any adult told her, and after that even threats of beatings couldn’t make her drink before she finished her food, no matter how salty or spicy it tasted.

  Marta decided to knit. She and Liza wouldn’t be let out before evening worship, and she didn’t want to read. She could read and write, and do a little math, but it made her head ache unless she could mouth the words, which Mistress Elko swatted her for. Mistress Elko didn’t like knitting either, but it needed to be done, and Marta had taken it up with a passion, learning all sorts of fancy stitches just to annoy her keeper. Marta settled into her work with a will, and by the time she ran out of light she’d also run out of black yarn for the stripes on the sweater.

  Liza just sat and played with the dollie. Their mother, Alice Elizabeth deSarm, had told Marta that, “Liza is one of Godown’s special children. She will always be young inside, even when she’s old, and you will need to take care of her.” Marta hadn’t understood then, but she did now. Liza’s sunny disposition and obedient manner kept adults from losing their tempers with her most of the time. When something scared her, Liza froze, not moving a centimeter until an adult came and got her. But most of the time she sat and hummed, playing with her dollies.

  Marta had begun rolling up her knitting when she heard the door bar lifting. Mistress Elko marched in, her eyes darting around until she found her charges. “There you are.” She studied Marta from toe to kerchief. “Bath. Come.” Marta turned to set down her work and the older woman grabbed her arm, adding fresh bruises to the set she’d already inflicted. “I said come,” and she half-dragged Marta down to the bathing and laundry room.

  Marta’s teeth chattered from the cold water. “Hot water encourages impure thoughts,” Elko informed her yet again. She poured more water over Marta’s head and began scrubbing her hair, digging into the girl’s scalp until tears came to her eyes. “Now rinse.”

  Marta ducked under the pump mouth and endured the flush of cold water. “What in Godown’s name is wrong with the child?” a strange woman’s voice declared.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Elko demanded, grabbing Marta by the shoulder and hauling the girl behind her skirts.

  “I am Lady Francis Silva. Countess Alberta sent me with her son, Martin Gregory Berlin, to oversee his and his wife’s training until such time as they no longer need my services. And what ails Lady Marguerite, if that is her?”

  “It is and nothing. She’s perfectly healthy as Godown made her.” Marta peeked around Elko as much as she dared.

  “Those blue marks look like the tracks of the bleeding plague.” The other woman backed up a step, then another, making St. Misha’s sign.

  Elko drew herself up to her full two meters of height and pulled then pushed her charge forward, into better view. Marta felt like an animal on display. “The young miss is headstrong and requires firm discipline. She is quite healthy and has never had plague or child spot.” Elko turned Marta to show Lady Francis the girl’s back. “Nothing but bruises.”

  Lady Francis studied the girl, eyes narrow, then disappeared. Marta dried, dressed, and hurried back to her room before Mistress Elko could find another reason to swat her. Liza had already gone to bed, and Marta knelt, said a set of bead prayers, and climbed in beside her, asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  The next morning one of the younger servant girls got them up and helped Marta start dressing. “Did you hear the fuss last night, my lady?” She asked as she brushed out Marta’s hair.

  “No.” The servant had gentle hands and Marta didn’t complain as she brushed, combed, divided and braided her long golden hair into three potions, two for braids and one to hang loose down Marta’s back.

  “Ohh, the new lady-in-waiting, Lady Francis, had words with your father-in-law elect and Lord Geoff, something about how bad you looked. Lord Geoff, he tore into Sarah Elko. Mister Peters says Elko tried to talk back and your lord father threatened to have her horsewhipped if she laid another finger on you or your lady sister.”

  Marta wanted to cheer. The old bat talked about me making Father look bad, but she’s the one who did it. Marta gloated, I hope he throws her out. “Oohh,” she said, trying not to let her delight show. The girl might carry tales, after all.

  An hour later the same servant took away the meal tray and returned to help Marta and Liza into their new dresses. “Hmmm, my lady.” She tipped her head one way and then another. “I know just the thing.” The servant dug around in one of the smaller storage boxes until she found a pair of stockings. “We can fold them like so, and tuck them here,” and she tugged on the front of Marta’s bodice, then worked the fabric down into the dress. “Much better. A little deception never hurts anyone.”

  Marta looked down to discover that she now had large breasts. Before she could protests, the maid began putting the veil in place. Liza, already dressed and ready, came over and touched the lace on the end of the veil. “Pretty. Can I wear one?”

  “Not yet, Liza. Your turn will come,” Marta said. That satisfied her sister and she returned to her chair and dollie.

  Before Marta could do more than blink, her father appeared in the doorway. He studied her and smiled. “Very nice. Thank you, girl, you may go.” The maid curtsied and bustled out. Marta looked at her father. They shared blue eyes and a light frame, but she’d gotten her mother’s blond hair, while Liza sported Geoff DeSarm’s dark brown hair. Marta stood only as tall as her father’s shoulder, rounded instead of willowy.

  “Your mother would be pleased,” he told her. “Come.” Instead of taking her hand, he took her arm, leading her like an adult. Liza followed behind.

  Her father had explained it to her when he told her at midwinter that she’d be married come summer. “Until I remarry, you are heir to the Sarm Valley and the lands around it. But you are a girl, will be a woman, and can’t defend them on your own. So I’ve arranged with Count Gregory Berlin of Louvat for you to marry his second son. He’s a little younger than you are, so he’ll come here to live with us until you both come of age.”

&nb
sp; Marta had thought about the news. “My lord father, if he’s younger than I am, how can he command your men-at-arms?”

  Geoff deSarm had chuckled. “He won’t. But his father will help us, and you, should someone get greedy and try to take over from you and Greg.” He’d waved one hand, “This is all assuming I die before you come of age, and if I do not remarry or my new wife doesn’t give me a son.”

  It hadn’t made complete sense to her, but Marta had nodded and pretended that it did. He’d patted her on the head and shooed her off to play, once she’d finished tidying her chamber and reciting her lessons.

  Later, Marta had to admit that she didn’t remember many details of the wedding. She was too busy staring at Martin Gregory “Greg” Berlin, her husband. He sported short black hair with a shahma-lick on the side, had a round face, and rocked back and forth, staring around at the adults and acting bored. Well, he’s eight. Four years ago I would have been bored too. His father prompted him and he gave the right answers at the right time. Fr. Thomas waved the incense burner over them and Martin sneezed. “Do you, Marguerite Thomasina Antonia deSarm, take Martin Gregory Berlin to be your husband, to honor, cherish, serve, and obey, until death do you part?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you, Martin Gregory Berlin take Marguerite Thomasina Antonia deSarm to be your wife, to honor, cherish, guide, and protect until death do you part?”

  I’m supposed to obey him? And he doesn’t have to obey me? That’s not fair!

  “Yes.” Greg’s father nudged him and he stammered, “Sorry, I do.”

  “Take her right hand,” the priest ordered, and a smaller, damp paw grabbed Marta’s hand. Greg jammed the ring onto the wrong finger, then pulled it back off and did it correctly. Marta took her time and placed his oversized ring first on his ring finger, then on his thumb so he wouldn’t lose it.