by Alma Boykin
“I do not need to know, unless you think I should call Fr. Thomas and have him bless the room.”
“Oh no, my lady, nothing that bad. Just,” Andrea exhaled with a gusty sigh. “Bachelors.” She closed the box and latched it.
“Thank you, and remind me to give the boy a few extra coppers this quarter.” Marta took the box and locked it in the metal chest in the office. Then she ate more meat and bread before falling into the big bed. If she dreamed, she did not remember anything.
Duties done, court concluded, Marta spent the next day sewing and planning her wedding. The wind howled around deSarm Hall as another storm swept over the valley. Marta peeked outside and saw swirls of white from a low, gray sky that hid the mountains from view. She pulled her shawl closer and shivered. She’d read that the Landers held large parties to celebrate the solstice, and that some heretics had even celebrated major religious festivals at midwinter, something Marta found hard to believe even of misguided and corrupt unbelievers. She bent over her needlework, peering at the stitches in the storm-dim afternoon light. Who in their right mind would go out in this sort of weather for a party or religious meeting? Godown encourages devotion but not at the risk of our lives. Or maybe it was only the Landers who lived in the Thumb, and that area east of the mountains, where winters are supposed to be milder. She reset her needle and finished the stitch. No, it has to be a mis-transcription, she decided. The Landers may have been corrupt and prideful, but no one ever called them stupid.
It took a week before Marta summoned the courage to inform Fr. Thomas about the need for a Diligence. His eyes narrowed. “For whom, my lady?”
“For myself and Edmund Roy.”
The priest’s frown deepened. “And does Mr. Roy know about this request?”
Marta’s eyes went wide with anger. “Yes, because I have already ascertained his ability and willingness to marry.” Do you think I would try to trick a man into marrying me? Ugh.
“And when do you propose to hold the ceremony, provided no obstacles are found?”
“The feast of St. Basil,” after the solstice and before fighting season started. And that gave several months for messengers to go wherever they needed to go to get the information.
Ft. Thomas looked a touch less unhappy. Perhaps he thought it would give him time to talk her out of the marriage, or convince Mr. Roy to refuse. Well, that and he didn’t need to try to rush messengers out to wherever Mr. Roy’s family came from, especially in winter. Another reason why so many people marry after harvest—any out-of-valley travel is best done in late spring and summer, when the roads are open and the weather cooperates.
Fr. Thomas made a note on his wax board. “Very well, my lady. I will see about beginning the process.” He looked up. “You do recall the stipulation the bishop put on your separation from Lord Gregory.”
She folded her arms. “His excellency put no stipulations on the separation. I’ve read the documents three times through, Father. We are not to remarry each other; I was to return all the goods and properties that he brought or to provide items of equivalent value and quality, and to ensure that all of Gregory Berlin’s personal items returned to Louvat or wherever Mr. Berlin chose to relocate to. Those are the stipulations.”
“Oh? I understood that should you remarry prior to a year passing, or have carnal relations with a man out of wedlock, his excellency required you to make a gift to Godown to expiate—”
“Feh!” She planted her fists on her hips. “A nullification is not a separation, Father. Gregory Berlin and I, under law, never married. I am under no ban or limitation save those of Godown’s Writ and the laws of con-sang-uinity,” she pronounced carefully. If you think you can lie to me, you will have a different posting before the solstice passes, Fr. Thomas.
“Marguerite Thomasina Antonia, your conduct is most unbecoming,” Fr. Thomas got to his feet, trying to loom over her. “If you will not accept the leadership of those whom Godown has placed above you, then his majesty has every right to remove and confine you for such immoderate behavior.”
Ice flowed through her veins. She straightened up, hands at her sides, teeth clenched almost as tight as her fists. “Ahhh, so that is the matter. You believe that King Phillip retains a legitimate claim on Sarm and that I must shift my behavior to suit Phillip’s desires. I am sorry to hear that, Father.” She relaxed her hands enough to take her skirts in hand. “Send out for the Diligence, Father. I will wed Edmund Roy on St. Basil’s feast, Godown willing.”
To her mild surprise, Fr. Thomas did as she bid. “Well, he probably hopes he will find something to block the wedding plans, although I doubt he will. And he’s stuck here until spring, will he or nil he.” She doubted the Diligence would turn up any surprises. Her father had roamed north of Sarmas a young man, not south, and Roy came from the Freistaadter. Her mother also came from the north, from a small county now swallowed up by Phillip’s ambitions. Marta shrugged and turned her attention to other matters, such as reading more about business and her ancestor’s exploits, and learning how to defend the valley.
“My lady,” Master Laplace said, pointing to the new, updated map, “I do not understand why the western gate has never been fortified.” He, Edmund Roy, and Andrea sat with Marta in what she had designated as the business room, once her mother’s solar. Marta’s embroidery frames and supplies, and knitting equipment, sat by the window, while a large table and better lamps dominated the center of the room.
Marta rubbed under her nose. “I believe that it once was, but after the Times of Trouble ended, someone removed the stones and reused them in farmhouses inside the valley. I suspect they forgot about the post on Godown’s Grace, and men with bows and spears and other small weapons could defend the gap if need be.” Actually, Great-grandfather thought he had a vision from Godown that peace and the Landers would be returning and dismantled the defenses because they would no longer be needed, Godown give him grace. And whap him for his foolishness. That particular deSarm had died from a fall off a horse and being trampled by stampeding cattle, probably the oddest demise in her family thus far. At least it wasn’t a herd of shahma. That would be embarrassing. Almost as embarrassing as that cousin who had to jump out of a window when someone’s husband came home, and discovered too late that he should have picked a ground-floor chamber for his assignation. There’s one in every generation.
Roy coughed, bringing Marta’s attention back from the family chronicles. “My lady, the men thought they found Lander foundations up on the ridge. Could those have been the post-Fire defenses?”
Both she and Master Laplace nodded. “I believe they were. And we need to rebuild them, and mount throwing weapons there, as well as one of those new metal rock shooters.”
“A cannon,” Roy clarified. “And they can fire metal as well as rocks. In fact, up close, the metal is worse, because you can load the cannon with bits and pieces of scrap and chain and it throws those at the enemy. The wounds are terrible, my lady.”
“I presume they are expensive.”
Master Laplace rubbed his chin behind his beard. “All good weapons are, unless you have an arms-smith in your employ, my lady. And even then, you need powder to make the cannon work, and that is not easy to make. Only the Freistaadter and the easterners have large amounts of powder readily at hand, or so I understand.”
Roy wagged one hand back and forth. “Frankonia has the ingredients, sir, they just don’t have the recipe to make good powder yet. The easterners have better saltpeter, we have sulfur here, and the Freistaadter in the southern Thumb have saltpeter and sulfur both.”
“Sool-fur?” Marta sounded the new word out. Saltpeter she knew from preserving meat, but what was sool-fur?
“Stink rock,” he said. “Yellow, soft, smells like rotten eggs, my lady.”
The light dawned. “Ah. You need sool-fur, saltpeter, and what else?”
“Charcoal from hardwood if possible, but charcoal of some kind. Earth coal doesn’t work, my lady.”
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br /> Too bad. She’d rather sell the hardwood and use earth coal if she could. Well, that was that. “So we need cannon, and ballistas, and smaller weapons,” she counted off, seeing her new gowns and other treats disappearing into the hole marked “luxuries.” If it hadn’t been for her head-cover, she’d have pulled her hair out with frustration. Damn you, Phillip Leblanc. May Godown give you the fig and may a shahma bite you in the ass.
“Not today, my lady,” Master Laplace assured her. “And Godown may delay Phillip’s return. Sarm is not the only nut Phillip wants to crack. Louvat has also caught his eye.”
The thought of Phillip devouring her former husband’s home brought a warm glow to Marta’s heart despite all the sermons she’d ever heard about forgiveness and not wishing ill on others. She managed to limit herself to a contented, “Ah.” Edmund Roy gave her a curious look that blended into a half-smile, as if he guessed why she didn’t appear overly distressed by the prospect.
After they finished their business, Roy escorted her to her office. He didn’t need to, but she’d grown fond of having his arm under hers. “I hope the Diligence doesn’t turn up anything,” she said under her breath. She’d discovered that she valued his judgment and appreciated his treating her like an adult, something Greg Berlin never managed to do. Granted, Roy was on his best behavior, and they were never alone together, but still.
“It won’t, my lady.” He sounded confident, perhaps overmuch, and she raised an eyebrow. Then she frowned at the puddles on the floor. Oh please may the roof not be leaking.
No, it turned out: just a man from the valley delivering earth coal and not coming in the proper door. He’d tracked snow and mud through the hall coming and going. And the Landers put carpets on the floors? Maybe they were mad enough to have big festivals at midwinter after all. Roy saw her to the office, bowed as he handed her into her chair, and brushed her hand with his lips before he stood and left. Down, heart, calm down, she told herself. She’d begun having very nice dreams about being married, the kind she didn’t think she was supposed to be having and that she’d certainly not had about Greg Berlin. Marta opened the master ledger book and began looking at what funds she could divert to buying a cannon and its powder. That killed her romantic dreams quite nicely.
The research into the Diligence found nothing to prevent her marrying Edmund Roy. His family came from near Florabi, and indeed Roy’s father had not married his mother, although the man acknowledged paternity and had provided for Edmund’s education and upbringing. Marta ordered a most reluctant Fr. Thomas to read the wedding news and Diligence starting the week after the solstice, along with informing the people of the deSarm lands that she would not be demanding a wedding “gift” from them. After all, she half-gloated, the luxuries her former spouse had bought to impress Phillip would work perfectly well for her wedding treats. As expected, a few people grumbled and gossip flourished, but Marta concentrated on embroidering trim for her wedding dress. She’d decided to turn one of the completely foolish fine silk bed-sheets into an overdress and night robe. Andrea and the younger women acted horrified. Esmé thought it a fine idea. “Why ruin such lovely fabric by sleeping on it,” she said as she measured the lengths before picking out the center seam.
Esmé and Mistress Barbiere also gave Marta an education on what a true marriage entailed. Marta thought she’d known about men and woman, but discovered she’d missed a great deal. “Oh. And then what? But it gets better the more you do it? That’s good.” “Really? Do all men do that?” “I can get pregnant that quickly?” She looked out the window at the snowy scene and wondered why Godown made people the way He had.
And then the wedding was upon them. Marguerite deSarm took Edmund Roy to be her husband before Godown, Master Sylván, Mistress Dorothy, Master Laplace, her ladies, and a dozen other witnesses on a bright, cold, St. Basil’s day in St. Alice’s sanctuary in Sarmvale. She wore her new light green gown with embroidered flowers and stars on the overskirt and the darker green shahma-wool underskirt. Roy wore brown and dark green, his hair trimmed and face clean-shaven, and Marta’s heart started going pitter-pat even before Fr. Thomas read the formal service. The priest looked as if he’d eaten an entire stem of lemon leaf, but he did his duty. After the service they signed the registry book, adding their names to the lists of first anointings, confirmations, marriages, and burials—a list that went back to the Great Fires.
Following the ceremony and first kiss, they rode up to the Hall to a lovely feast, including sticky buns. Marta had quality checked them twice, just in case, daring Mistress Elko’s spirit to do anything about it. Her ladies and the cooks had expressed doubts about sticky buns at a wedding feast, but Marta put her foot down. “No. I do not want fancy cakes.” She’d stood in the middle of the hot kitchen, daring anyone to gainsay her. “I want sticky buns. I have my reasons.” As the sun set, Marta retired to her chamber, where her ladies helped her out of her new dress and into the night robe, then left.
Edmund came in not long after. She stood beside the bed, not certain what to do despite Esmé’s advice. He smiled, approaching slowly, and took her in his arms. She returned the embrace. “Would you like to lie down?” he asked.
“Um, yes.” Once in bed, he embraced her again, hands moving along her back and arm. They kissed, and she ventured to touch his chest, then stroked his back. Edmund responded in kind, then unlaced the front of her robe, touching her breasts first with warm fingers and then with his lips. A new, shivery feeling left Marta wanting more. He let her set the pace, and when things reached that point, he took his time, careful of her inexperience. It was not entirely comfortable, but Marta knew it would get better soon.
Before the first snowdrops appeared in the woods, it did.
Marta took a deep breath, smelled roasting meat, and fled. She made it to the garderobe before breakfast returned with a vengeance. That confirms it. My cycle is four weeks late and I can’t keep breakfast down. I must be pregnant. She smiled despite her queasy stomach and the smells of the garderobe. We’ve certainly been doing all we could to help me get that way, after all.
She and Edmund already made a good team. After their wedding, they’d discussed how to divided the duties of the Lord of Sarmas. “Thomi, I have no experience with judicial procedures and I don’t know the laws and customs here. You do,” he’d reminded her. “I’m a soldier with some experience in trade and diplomacy. Unless you truly can’t do it anymore, I’d prefer you to continue holding court sessions and overseeing the household while I take over defending Sarm and dealing with Phillip and the Freistaadter.”
Marta leaned her head back and looked up at the wooden ceiling beams as she thought about it. “I don’t really like it, Edmund, but you are right that I know the local laws. Backwards and inside out,” she grumbled.
“Think of it as mediating amongst your children,” he offered, smiling over the edge of his tea mug.
“Urk. No offense to the people of Sarm, but I’m glad I’m not their mother.” Because some of the disputes sound so much like two toddlers having a spat that it makes me want to bend them over and swat them. Like Micah Shellmain and Geraldina Dupuy fighting because Martina Andradi said she heard someone else saying that Dupuy called Shellmain a light-skirt. And that had been the most serious case on the last court list. She expected the list to grow, though, before the next quarter’s hearings: winter’s confinement and the restlessness at the start of spring seemed to bring mischief and trouble. “I’ll need your help if I ever have a capital case, Edmund.”
“And you’ll have it,” he’d assured her. “Those require three judges, two laymen and one clergy, or at least they do in Florabi’s territory.”
She shook her head and nibbled the pickled fern-head. It wasn’t as crisp as she liked her pickles, but it wasn’t bad, especially not for late fern. “We only need one, but it’s been so long…” She chewed as she thought. “The last capital case I can recall was before Father died. I’ve never had to hear one. Yet,” she adde
d quickly, making St. Alice’s spindle to ward off the possibility. Edmund made St. Gerald’s bridge.
“My love, in some ways looking after the town and farms is just like managing the Hall but on a larger scale. You settle disputes between the servants and look after accounts, and managing Sarm is not much different.” Edmund poured more tea, then ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the morning disorder a little more.
Except if the basil in the garden gets black spot, we won’t starve, unlike the wheat getting smut or, St Basil forefend, rinderpest striking. But he’d had a point, a good one.
After Marta rinsed her mouth out and called a servant to bring mint tea, she thought about her and Edmund’s division of duties a little more. Just having Edmund to talk to helped her. He listened and he wanted to learn about how Sarm functioned. On the other hand, he tended to ignore her hints about his wardrobe, something Esmé assured Marta all males did. “My lady, it’s said that only St. Jenna’s followers and Phillip of Frankonia worry about everything matching.” He also tended to leave things where he dropped them. After she tripped on his shoes once too often in the night, Marta had drawn the line: nothing on the floor between her side of the bed and the garderobe. He’d rolled his eyes but (so far) had kept his mess a little more confined. And he spent a great deal of time in her office, reading the histories and military books for himself. “I know you’ve told me and Master Laplace about things, but I need to see and read for myself, Thomi.”
On the other hand, if those were the worst problems they had, Marta would be blessed among women. Edmund didn’t seem interested in claiming Sarm out from under her, nor had he started trying to run things, yet. She sipped the sweetened tea, waited, and when nothing untoward happened, drank more. Well, if he did try to claim it, Phillip would probably come racing in faster than avalanches flowed down the southern slope of Godown’s Grace. She sniffed, Phillip would probably announce to Godown and everyone that he was defending my honor and claim against a treacherous interloper who’d connived his way into my bed, the two-faced twit. He’d taken to calling himself “Phillip the Majestic,” although she couldn’t recall anything especially impressive about what little she’d seen of him from her perch on the ridge.