Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  “No, it’s not that. Um.” He looked away, still acting nervous. She waited. Pressing him accomplished nothing, subtle hints also failed: Edmund responded best to a direct attack. “If you carry a boy, do you want me to stay after he’s born and weaned?”

  Her jaw hit the floor and her eyebrows scraped against her head-cover’s brow band. “Do I what? Of course I do.”

  “Are you certain, Lady deSarm? You’ll have a son, and since you don’t need me for—”

  “Shut up!” she roared, surprising both of them. “Yes I need you, damn it. I need you, I want you and you are going to stay, Edmund Geraldino Pietro Roy, if I have to tether you to a tree in the garden.” Marta took a deep breath and burst into tears, holding her arms out. “I love you. Please stay.”

  Someone must have warned him about pregnant women and emotions, because he held her, letting her weep onto his shoulder and rubbing her back while he made soothing sounds. They never mentioned the episode again.

  Marta flushed a little as she remembered the scene. What under Godown’s heaven got into me? I never do that. Then she flushed a little more, because she knew exactly what had gotten into her, which was how she’d come to be pregnant in the first place!

  A honking sound caught her ear and she looked up. She’d waddled out into the garden for air and sun. Overhead, so high she had to squint to see them against the feathery lace of white clouds, a string of geez flapped past, heading south. Their voices sounded lonely, and Marta hugged herself, then rested one hand on her very large belly. Large and high—must be a boy. Unless you’re a girl, but the way you kick I wager you are a boy. The baby moved inside her as if the cries disturbed him as well, and she swayed forward and back a little to sooth him. Already the sun shifted south and the days grew shorter, although they stayed hot and sweet, like the rich golden dessert wine from the Eastern Empire that her father had hidden away in the cellars. Bees droned among the thyme and fennel in the herb garden. Thank you, Godown, for a quiet summer and quiet pregnancy.

  Phillip stayed away. Edmund, Master Laplace and his men, and the residents of the deSarm lands, remained wary, eyes on the western horizon. But Phillip lurked elsewhere, harassing someone else, or perhaps sulking. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d decided that Frankonia contained enough land, people, and other resources, and that he’d be better off leaving everyone else alone. Marta snorted at the thought and returned to her knitting. When Phillip comes in bearing a flag of peace and riding on a flying shahma, then I’ll believe that he’s come to his senses. After all, his ancestors enlarged their lands, starting back during the Great Fires, so he has that to live up to. And we are small, rich, and defenseless, or so it looks. He’s got one out of three right. Marta frowned, counted back, then shrugged: it just looked uneven because of the different color of yarn.

  But now they had cannons, or would have them when Edmund and his men got back. They’d gone to the Freistaadter, as far as Kirwali on the eastern side of the Thumb, to get what they needed. They’d sent back gunpowder and a few gifts, including a garment that had sent Marta’s ladies into fits of titters and blushes, even as they admired the delicate, sheer fabric and lace. “Maybe he said he was getting it for his mistress, my lady,” Esmé had giggled. Marta decided she didn’t want to know and had set it aside until she returned to her proper size. Lady Francis can’t complain about my not filling out, not now. They’d stored the gunpowder in several different places, all of them dry and with lightning wires for protection.

  Had they done enough to protect the valley? Marta measured the sleeve again, found it good, and finished the row before tying off. She had one more sleeve and then the baby jacket would be done. They’d built guard posts and small forts on either side of the western gate, and arranged some nasty surprises for anyone attempting to get through without permission. Scouts had looked at the old Lander Road to the north and discovered that it remained passable, but not for anything more than men on foot or with a few mules. And even then the ground above it looked unstable. They couldn’t seal Martins River, but neither could an army sail up the rocky, unpredictable, cold stream. The rope and cable rafts remained the only way to come upstream and Godown and everyone else on His planet knew how easy those were to render useless. The river did it itself at least once a year, either flooding and carrying off the rafts, or going dry and leaving a trickle of water in a boulder-strewn bed that even mountain-leapers had trouble traversing.

  Phillip, we are not rich. Go away. Marta thought at her erstwhile “overlord” once again. She pulled out an arm-length of yarn and began work on the little sleeve. The high-flying geez honked again, calling fall and winter to follow.

  Three weeks later the first snow, a teasing tickle, danced over the high peaks. Godown’s Grace wore a little white cap. Marta sent her regrets and did not attend the harvest home for the valley. Worrying about Edmund kept her from being able to enjoy the festivities, and she didn’t want to be a wet blanket. Instead she snuggled into bed, a hot brick under her feet, and napped. The baby seemed lower, and she got up more often to empty her bladder, keeping her from sleeping well. Marta shifted, trying to get comfortable, and the baby moved too. As did her entire belly. She suddenly felt wet, as if her cycle had started, and Marta’s eyes went wide. “Andrea! Andrea,” she called.

  “My lady?” Marta pushed the covers aside and pointed at her belly. “It’s time. I’ll get the midwife. Your old chamber is ready, my lady.” With another maid’s help, Marta walked heavily down the corridor to what had been her nursery and then bedroom. They’d covered the mattress with old sheets, fit only for the rag-bag, and brought in more basins and chairs, along with two camp stoves for heat. The first contraction pushed through and Marta gritted her teeth. Not yet, she thought at the baby. You’d best wait for the midwife, because I can’t bend over to catch you if you suddenly appear.

  The maids and midwife kept Marta walking back and forth across the room until after sunset. Only then did they let her lie down. The contractions grew stronger and faster, and Marta began to hurt. By midnight she stopped trying to be quiet and she cursed Edmund and every man on Colplatschki who’d ever thought of siring a child. The pain worsened and the pushes came faster, until the midwife began chanting, “Good, good, good, push! Pushpushpush.” Marta pushed, back arching, head thrown back, drenched in sweat. “Almost, my lady, I see the head.” Marta took a deep breath and heard, “Push!”

  Everything swirled, something terribly large slid out from between her legs, and Marta sank back, eyes closed. She heard a gabble of voices, and a quiet, “Wah.” Then louder, “Wah! Wah! Unh, uhn, waaaaahhh!”

  “I,” she panted, “I want to hold.”

  The midwife said, “Not yet. You need to get rid of the afterbirth.” She pushed firmly on Marta’s womb and more, easier contractions followed. “There.” Skilled hands cleaned her. Too tired to feel shame, Marta breathed and rested, exhausted and sore. “Here, my lady. Your daughter.”

  Marta blinked as a small, very red, tightly-wrapped bundle appeared, fussing and waving a tiny fist. Just like her father, Marta mused, as much as she was capable of thinking anything. “She’s beautiful.”

  “And healthy. Everything looks fine, my lady,” Esmé assured her. “Here.” Marta recognized the foul smell of milk leaf and made a face, but drank anyway. She dozed a little as the women murmured and petted the new arrival.

  Two days later, Antonia Rowina deSarm latched onto Marta’s breast with a will. “Easy, little one, I’m not a brown-belted coalie,” she said, referring to one of the small, high-producing black-and-tan dairy cattle of the uplands. “And I’m not going anywhere.” She’d discovered that moving to her chair took most of her energy.

  “You’ll be back to normal soon,” the midwife assured her. “First births always take the most energy.”

  Marta ate a hearty meal and drank extra tea. “Liver?” she poked at the dark slices.

  “Yes, my lady. Liver for strength and to rebuild your own. The unborn b
aby draws on your liver and when you emptied your womb, you also drained your liver.” Marta shrugged and ate. Liver ranked very low on her list of favorite foods, unless the cook minced it fine with spices and fat, then potted it. Antonia, they discovered, did not care for liver either and took the breast reluctantly the next day.

  Just wait until you have to try neeps, little one, Marta sighed as she shifted the hungry baby. You’ll probably spit them right back out.

  Edmund arrived a week after Antonia Rowina. Marta, nursing in her rocking chair, heard a man’s voice, then loud, rapid steps. She drew a large shawl over baby and breast both, and called, “Let him in.”

  Her husband poked his head into the room, then entered more slowly. “My lady?”

  She held out her empty arm, and he took her hand and kissed it, then kissed her cheek. She eased the shawl away, revealing a hungry, healthy daughter who seemed far more interested in her second breakfast than in meeting her father. Marta felt the tugging slacken and shifted Antonia to the other side. When she looked up, Edmund had a soft, slightly goofy look on his face. “Antonia Rowina,” Marta said.

  Edmund reached down and took the tiny hand. It looked smaller than his thumb. “Antonia Rowina,” he repeated. “She’s beautiful.”

  Marta smiled up at him. “You get half the credit.”

  “Has she been anointed?”

  “Not yet. Since she’s healthy, I wanted to wait for you to come home, and Fr. Thomas saw no problem. Then you can present her.”

  A wistful look flitted through Edmund’s eyes and he asked, “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed?” She rocked back, then forwards again. “Blessed St. Sabrina no. She’s healthy, she seems happy, and you are home. How could I be disappointed?” Marta shifted Antonia a little and added, “I don’t intend to stop with just one, my dear.” Although I don’t plan to start work on the next one for a while, either.

  He flushed a little and grinned, then stroked the soft head. He stayed until Antonia finished eating, and Marta let him hold her. “She’s tiny,” he exclaimed.

  Thanks be, because if babies came any larger I don’t think anyone would have more than one. Marta gave him a patient look as she wiped off her breasts and tidied the front of her dress. “Here,” She took Antonia back and draped her over her shoulder until she burped a little, sighed, and settled.

  When Antonia was two weeks old, Fr. Thomas anointed her with the holy oil for the first time. Edmund held her up for all to see. “This is my daughter Antonia Rowina deSarm,” he announced, acknowledging her before Godown and witnesses. A weight eased off Marta’s shoulders that she didn’t even realize was there.

  That night she moved back to the lord’s chamber. The servants had found the old cradle and brought it to the bedchamber. It featured a clever false bottom that could hold a warm brick and high sides to keep out drafts. “She’s not sleeping with us?” Edmund asked, a little confused.

  “Oh no! What if you roll over on her in your sleep?” He blanched and shuddered. “She’ll be fine.”

  Marta tucked their daughter into the cradle and turned to find Edmund standing close. He embraced her, stroking her long hair and whispered into her ear, “Thank you, Thomi, my lady.”

  “I would have come earlier, my love, but Phillip the annoying must have heard about my little trip,” Edmund started explaining two days later. Marta began venturing out more, Antonia in a padded basket with a curved bottom that she could set on a table, out of drafts, and rock back and forth. Marta’s maids doted on the little thing and took turns rocking her while Marta worked, reviewing the account books.

  “Did he try to stop people selling to you?”

  “No. He tried to kill us.” Marta’s hand went to the knife hanging from her belt. Edmund caught her wrist. “Easy Thomi my lady, he didn’t succeed.”

  Marta calmed down. “What happened?”

  Her husband sat back in his chair and waited until she’d done the same. “It started in the Freistaadter. We did not have to go as far as Kirwali, thanks be, just to Napoli Novi, in the central hills of the Thumb.”

  Marta saw the page on the top of the stack of bills and receipts. The city crest showed walls and a mountain with a squiggle on top. “They have a mountain?”

  “Not exactly. The original Napoli on Old Terra did, one that blew up every so often or so they claim, but here they have steaming springs, just the right temperature to soak in.” He waited until the servants—bearing trays of food, a pitcher of small beer, and a large pot of tea—finished setting up a small table before continuing. “Napoli Novi has a cannon foundry, where they take iron bars and make them into guns. They also make small brass hand-cannon, and we got some of those, although I’d stay clear of the man who can truly hold one in his hand. They weigh ten kilos at least, and you have to rest them on sticks in order to shoot them. We dickered a little and got four of the medium cannon and twenty hand cannon. We had already bought powder in Tremino. Did that arrive?”

  She flushed a little. “Yes, it did. Along with the rest of the items, including the, ah, ahem, summer dress you sent.” He raised one eyebrow, puzzled. “The very light weight knee-length dress with lace and loose sleeves.”

  A broad smile lit his face, revealing his crooked teeth. “Ah yes. I look forward to seeing how it fits you.”

  Not for very long, I suspect, once you see me in it. But not until summer, she warned silently. “I recalled what Master Laplace said about cannon powder and it is in eight barns, each with a lightning wire and very dry.”

  “That’s perfect, Thomi. Well done. So we had the cannons, and the powder and fuzzes. All we had to do was get them home.” He ate some of the sausage in bread and finished half his small beer, while Marta polished off two bread sausages and poured a large mug of tea. “You can’t bring them by ship. Frankonia’s gotten the Turkowi stirred up and they have started attacking merchant ships and even fishing boats. That’s one reason to go to Napoli Novi: they make cannon for ships that are smaller than the monsters Frankonia and Kirwali make. Anyway, we’d still have to load the things onto wagons for half the trip even if we could sail, so we came overland, up the old Lander Hill Front Road as far as Tremino, then cut west to St. Sabra, north to Martinstaadt and then up the river.”

  He shook his head, making his tail of red-gold hair swing. “We got word in Martinstaadt that the Frankonians wanted to stop us. No,” he corrected. “We heard the first rumors in Tremino, because someone had been asking if anyone from Sarmas had been through and saying that your coin was no good. The merchant kept his mouth shut, but warned us later. And your coin is quite welcome there, never fear,” Edmund assured her.

  “I can tell.” She held up four closely-written pages of items and prices. “Did the merchant tell you who wanted to stop you?”

  He shook his head again. “I didn’t ask, since no one but Frankonia would be looking for us. Louvat and your former spouse have their hands full, because that’s where Phillip’s been—pestering them and trying to impress the Sea Republics.”

  “Can he?”

  “Not really. He needs ships to do that, and the men of the Sea Republics are the best sailors on Colplatschki, despite the claims of some Freistaadt men otherwise.” She refilled his beer cup. “Thank you. So, we reached Martinstaadt. We had the cannons on four wagons, the hand cannons on another four, and the rest of our supplies and purchases with the guns or on pack beasts.”

  Marta paged through the receipts, found the last ones, and hid a wince. She started to ask about one for eight mules when a snuffly, whimpery sound from the basket caught her ear. Marta finished her tea and picked up Antonia, getting her settled to nurse while Edmund finished his tale.

  “We’d almost reached the narrows above Caapmartin when trouble found us. Johnny was traveling ahead, scouting the place where we’d decided to leave the wagons for the rafts. He came back in a hurry with word that someone seemed to be waiting. We were in a tight spot, between the river and cliffs wit
hout much cover, and didn’t want to go forward, but didn’t want to try to wait them out, either. So Carl and I decided to trick the Frankonians.

  “We unloaded the hand cannons and packed most of them onto a mule. One of the teamsters took the wheel off the wagon and began cursing, loudly. Carl and I rode ahead, complaining about a wagon with a broken wheel and we’ll be late and damn but we’ll have to leave the powder behind and so on.” He smiled. “They believed us, apparently, because five or six of them mounted and started down the trail toward the place we’d described.

  “Carl and I each had one of those hand cannons, loaded, with some powder. Damn, but they make noise! I thought it would knock me onto my rear. And it takes a while to reload, much longer than a cross-bow.”

  Marta shifted their daughter to the fuller side. “So why do you want them?”

  “Because of the noise and smoke. We only hit two of the men, but the others’ horses panicked. Two more went into the river, and the two survivors turned tail and ran back to the main group of Frankonians. Carl and I followed, with a few more of our men close behind, and chased the Frankonians away long enough for everyone to get through and to the ferry flats. We left the wagon, but it wasn’t that great to begin with, and probably would have broken down soon anyway, as fast as they were able to get the wheel off the axel.”

  A servant replaced the beer pitcher with hot tea for both adults, while Sarah, the new nursemaid, tended to Antonia’s damp nappy once Marta had burped the baby. Dry, warm, and fed, she made a few little noises, yawned, and fell asleep. “So from there we got the cannon onto rafts and brought them upstream. A messenger was waiting, he told Master Laplace, and home we came. The cannons are stored near the ridge. I want to get them in place, the big ones at least, while we can still use sledges. We also need rocks, big enough they can be cut down to fit the cannon, along with the metal balls and other things they shoot.” Edmund stretched. “But not today.”