by Alma Boykin
Marta still thought he had the easier job, at least for the moment.
And then the first of Phillip’s army arrived.
Reverend Mother Odile Kiara listened to the news with a sinking heart. She’d been meditating on Battles eight, verses four through twelve, about how even if the mountains fell, the ground cracked, and the seas overflowed, Godown watched over His children. She’d suffered a growing sense of trouble, and wondered what He was trying to tell her. Odile’s thoughts kept circling back to Flames chapter four, when the faithful remnant left the cities and found shelter in the distant fields and hills, led by Gerald, Sabrina, and the other saints and their helpers. Forgive my stupidity, Godown, but what are you trying to tell me?
The women had prepared every bit of medical supplies that they could, and even those not called to be nurses had learned basic wound care and midwifery, just in case. A few joined Sr. Basilia and Sr. Donn, preparing to take care of injured animals. They made travel bread of both wheaten flour and quinley, and took extra shifts praying for Godown to bring peace and sense to all involved. Odile and the others tried to think of what more they could do, and came up blank.
“Traveling kits!” Sr. Timothé blurted at the noon meal not long after Phillip’s army began camping outside the western gate. The high river prevented anyone from venturing up the cut, at least anyone without a death desire. “We need to have traveling kits packed and ready. If the army comes through and we have to flee, we can’t depend on everyone else for supplies and clothes and still do our work.”
Odile wanted to beat her head against the table for missing such an obvious thing. “You are quite right. And we must be able to carry them ourselves.”
“Make them just like the flood bundles,” Sr. Martina recommended. “Add some medical and teaching supplies and we’ll be ready.”
“Thank you, sister. Your correction brings wisdom,” Odile told Timothé.
The next morning they heard booming sounds from the west. “Cannon fire.” The sisters tried to continue with their business, but Odile noticed herself glancing toward the sound every time it boomed out. The first wounded came in that evening, minor injuries for the greater part, but also one closed head injury that Sr. Sabina clicked her tongue over.
“He will die, barring Godown’s mercy. The bone pushed too far into the wound, and even if I pull it out, the tissue is badly damaged. He’s not suffering.”
“Godown be praised,” Odile murmured.
Two days later a boy on a donkey rode up to the convent gates. “He’s found a backdoor,” he panted. “You need to run.” He garbled something else, something no one could have understood.
“Just breathe,” Odile commanded, sweeping her stick in front of her as she walked up to see what the commotion was about. The shrieks and gabble of voices had penetrated as far as the herb garden, disturbing her meditations and bringing her almost running to the outer yard. When the commotion stilled and the young man sounded more in control, she ordered, “Now, slowly, tell me exactly what your message is.”
“Phillip’s coming up the river, up the Martins River. He’s made rafts and they are actually daring the high water. May have cut a new trail, too. Don’t know. He’s coming in that way. Lord Edmund says,” he stopped, panting a little more, then continued, “says he doesn’t think he can swing the guns fast enough if Phillip keeps moving from both directions, so everyone needs to get to the Hall if they can, or to other shelter.”
“Ah. Thank you. Sr. Basilia, see to his needs and his beast, please. The rest of you, go back to your work. Unless Phillip’s army has developed wings, they will not be here before dawn. They are having to come up river, after all.”
She looked left and right. The frantic sounds settled down to a calmer bustle, and she heard donkey hoofs clopping past, and the sound of the pump at the watering trough working. The voices grew quieter as the sisters returned to their other tasks. Satisfied that order had been restored, Odile returned to her meditations in the garden. Only then did she let herself shake, holding herself with crossed arms and rocking back and forth. Fire and flight were her two greatest fears. Terror approaching panic washed over her as she imagined the most lurid scenes from ‘The Vision of St. Mou’ playing out in the valley. Then she took a deep breath. That is non-canonical for a reason, no matter how one interprets St. Mou’s other writings and sermons.
A second messenger arrived under cover of darkness, seeking a word with her alone, in the beast yard. Something in her stirred, and she dismissed Sr. Alice and Sr. Geraldina. “What news?” she asked.
“You need to leave the convent. We think we can stop Phillip if he comes this far, but the defense might endanger the house. I can’t tell you what, in case his men get here before we are ready and they question you, your reverence,” he apologized before she could protest. “But please, leave the walls as soon as it is safe.”
His words confirmed her visions and sense, and Odile bowed a little. “We will leave soon. Very soon.”
His voice gushed with relief. “Thank you, reverend mother. Godown and St. Michael be with you and give you strength.”
She raised her hand in blessing, “And with your spirit. May St. Kiara show you the way, and St. Andrew guide you.”
“Selah.” She heard him mounting and riding out, even as she wondered at herself. St. Andrew, patron of miners? Well, many of the militia are miners, and perhaps he was one I heard after the cave-in those years ago. As she tried to remember, she realized that the man’s voice had been just a touch familiar, so no doubt her memory had spoken before her mind registered the need.
Odile did not sleep. Instead she joined the novice on night vigil, then dismissed her to rest. The younger woman murmured a grateful “thank you, your reverence,” before leaving the chapel with slow, tired steps. Odile, too tense to sleep, bowed toward the symbol of Godown above the altar and nodded to St. Gerald on his little platform to the side. Then she turned to St. Sabrina, patron of women in distress, and began the prayer for those in dire need. Next her thoughts rested on St. Kiara, who guided those seeking the light of wisdom, and finally shifted to St. Gerald himself, asking his aid in leading Godown’s daughters over the troubled waters surrounding them. By the dawn chime she’d invoked all the saints and Godown.
As the chime for rising sounded, she went first to those on kitchen duty and told them to prepare a hot, fast breakfast and to be ready to leave. Then she visited each sister, novice, and orphan in turn, telling them to collect their traveling bundles and prepare to leave. “The Frankonians are coming up the Martins River and the militia do not think they can protect the convent,” she not-quite lied. “It is safer for us to be away—soldiers mad with the war sometimes do things no sane man would contemplate.” She did not fully believe that the Frankonians would attack the convent, but she did not want anyone to argue or dawdle, either. And if they are fighting on the mountain, only Godown knows what will happen. The men will certainly break in to claim our beasts at the very least.
She sensed determination as well as fear from the other sisters. They all ate quickly and quietly. While the kitchen shift cleaned up and then put out the cooking fires, the novices and orphans went through and made certain all other fires had been quenched instead of just banked. Odile and Sr. Alice Misha dragged the chests holding the record books out to the beast yard, where Sr. Basilia, Sr. Donn, and others had been loading wagons, carts, and donkeys with as much as they could carry. A voice called, “We still have room for St. Sabrina,” and Sr. Basilia replied, “Good, because St. Gerald’s coming with me, like it or not.” Despite her fear and worry Odile started laughing at the picture the words evoked, and several others joined her.
At last all stood ready, and Odile blessed the beasts, wagons, and sisters as they left their home. Thanks be that Sr. Francis and Sr. Elizabeth left last week. We’d never get them into the wagons quickly. The two oldest, sickest members of the house had already been taken up to the Hall, to shelter there in surroun
dings as close to those in the house as could be found. Odile shouldered her bundles, patted her pocket to confirm that the keys remained where they should be, and set out, sweeping the ground ahead of her with her stick. Thank You, Godown, that I am only blind and not lame. Thank you for a strong body, Godown, who made all things.
She and the others on foot made steady, if slow, progress. The usual spring road ruts forced her to pay attention to her feet, but the air smelled fresh, and she caught the rich, mellow scent of sun on bare soil. The wind still cut through her coat, head-cover, and gloves, making her glad of the strong spring sun. Ahead she heard Sr. Martina leading the women in one of the litanies of St. Sabrina, half-chanting the calls and responses to set a pace. Odile stayed close to the edge of the road, where her stick could find the difference between the grass and brush to the side and the worn, rutted surface of the road proper.
They’d been walking for what felt like an hour when Odile heard vehicles coming from the valley behind them.
“Is it the Frankonians?” someone called, fearful.
“Not unless they can pole rafts over the snow,” a calmer voice replied.
Odile and the others stepped to the side, but the wagons and something else slowed and stopped. “Thanks be we found you! Come with us, please, we need some sisters on the ridge to help with the wounded.”
“Go,” Odile ordered. As the nurses got into the wagons, two more vehicles rolled up. “We heard you needed a ride into Sarmvale.” The rest climbed onto those, and Odile prepared to join them. But as she got into the very-full wagon, a man cleared his throat.
“Reverend Mother, can you still see in the dark?”
She paused, half in and half out of the wagon’s bed. “What do you mean?”
“We may need a sister at one of the mines behind Godown’s Grace, your reverence. Goodman Thibault stored some of the cannon powder there but there’s been a slide and we can’t quite reach him.”
A calm settled over Odile, one she’d not felt in several years, and something inside her whispered, go. She bowed her head to the presence and set both feet on the ground. “I will come with you. Go on, sisters, and I will rejoin you, Godown willing.”
The man led her to a small cart and helped her get in, warning “Hold on, your reverence. It will be a bit rough.” A whip popped and the little vehicle lurched into motion. The horses’ hoofs sped into a trot and Odile felt as if she were flying, the wind pulling at her head-cover and chilling her cheeks and nose. She smiled despite herself. She’d always wondered what flying might feel like, to glide and soar like the birds. Odile also kept a firm grip on the side of the small vehicle’s passenger box—birds didn’t worry about bumps, but she did.
All at once the sun’s heat disappeared. Clouds? No, she realized, they’d passed into the shadow of Godown’s Grace and the peak blocked the light. There’s a sermon in that, she thought. The horse slowed, then settled to a fast walk for a while.
“Hallo!”
“Hai!” The cart stopped. “What news?”
“Are all the sisters clear of the convent?”
“Yes, we are,” Odile called.
“Godown be praised. And they got to Thibault, he’s fine. Go on to Sarmvale, but go like the wind. The last barrels are in place and Sylván ordered everyone to get clear, even on this side, in case the echoes start something.”
“Will do, and St. Andrew be with you.” The cart pivoted, changing direction, and the horse began trotting again as Odile wondered what Sylván had been doing with what. Were they going to throw barrels of rocks down at the Frankonians?
Her answer rolled through the valley not long after. Even on the back side of the mountain, Odile heard the sound. First she felt a dull thud, then a little shake, and the horses stopped, halting the cart. Everything seemed to shake and her bones ached. “What?” The first hissing whisper reached her ears, a whisper that grew to a louder and louder roar, as if all the winds in the world sought entrance into the valley. The ground under the cart shivered and the horse whinnied.
“Tsa!” The horse lurched into a run and Odile clutched the side for dear life, reciting a prayer for those facing imminent death. Dear Godown, what’s going on? A cold wind rushed over her from behind the cart and smelling of snow and dirt and trees. A fine cold mist brushed her face. Snow-slide. Godown and St. Andrew please may no one be… Her heart sank and she grew nauseated. They dropped the snow on the Frankonians. Oh Godown, how could they? That’s unconscionable! Holy Godown have mercy on us all. Tears filled her eyes. They used the mountain to kill the Frankonians? How could they?
The ride slowed and she buried her head in her arms, hiding her tears.
Marta deSarm couldn’t hear or see the snow-slide, but something made her turn to the west. Edmund? Please Godown may Edmund be safe, please protect him, pleasepleaseplease. Then she went back to greeting the women, children, and aged and infirm men making their way into the courtyard. “We’re from the western side, my lady,” an oldster explained. “Lord Edmund told us to go, Frankonians coming from south as well as west.” She thought her heart would stop, but somehow Marta nodded, thanked him for the news, and moved to the next group. Most could fit into the larger hall, but they opened the small hall as well, and began preparing to have the heartiest stay in the stables, along with those who might do better “away from the bustle,” like the grain miller’s boy with the size of a large man and the mind of a child. He reminded Marta of her long-dead sister Liza, and she sent a quick prayer to St. Foy, protector of innocents.
Master Sylván himself brought news of the scene just before dark. “No Frankonians getting in from the south, not unless they can fly,” he announced. “We dropped a mountain on them, my lady.”
Her eyes bulged. “You what?” She glanced at the wall, as if she could see through it and down the valley toward Godown’s Grace. “You dropped a mountain on them?”
“Most of the snow at least, my lady, if not all the loose rock. That snow-shelf you’ve been worried about? The Frankonian army, part of them, couple hundred men probably, is under it now. We used the cannon-powder in barrels to make a big shake and hid in that old-new mine as the snow dropped. Took all those waste piles with it, too, so if Dupuy’s been dumping we won’t know, but we will if he starts again this spring. Caught a bunch of the Frankonians in the slide, and blocked the valley until things start to melt.” He smiled, very pleased with the state of things.
Marta smiled back. Granted, Phillip’s army outside the western gates could still come through, but they’d solved the problem of the southern invasion. Then she sobered, aware of those listening around them. “What other damage in the valley?”
“The convent’s roof blew off, part of it at least, in the wind from the snow-slide, and a few fences and a couple of houses are under seven or eight meters of snow. I think most people got their beasts moved, but we may find a few come summer.”
Marta breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you, Master Sylván, and very well done. Very well done.” She beckoned and a servant brought hot cider for him and the men with him, and Marta retreated to her office to shake there, out of sight. She had to be calm, and strong, and probably shouldn’t gloat. In fact, the more she thought about it, the sadder she felt. She wanted Phillip to go away—she didn’t want to make widows and orphans. Why won’t you leave us alone, you bastard? Why? Go home, Phillip, just go home, for the love of Godown go home.
Marta let the tears come, then wiped her eyes and went back about her business.
A week later, the militia dispersed and the deSarm arms-men returned to the Hall. Edmund looked tired, but happy as well. “He’s gone. We found a few Frankonians who had been at the edge of the snow fall and sent them back to Phillip with a message about the fate of their comrades.”
Marta wanted to ask if the men had looked for any more survivors, but didn’t. She didn’t want to hear the answer. “Daddy!” She stepped out of the way as a waist-high redhead darted past and slammed into Edm
und’s legs, hugging him. He ruffled Antonia’s hair but didn’t pick her up.
“Phillip decided to go home. We’d already hurt him badly when he tried to force his way through the gate, and I suspect he had not thought about what happens when armies march under avalanche paths.” He gave her a smug look. “We left out the bit about the gun powder helping.”
Little Edmund trotted up, then yelped and grabbed his mother’s skirts, hiding behind her and peering around. His father took off his helmet and mail coif, handing them to another man. Marta picked her son up. “See, it’s your daddy,” she soothed. The toddler pouted, then squirmed until he could reach for his father.
Instead, Edmund Roy embraced Marta, kissing her hard and bending her back just a little as the men and women around them cheered.
Fifteen years to the day after the battle, Marta, Little Edmund, Antonia and her husband, and twelve-year-old Michael Jules stood together, watching as six men lowered the remains of Edmund Roy deSarm, first Count of Sarmas, into the family grave. Marta buried her face against her eldest son’s shoulder and wept once more. She thought she had run out of tears, but no. Now her true love, her helpmeet, the man who’d endured with her the deaths of three children, her lover and soulmate, rested with Godown.
Little Edmund, now two meters tall with shoulders almost as wide, patted his mother’s back. He’d been away in the Freistaadter when news of his father’s illness finally reached him, and he’d rushed home just in time.
She straightened up, watching as the men closed the iron door. Someday she’d rejoin her beloved. Marta half-hoped that the day would come soon. Her heart ached and she’d woken up reaching for someone who would never share her bed again. But she forced herself to square her shoulders, for the sake of her children and the new Count of Sarmas, Edmund the Second. He’d given the burial blessing, his first act as ruler of Sarmas.