by Alma Boykin
“My lady?” Esmé asked.
“Just tired. Please have food and warm wash water in my cham— No. In the lord’s chambers. I will be making use of them from now on.” The staff had already been told to clean out Greg’s things, to be sent to Louvat along with what remained of the wedding endowment, and why should she stay in her small room when a larger, better-lit, warmer space with a very nice bed stood empty?
“Ah, very good, my lady.”
Marta leaned her head against the wood of the chair, above the cushion on the back, and closed her eyes for just a moment. Well, the tapestries did need to be beaten and shifted, so that’s not so bad. And I now have more fancy bedding than a shahma has hairs, although what I’m to use it for I’m not sure. Maybe I can turn some of the sheets into dresses.
A man cleared his throat and she opened one eye, then both eyes. Master Laplace and his associate, Edmund Roy, stood on the step below the chair. “Yes?”
“If my lady would like some assistance?” Master Laplace offered.
She smiled, then wondered if that was proper. Oh pish. “Yes, thank you. The day has been a touch wearying.” She braced on the wide arms of the heavy chair and pushed, lifting herself out of the seat. Mr. Roy extended his hand and she took it, then leaned on his arm as he and Master Laplace walked slowly out of the great hall. Servants bowed a little as they passed, and the trio turned toward the steps leading to her office and her chamber. “No. I’ve moved into the lord’s chamber,” she corrected.
She felt the man beside her shifting his arm to take more of her weight when she stumbled a little as she turned. She wasn’t used to having help, but this once it felt very nice.
Marta thought aloud, “I believe that King Phillip will be disinclined to take ‘go away’ seriously.”
Roy nodded, hesitating for a moment while she took her skirts in hand to avoid tripping on the uneven stone steps. “I believe you are correct, my lady. He wants nice, defensible borders and docile people. And to pay as little coin as possible for things that he wants.”
From behind them, Laplace said, “Phillip’s never been singed before, my lady. You insulted his manhood by denying him his rights, or rather, the rights he believes he has over the Sarm Valley.”
Father, if you weren’t dead I’d be shaking you, Marta thought once again. If her father had not told Phillip in exquisite detail about the treasure of the valley, would he even bother? Probably not, she decided, rounding the corner and almost tripping as she tried to dodge a rushing maidservant carrying an armload of something foul smelling. “What in Godown’s name?”
Andrea appeared, her pinched and disapproving expression boding ill for whoever was responsible for the mess. “My lady, would you take your supper in the office or your former chambers, please? The previous occupant of the lord’s chambers,” she pursed her lips. “We need more time to set things to rights, my lady.”
“How bad?”
Both Laplace and Roy made grunting noises. “Your former husband was a pig, my lady. Except that, given the opportunity, pigs are more cleanly than he was.” Laplace came around so he could face her and Roy. “I had to venture into his chambers on two occasions. Your stables are spotless compared to how he preferred to keep his quarters, my lady.”
“I see. Then the office.” She began turning and Roy eased to the other side so quickly it was as if he’d never moved. He walked her to the office just as the servants from the kitchen arrived with food and a spare chair to go with the small table they’d brought. He handed her into the chair, bowed a little, then excused himself. As he stood, she met his eyes directly for the first time. Oh. My. Marta found herself falling into his green-brown eyes. He blinked as if surprised and backed a step, bowed again, and departed before she could say anything more. He’s not bad looking at all. And he’s polite, knows weapons, doesn’t smell particularly, and hmm. Her stomach growled at the scent of the food now appearing before her, and she turned her attention to the roast meat, mashed neeps with fresh butter, and berries baked in a little pot.
Marta ate slowly, savoring a meal eaten in peace. Apparently the cooks had decided to experiment with some of the spices her former spouse had bought, because the neeps tasted a little peppery—in a good way—and a woodsy-sweet-sharp something brought out the sweetness of the late berries. Maybe they found directions with the herbs. Or in one of those old cookery books, the ones from the Great Fires supposedly. What was that one called again, the one with the directions for all the cakes? Her mind refused to hold thoughts, instead drifting with each bite, and at last Marta sat back, playing with the now-empty buttermilk glass and staring at the wall, eyes unfocused. She relaxed into the chair, content to listen to the commotion outside the office. The warm food and her heavy gown kept away the night’s chill, and Marta let her eyes droop. Andrea and Esmé know what to do. I’ll just wait here for a little…
She woke the next morning in an unfamiliar, well-lit room with white walls. Someone had tied back the bed curtains and she saw wedges of sunlight lying on top of the bedcovers and on the wooden floor. As she stirred, Marta vaguely remembered her women helping her get ready for bed. She felt rested but stiff, and suddenly discovered an acute need to find the garderobe. She made it in time, and as soon as she finished, she rang the small hand bell on the table beside one of the un-shuttered windows. Esmé appeared at the door, dropped a curtsy, and beckoned the slops maid to come in with warm water while Esmé helped Marta with her hair and dressing. The open windows let in chilly air, but the room felt warm despite the breeze. “How bad was it yesterday? And my brown dress with the grey trim.”
The black-haired woman tipped her head to the side as she studied Marta. “You will want the cream headcover with the green band then, my lady. And very bad: no one thought to look under the bed or to move things in daylight, my lady. We thought the sheets covered stacks of bedding.” She helped Marta get the dress settled over her heavy wool underskirt and linen bust band. Marta braided her long blond hair into a single loose plait while Esmé supervised the maids fluffing the bed and rearranging the covers. “I have no idea how his valet could tolerate so much.” She gave a little shake of her head. “Ugh. I do give Tony credit for keeping him mostly clean, and we found no bugs in the bedding or bedframe, thanks be.”
Marta made St. Alice’s spindle. Esmé clucked her tongue as she arranged the lightly starched linen, fastening the band under Marta’s braid before folding the width into soft curves and pinning them to the band with practiced fingers. “Thank you,” Marta said, checking the work in a small mirror. “What do you think of Edmund Roy?”
Esmé smiled and colored a little. “He’s quite handsome, my lady, if you like men with strong features. And he has manners.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Andrea told me that Tom LeRue says that Master Roy’s family name isn’t really ‘Roy,’ that he’s the off-blanket son of one of the patricians of Florabi, and that Roy means red, like his hair, in an Old Terran language.”
“Interesting, if true. And if not, it sounds like a tale from one of those books Fr. Andrew always warned about.” She stood and Esmé stepped back, making a rude gesture with her tongue. “Tut tut, clergy are always to be respected,” Marta said with a wink.
“Yes, my lady.”
Marta spent the day going over all the financial records, finding out the extent of the damage Gregory had done to Sarm. On the positive side of the ledger, Alex Kittle had paid for everything Gregory purchased, so he anticipated no new bills. A few crops had succumbed to the late rain and storms, but not as much as everyone had feared, and oddly, the worst weather missed the mountain pastures. The sheep, cattle, and shahma had begun coming down about the time of Phillip’s arrival, along with the summer cheeses that had been made, and those would be added to the income side of the list, eventually. Once the animals returned, everyone turned to finishing their winter preparations and the woodsmen went up, starting their work. If Godown willed, Marta would not be on tight budget for
too much longer.
Except she needed to keep more soldiers than before and to build fortifications and purchase arms, because Phillip would return, better prepared and with an army the next time he appeared. And, if the old books she’d read were right, he’d have been telling everyone that he had a right to take Sarm, and that she needed his protection, and that she’d wronged him and Greg Berlin. And some people would believe him. Even some of my people probably believe him, the bishop’s findings to the contrary notwithstanding. I wasn’t a good wife, I didn’t obey properly, I didn’t tend to the household even though I wanted to, I deprived my husband of his manhood by taking over his duties, she recited, hearing Lady Francis’s voice in her memory.
So, she needed a man, one who would do the lord’s duties and defend Sarm so she could take care of the household. “I want a real husband,” she sighed aloud, once Master Kittle had gone.
“There’s Master Laplace, my lady,” Andrea offered, looking up from her embroidery hoop.
Marta shook her head and laughed as she closed the big ledger book. “No. He’s too old and would refuse.” And I think he’s already married. I’ve seen a ring on a chain around his neck. He may have taken private vows if he’s a widower. And it would be like marrying my father, which may be why he’s never put himself forward as a candidate. The thought of marrying James Laplace made her shudder. And taking a man from the valley smacked of desperation as well as favoritism, although she suspected several would leap at the chance to get their hands on her wealth and her person, even though they had no idea how to manage things or to keep Phillip out, which would put her right back into the fire.
Through Master Laplace she’d scouted around for eligible, unambitious younger sons in the Freistaadter and even as far as the Bergenlands. Alas, all he’d found were daughters and a few unmarried men who had good reasons to remain unmarried. One family in particular left both of them shaking their heads. “This, my lady, is why the church requires a Diligence. Three generations of first cousins and,” he’d frowned, tapping one couple. How that union had been permitted remained a mystery, because she didn’t think that even bribery would convince the church to ignore an uncle-niece marriage. The more she thought about it, the more interesting and eligible Edmund Roy seemed. In fact, just thinking about him made her smile. Oh, stop that and settle down. If you rush anything, you’ll look even weaker and make the rumors stronger. And he may not be eligible or interested.
A week later, Edmund Roy stood at her shoulder as she held the long-delayed justice session. Master Laplace had developed a cough bad enough that Mistress Barbiere dosed him with horehound, tussy-bark, and whisky. The mixture soothed the cough but left him too sleepy to function. Marta thought Mistress Barbiere had done it deliberately, so he’d finally get some rest, and she approved. As a result, Laplace delegated his usual duties to Roy. Marta’s light-green colors looked very good on Roy, she decided, and having him standing beside her, alert for trouble, seemed to keep the petitioners a little quieter despite the long line waiting for her decisions.
She started just after the first bell after dawn and continued until they had to bring lamps and candles for the scribes into the small hall. The servants had brought food—meat on bread—for her and her staff to eat between cases. She’d taken two brief breaks to visit the garderobe and to allow the clerks to refill ink jars and to stretch tight fingers and wrists. The pauses also helped her keep her temper and remind herself that the last case mattered as much to the petitioners as the first one did. Now, as the candles and lamps flickered, she listened with fading patience as Goodwife Shellmain complained about Mistress Dorothy Lemark overcharging her.
“…and I paid for top quality, not for this,” the shrill-voiced woman waved a bundle of dried herbs and stems like a baton.
“Place it on the table, Goodwife,” Marta ordered.
Shellmain sniffed but did as ordered, dropping the bundle between Marta and the clerk, then resuming her complaint, “And two pieces of silver I paid, none of that cheap coin, either, and I demand satisfaction. This is poor seconds if that, fit for the fire and naught else. I’ve lived in Sarmvale twenty years and more and never seen such cheap dealings, my lady.” The harangue continued as Marta picked up one of the branches and sniffed it.
That’s odd. This doesn’t smell like lemonleaf, not at all. She leaned back and in an undertone ordered Roy, “Go fetch Melissa from the kitchen.”
He bowed a little and left. Marta waited until Shellmain paused for breath and raised her hand. “Thank you. Mistress Dorothy, what say you?”
Baby in arms, expression angry, eyebrows drawn together and lips compressed, the herbalist began, “My lady, I deny Goody Shellmain’s charge. She ordered two silverweight of lemonleaf and three of creeping mint, both fresh so she could prepare them to her liking. I warned her like I warned everyone that the lemonleaf this year seemed weak, the goodness washed out, but she took delivery even so. I was too pregnant to travel to Sarmvale at the time agreed, so when her maid came to the farm, I gave her the herbs and others and sent her off. Now she owes me for the herbs and is trying to blacken my name and I demand restitution for both.”
“She’s lying, my lady! I never sent a servant or anyone. Her girl dumped that useless fodder on me and demanded payment. I gave her half and sent her away until she brought the rest of what I’d ordered.” Both women looked ready to tear each other’s hair out by the roots.
“I am not lying. May Godown strike me if I’m lying.”
Marta beckoned to the men by the door and two soldiers stepped forward, lowering spears between the plaintiff and defendant to keep them apart. The murmur of the witnesses grew to a soft babble. “Enough. If you break the peace, I will sentence both of you to the pillory.” That subdued them, at least until Master Roy and Melissa appeared. Marta beckoned and the junior cook dropped a curtsey. “What is this?” She pointed to the herbs.
Melissa lifted a leaf, sniffed it, crumbled a little in her hand and touched her tongue to it. She wrinkled her nose. “Poke-along weed, my lady, or what my grandma called poverty lemon. It looks like lemonleaf, and smells a little like, but the rough edge on the stalk says poke-along weed, my lady.”
“Thank you, and you may go.” The thin, brown woman dropped another curtsey and hurried back to work. Marta leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on the table. “It seems you both have been deceived. I suggest you work together to find out who impersonated your runner, Goody Shellmain, and you’d better find out who else has been tricked, Mistress Dorothy, so it does not happen again. You’ll find your missing lemonleaf there, I suspect, along with the silver. Talk to Master Sylván about having some of his young men help if need be.”
The two women glared at her, then at each other, then agreed. Marta sent them off and sagged back into the chair. The witnesses followed, chattering and probably trying to guess who had tricked the women, and who else in the village had been swindled. “Thank you, and you are dismissed,” she told her secretary and the guards. They departed, and Master Roy offered her his hand.
The words came out before she realized it. “Are you married?”
He blinked, straightening up and taking his hand back. “Me, my lady? No.”
“Would you be able to marry me?”
A faint flush appeared under the evening shadow on his cheeks. “If my lady means am I capable as well as free, yes.”
“Will you marry me?”
A broad smile appeared on his face. “Yes, my lady, I will.” He sobered as he extended his hand again. “But not, I think, immediately, my lady. It will take a while for the Diligence, and speed will mark weakness to those who wish to take your lands.”
She clasped his hand, feeling the callouses and the strong grip. The warmth made her smile despite herself, and she wanted to giggle. She never giggled. Think about something else. Her eyes found the poke-along weed and she thought about the cases. That sobered her up enough to nod and say, “I agree, Mr. Roy. Thank you.”
Once she stepped down from the small platform, he shifted his grip so he held her hand from below, allowing her to lean on his arm. He stood taller than her, but not overly so, and he still didn’t smell too much like the barracks or barn. She matched his pace easily and he released her hand the instant Andrea appeared. “Thank you, and you are dismissed.” She gave him a very warm smile.
He bowed, also smiling. “You are most welcome, my lady.” He turned and left and Marta did not watch him. Instead she raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar leather-covered case in Andrea’s hands. Two palms wide and several centimeters thick, it seemed to be a writing case of some kind, for carrying inks, pens, and wax.
“What do you have there?”
The dark woman glanced around and eased closer, holding the case out. “My lady, do you recall Mr. Berlin complaining about the lack of precious stones in your possession?”
Marta’s face settled into hard lines. “Yes.” How could I forget? He struck me, the bastard.
Andrea reached over the case, undid the little latch, and opened it. Marta’s jaw dropped as a dozen stones glittered in the dim lamplight. No. She reached into the case and pulled out a ring set with something oval and smooth that seemed to hold fire and water both. She replaced it and drew out an un-mounted, pale blue gem that winked as she turned it. Holy Godown, what would these look like in sunlight? Where? What? She managed to squeak out, “Where?”
“Under the bed, my lady. We sent the potboy under there, since he’s used to dealing with rats and filth. He found this, and,” she sniffed and glanced to the side.