by Alma Boykin
“I declare you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Greg made a face, then leaned forward and pecked Marta on the cheek through her veil. Someone twittered and Lord Gregory the Elder lifted Marta’s veil and pushed it out of the way. “Do it again,” he ordered, and Greg pecked her on the lips, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Greg fidgeted through the first two courses of the wedding dinner before starting fuss as if he wanted to have a tantrum. Lady Francis took charge and guided him out of the room with her hand on his back. Marta enjoyed the food and watching the musicians and dancers. Without Greg she couldn’t dance, but that didn’t bother her. Finally Lady Francis returned and her father and Count Gregory stood up. Her father motioned for her to stand, and the two men rested their hands on her head as the room fell quiet.
“Go with our blessing,” Count Gregory said. “May Godown bless you, St. Sabrina watch over you, and St. Gerald help us bridge our families.”
“Selah,” Marta and everyone else said. Then a maid led her out of the room, through the back hall, and into an unfamiliar bedchamber. Lady Francis, who had followed behind, and two other women descended on her, removing her new dress and shimmy and putting her in a new white nightgown. They led her to the bed, where she saw Greg, sulking, and a sheathed sword dividing the mattress.
“You won’t know Marguerite as your wife for some time yet,” Lady Francis told Greg. “Now go to sleep.” She pushed Marta, chivvying her into the bed, then put out the light.
Four years later, almost to the day, Marta sat beside her father’s bed, knitting and listening to him struggling to breathe. He’d taken Greg to inspect the mines. A rain shower caught the men on the way back and they had gotten soaked to the skin, then chilled. Greg appeared none the worse, but Geoff had come down with a fever and cough. Now chills shook him like a pest-weasel shaking a rat, and he fought to breathe. Marta wiped his forehead with a damp cloth and wondered if anything would help him recover. Neither salibark infusions nor tincture of feverbane had worked. They hadn’t helped Liza, either, Marta recalled. Godown bless her, that’s because she never took them. She’d poured them out into the nightsoil box because she didn’t like the taste. Godown, grant her peace. She was one of Your innocents.
She’d been studying the history of Sarm and of the area, and thinking about her husband. Her researches had become more and more frantic as her father’s illness grew worse and worse. Somewhere in all the books had to be a recipe or instructions for making medicines, ones that didn’t have strange Lander names or require equipment that had not worked for fifty years and more. The last parts needed for the connectors to the remaining power generator had run out during her grandfather’s time. Without them, the thing had still made power, but no one knew how to get that electricity into what few machines did run, so her father had ordered it walled into its cave and the other devices remade, put to better use. And some of the chemicals and things needed to make medicine, well, just pronouncing the names made her head hurt, let alone trying to puzzle out how to concoct the strange potions: especially the ones that needed to be made in a perfectly clean, dust-free room with lots of light and be cooked at a precise temperature for an exact time. Lander women must have done nothing but clean, unless those wonderful cleaning devices really worked as well as the books claim. Marta studied her work piece, tied off the brown wool, and started working in a paler bit of yarn. Maybe the Landers were like us: the men spent the days away and the women did everything within the walls.
She’d not seen Greg for two days. He’d gone hunting again, stalking mountain leapers, the small, agile goat-like grazers that lived at the high elevations. Greg wanted more pseudo-deer, but Marta and her huntsmen drew the line on stalking the beasts until fall, when the year’s foaling had time to mature. She reminded himself that he was barely thirteen, and boys matured later, and that getting out and hunting helped him learn the land so he could defend and manage it better. At least he’d learned to read, write, and do basic math, after Lord Geoff and Count Gregory insisted, ordered, and finally threatened to take away his riding privileges.
Marta turned her knitting and tried to look ahead to the next weeks and months. If her father didn’t recover, Godown forbid, that left only her of age and competence to manage the Sarm lands. Except she couldn’t, could she? She’d dug through the old books and family records until her eyes burned and her head throbbed, but Marta found nothing saying women couldn’t govern. She’d read plenty of warnings about not letting stupid people try to run things, including a tale about a mining company that a spendthrift heir ruined, but nothing specifically against women. Marta sighed, On the other hand, what woman has time to run a county or a business, since children and housekeeping demand so much energy and effort? And we can’t fight, or lead men on rescue teams or into battle, because we’re just not strong enough. Supposedly the Landers had women warriors, but they also traveled the stars and kept their teeth until they died and lived for hundreds of years. She counted off her stitches and sniffed. All of which are about as possible as me sprouting wings or this wool turning into silk if I pray hard enough to St. Alice.
Or her husband suddenly acting like Master James Laplace, the head of the arms-men. Marta checked on her father and sighed again. Master Laplace had suggested to Greg that he look into some of the older books about protecting mountainous places. Greg, or so Marta guessed, glanced through them and then wandered off to things that were more fun. Marta had sat down and studied them. She’d made a point to thank Laplace for his suggestions (on her husband’s behalf, of course). She’d also dug into her pin funds and added a little to the arms-men’s pay, in Greg’s name, on the anniversary of their wedding.
Their wedding: Marta sighed and got up to ease her back and shake out her hands. Lord Geoff seemed to have settled down into quieter sleep for the moment, and Marta took the chance to use the garderobe attached to her father’s room. How much longer until she and Greg could be man and wife in truth? He’s young still, I know that, Holy One, she prayed as she stretched. But I’m not. Another two years perhaps? Help me, please, Godown, help me to keep my promise to him and to my father and to You. She’d begun dreaming about men, very pleasant dreams, but the men were not her husband. Part of her wanted to indulge those dreams, but the rest of her remembered what happened the last time a woman got pregnant out of wedlock. Especially since the girl’s betrothed had been away from the village for over seven months, working at the mines, when the girl’s parents discovered her condition. She’d been disgraced, the boy’s parents terminated the engagement, and she’d ended up marrying a tanner’s journeyman instead of the eldest son of a well-off smith. Marta sympathized, but disapproved of the girl’s foolishness even so. We have no way to keep from getting pregnant. It’s not fair, but that’s the way things are right now. Maybe we can rediscover the Landers’ trick soon. A cough interrupted her musings and she returned to her father’s side.
He choked, then coughed up phlegm and blood. Oh Godown no, please no, please, St. Mischa, inspire us and Godown strengthen father, please. “Sarah, get Mistress Bethany and Fr. Thomas, now,” Marta ordered, wiping up the mess.
The priest and herbwife arrived at the same time. Mistress Bethany studied what Marta had cleaned, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, my lady. He’s passed beyond what I can do.”
Fr. Thomas ordered everyone else out, so that he could conduct last rites and so that Geoff deSarm’s final request for absolution would remain between him, the priest, and Godown. Sarah, the chambermaid, began weeping, and Mistress Bethany comforted her, then gently urged her to go warn the rest of the staff of a pending funeral. Marta hugged herself, tired beyond belief and scared. Then she took a deep breath. “Mistress Bethany, go tell whoever is on messenger duty to send someone after Lord Greg.”
“Yes, my lady.” She dropped a curtsy and disappeared down the corridor.
Thank you Godown that we’re not at war. Oh! Marta put her hands to her mouth t
o muffle a curse. Father’s been corresponding with Phillip of Frankonia about marrying the king’s second-oldest sister, the young widow. Oh Godown, please may he not have made any promises already, pleasepleaseplease. Holy Godown, god of mercy, please may there not be a betrothal contract Father didn’t tell me about. She hugged herself and repeated that prayer and every prayer for healing that she could remember.
The door opened and Ft. Thomas stepped out, looked left and right, and beckoned Marta. “My child, your father has received final anointing.” She bowed and made St. Alice’s sign. “Do you require ought?”
“I covet wisdom and strength for the days ahead, Father, and help discerning Godown’s will.” Especially wisdom and strength, please Lord.
The round-faced priest nodded. “I will pray for you and for Lord Gregory in this time.”
“Thank you, Father. Godown be with you.”
“And with your spirit, my child.” He left and she returned to her seat in the sickroom. She’d barely finished a second row of stitches when her father breathed his last.
With unseemly haste, Marta arranged her father’s body before calling for his valet and the oldest women servants. They would see to washing and preparing the body for burial. Then she gathered her skirts and trotted to her father’s workroom and office, where he kept his most important papers. She’d slipped the key to his chest off of his wrist that morning, and with a whispered request for forgiveness, she knelt in front of the age-darkened metal box, as big as her outstretched arms, and opened it, then began skimming through the contents.
Inside a second, smaller, ugly green metal box, Marta found what she’d feared. “Oh Father,” she groaned, skimming through the pages until she found the most recent letters. They contained revenue lists and all the information anyone might want about the Sarmas lands, including a promise that King Phillip’s second oldest sister, Catarina, would receive half of the county’s income and any son she bore would become heir, replacing Marta and her husband. You never trusted me, did you? You wanted another son, one who would live to inherit. Oh Father. Had he given Phillip a claim on the Sarm Valley? Marta didn’t know, but if the rumors about Phillip held water, the lack of formal betrothal contracts wouldn’t stop the Frankonian monarch from trying to poke his nose, and greedy fingers, into Sarm business. “Oh, Father.” She put everything back and re-locked the chest.
She didn’t have time to wait for Greg to return. “Matteo!” She called, “Find Matteo.”
The seneschal, the manager and senior servant for the Sarm family, appeared before too long. “My lady?”
“I need all the arms-men in residence to come to the great hall as soon as possible, please. I will meet with them.” She added, “It is not an attack, but I need to speak with them.”
His white eyebrows rose. “Ah. Very good, my lady.”
Her mind racing, trying to sort out all the possible consequences of her father’s betrothal negotiations, Marta retreated to her chambers. Her maid helped her change into her most formal of dresses, and arranged a black scarf over her hair, held in place by a silver band. Marta glanced in the little glass mirror. She looked older than her years. Good. She needed all the dignity and strength she could muster.
Marguerite Thomasina Antonia deSarm settled into her father’s chair as the men filed into the large room. Weavings and four enormous pictures hung on the sides of the long room, showing the history of the Sarm Valley going back to the days of the first Lander settlement at the head of the Martins River. Marta felt her hands starting to shake and took a deep breath, stilling herself. Godown, Lord, please help me be calm and strong. At last Master LaPlace and Matteo approached and bowed. “We are here, my lady.”
She stood up, raising the older men with a gesture. “I asked you to come, Master Laplace, gentlemen, because I bear sad news. Lord Geoffrey deSarm, my father, has gone to Godown, may Holy One have mercy.” A flurry of saints’ signs moved the air in the great hall, but no one looked or acted surprised. “I ask, in the name of my husband Gregory Berlin and myself, will you continue to serve the Sarm family?”
A low murmur rose from the forty or so armsmen as they talked among themselves. After what felt like hours, the men fell silent. Laplace drew his sword, then knelt in front of her, holding the blade on outstretched hands. “My lady, we swear to continue to serve the Sarm family and pledge our loyalty to Lady Marguerite deSarm.”
Light-headed with relief, Marta stepped forward and took the blade by the hilt, lifted it for all to see, then returned it hilt first. “Thank you, Master Laplace, gentlemen. I pledge as Lady Sarm to do whatever I can to continue the bonds of loyalty and service between the Sarm family and you, Godown willing.”
A deep voice called, “Sarmas, Sarmas.” Others took up the chant, and soon “Sarmas! Sarmas!” filled the room, ringing off the stone walls and bouncing off the darkened wood of the ceiling eight meters above their heads.
Marta raised her hands and they quieted down. “Thank you, good sirs. May Godown grant me strength to return honor for honor and to be as good a leader as my ancestors. Lord Geoff will rest in the chapel until the holy day,” three days, “when he will join his wife, daughter, and son, Godown rest them and grant them peace.” More saints’ signs fluttered and a few voices murmured, “selah.” “Thank you, and you are dismissed.”
Only after all the men had left did Marta sag back into her father’s great chair. Thank you, Godown. She sat bolt upright as she realized, they swore to me, not to Greg and I. What does that mean? Does it mean anything at all? Probably not, and she leaned back again. She’d been present. Greg remained away, of course, and she’d rushed things at an unseemly pace. Well, she’d rather know now if the men abandoned her rather than later. But they hadn’t: they’d sworn to serve her, Lady Sarm. “I’m Lady Sarm,” she whispered, the reality at last sinking in. “Father’s dead. I’m in charge now.” Father’s dead.
Marta wept into the hem of her skirt, for the last time alone in the great hall.
Odile Rheinhart swept the stone with great thoroughness, listening carefully for the faint skitter of stinging roller bugs racing to get away from the old broom. They liked to crawl out of the bushes and soak up the warm sun on the edge of the grotto, and attacked anything that threatened them. After one bite, she’d agreed with her older brother that cleaning her devotion niche before praying made excellent sense. In fact, Odile had worked the chore into part of her prayers, using the rhythmic motion to help her focus on separating herself from everyday things. “Swish, swish, swish,” back and forth the worn bristles scraped over the stone floor of the natural half-cave. Too shallow to be useful for storage, it had become Odile’s refuge from disappointment and the stresses of life in a small house with a large family. At least Father and Mike’s work is paying well now, and the roof doesn’t leak anymore. I got sooo tired of hauling wet bedding out of the loft every time it rained.
Odile finished sweeping, including two passes over the wooden kneeling bench. She set the broom in its holder, bowed to Godown’s symbol and the little figures of St. Alice and St. Basil, then knelt to pray. She pulled her beads out of her skirt pocket and began the day’s sequence. “Blessed be Godown, Lord of All, maker of all things, judge of all men, giver of the gift of life. Blessed be Godown’s holy name, greater than the mountains, deeper than space. Blessed be Godown, creator of the stars and worlds, loving father of man. Blessed be Godown, Lord of All, maker of all things…” she recited, passing the worn wooden beads between her fingers one by one with each phrase. Only after she said the Act of Praise and the prayer for the day did she lift her own silent petition.
Holy Godown, please give me patience and compassion, please forgive my envy and disappointment. The fuss surrounding her younger sister Bethany’s pending wedding had taxed the limits of Odile’s patience. She’d taken up some of Bethany’s chores around the house, trying to make things easier for their mother and other sisters, but she lacked Bethany’s skills in the kitchen. After O
dile accidentally added a handful of sour basil to the stew instead of thyme the day before, her mother had thrown a shrieking fit and ordered her out of the kitchen. “You’re good for nothing but finger-work and heavy cleaning! What did I do for Godown to give me such a useless daughter?” Forgive me for hurt feelings, Odile prayed. I know she didn’t mean it, and she’s worried about the wedding and Father’s back and finding Mike a good wife, but her words hurt again. Her mother would apologize soon, as she always did, but even after this long the words stung. Odile would never be a good cook or skilled with fine work. She moved slowly, too slowly to keep the house clean and do all the other work needed to please a prospective mother-in-law. Forgive me for jealousy, and for despair, oh Holy One, You who give all things in their season for Your reasons. Help me to be what You want me to be. St. Sabrina, patron of women in need, help me. St. Kiara, grant me your clarity, please. St. Alice, patron of families, show me how to keep peace, if it is Godown’s will. Fr. Thomas said that everyone needed to remember that Godown’s will meant more than their own desires. But Odile wondered more and more why Godown’s Will and her mother’s desires for marriageable daughters seemed to collide so often.
Odile finished her beads, added a few prayers other townspeople had asked for, and meditated on this week’s passage from the Holy Writ, the story of Godown creating the universe. After about an hour, she got up from the prayer bench. She swept the almost-cave once more and heard a rolling, then skittering sound as something hurried back into the bushes. Thank you, Godown. She chased the sound with a few more encouraging swipes of the broom before putting the besom up, bowing to Godown’s symbol, and starting her careful walk down the side of the mountain to the village. The sun felt a little cooler—was another storm coming? The last one had made a right mess of things around the house, and Odile sped up as much as felt safe.