by Alma Boykin
He shook his head, sending drips of water in all directions. “No, my lady. It’s one of those dead fire mountains. There is a string of them, from Starland to the edge of the Tongue Sea on the northern border of the Empire. You can tell by the shape,” and he pointed to the cone-shaped sides. “See that black there, like a wall?”
She peered through the murk until she saw what he meant. “That dark line behind the fields, extending,” she had to think, “northwest?”
“Yes. That’s all native rock, part of the mountain.” He rose in his stirrups, looking for something. “We have company. I’ll take lead. Drop back to the baggage, please, my lady. You may have to chase a horse or two.”
She did as ordered, rubbing Snowy’s neck as they walked to the rear of the party. “You need a trim,” she told the mule. He’d started growing a winter coat and her hand came up with a layer of hair stuck to it. She wiped it on her skirt and sighed. Why was George worried about a horse or two bolting?
She discovered the reason for his concern as they rode closer to the keep. Two flagpoles stood along the road, each with a different flag. What she could see of one looked like the banner of the House of Babenburg, so the other must be the ducal flag, she decided. The rain made the fabric heavy enough that the flags barely moved in the light wind. Even so, Elizabeth noticed a few horses acting nervous as they passed between the two poles.
As soon as the lead riders crossed through the invisible border, a rider cantered down the road towards them. He carried a lance with a banner on it, and the fabric flapped. The sound spooked one of the pack donkeys and it kicked, then lunged, trying to get away. That set off one of the raiders’ mounts, and the red horse surged out of the herd, fleeing east. “Tsaa,” she urged Snowy. The mule lurched into a run and Elizabeth curved out, intercepting the horse, forcing it back to the main bunch. One of the guards met her and between them they guided the runaway back into the herd.
“We leave the horses here for now,” George called, pointing with his whip to an open gate. Elizabeth and two guards herded the beasts into the pasture. George counted them as they trotted past, then shut the gate. “Good. Now we can go home.”
Elizabeth blinked as her eyes filled with unwanted tears and a lump filled her throat. Home? I’m a thousand kilometers from home. She wiped her face and rejoined the procession, just ahead of the pack animals.
She studied the approach as they rode into the keep. The cobbled road had rough spots to help the horses keep their footing on the stones. The grey surface matched the heavy gray of the fortress walls, and Elizabeth blinked as she realized that there were no seams in the stone. It was Lander technology! No, no, think. It is Lander made, not Lander technology. That or the wall had been fire fused in an attack, but that seemed very unlikely on a structure this massive. The group stopped and George guided his gelding off the road and onto a smaller track that led to a dead end. The “solid wall” opened for them and Elizabeth smiled at the deception, wondering what happened if you tried to continue up the road. She noted the murder holes in the roof of the concealed passage for defenders to pour boiling water and other nasty things onto any attackers who reached the passage.
They emerged to face another wall. George turned right and after traveling several hundred meters they found a second gate. This led to the main courtyard of the keep. Elizabeth stopped with the others and looked for a mounting block. She saw one off to the side and sent Snowy that way. She dismounted with more grace than usual, then led him back to stand with the pack animals.
By the time she finished, a dark man and smaller, well-dressed woman had walked up to meet George. He and those with him bowed. George announced, “My lady, I bring you greetings from his grace. He bids you be well and says that he and Lady Ann follow two days behind us, barring accident or ducal duty.”
“Thank you, George. Welcome home, and congratulations on the new arrival.”
“My lady?” He sounded both pleased and confused.
“You wife delivered early. Through Godown’s grace both she and your son are safe,” Lady Marie assured him.
“Godown be praised!” Elizabeth and the guards all smiled at the pure joy in George’s voice.
Michael leaned over and whispered to Elizabeth, “Now they have a set — two of each.”
“Ah. Thank you.” George remembered himself enough to look back and gesture to Elizabeth. Not sure what to do about Snowy, she led him forward with her.
“My lady, Captain Destefani, allow me to present Elizabeth von Sarmas, niece of the ruling Duke of Sarmas, cousin of the acting duke. She’s a tactician and a cavalry fighter of first rank, even untrained as she is.” Elizabeth blushed, first at the praise and then as she remembered how bad she looked. “She saved us from an ambush by Sworn Acolytes of Selkow.”
“What?” Captain Destefani stared at George and Lady Marie put one hand to her throat and went pale. “Where?”
“In the Hunter Hills. Caught us just as we were leaving the forest on this side of the range. We killed all of them but it was close. His grace is patrolling the area right now, Captain, my lady.”
“And you saved his grace’s men?” Destefani demanded of Elizabeth.
“No, Captain, I inadvertently found the second element of the ambush. Lady Ann and the horse herd broke it up.” She drew all her dignity and rank around her. “When my mule spooked and ran back into the main element, we had to fight our way out. It was not an action of my own choosing.” Yes, it was, and you liked beating them, a little voice reminded her. She hushed it. “Ah, his grace asked me to give this to you, Lady Marie. I apologize for the state of care,” and she retrieved the badge from her skirt pouch, holding the edge so Marie did not have to touch her dirty hand.
Marie took the badge, studying her guest from disheveled head to scuffed toe. “Thank you. I will speak with you later George, Elizabeth, Michael,” and she named each member of the group. Then she turned, already in conversation with Captain Destefani. Elizabeth throttled back anger at the rude treatment. The raid and defending against the Turkowi came before everything else.
Chapter 4: War and the Womanly Arts
Elizabeth wondered what she was supposed to do next. Snowy butted her shoulder and she rubbed his nose as she watched the men scattering. “My lady, the stables are this way,” George said, leading his horse to the left end of the courtyard. Elizabeth followed. They found a space for Snowy and she stripped off his tack, heaving the saddle onto the divider between the stalls before bending down to look at the mule’s front left foot.
“Don’t do that you idiot! Damn it, even an incompetent fool knows better. You’ll scare half the beasts in this place, tossing tack around like that. You are going to muck out—” The tirade stopped abruptly as Elizabeth straightened up and found herself face-to-face with a short, red-faced old man in worn leather and moleskin.
“Then please show me the closest saddle stand or rack,” she told him, her voice as calm and polite as she could manage. “As you can tell, I am unfamiliar with the procedures of your stable.” She wanted to throw the saddle at him and see if he could catch it without landing flat on his rear.
“Martin, Lady Elizabeth is not going to muck out anything, not today at least,” George informed both of them. “Your pardon, my lady. Martin, Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas. Martin is head groom and stable supervisor for his Grace.”
“This way, Lady Elizabeth.” Martin showed her where she could put Snowy’s tack. She finished caring for the mule herself, picked up her bags and after warning a stable boy about Snowy’s tendency to bite, Elizabeth walked into the courtyard. Without thinking she washed her face and hands at the pump by the stable, eliciting a gasp of horror from a plump woman in servant’s clothes standing near the water trough.
“My lady, no! Please, this way. We have hot water and towels waiting.” Elizabeth hoisted the panniers over her shoulder and followed. The servant took one look and called, “Rowena!” A second servant appeared, eyes popping open as sh
e beheld their guest.
“Please, let me,” and she took the panniers, clucking as she saw Elizabeth’s clothes. “Those mud stains are terrible, miss.”
“They are blood, not mud,” Elizabeth corrected. “None of it mine or Snowy’s, Godown be praised.”
The servants left her at a small room, along with a large basin and a pitcher of steaming water. “Ahhh,” and Elizabeth scrubbed her face, glad to have gotten the worst grit off in the yard. The women returned not long after Elizabeth had managed to yank her boots off.
“Oh dear, miss,” Rowena said, studying the battered and mucky footwear. “Ah, miss, would you like for us to clean your skirt and blouse?”
“Yes, thank you. And do you have any lint? My cycle has started.” Rowena disappeared and returned with a bag of the material. “Thank you.” The pair departed with Elizabeth’s outer clothes and, after taking care of the necessary matter, Elizabeth pulled back the blanket on the bed and lay down. She was fast asleep in an instant.
When she awoke, someone had left clothes and a clean belt and band for her, along with a container for the used padding. Elizabeth found fresh, still-warm water in the pitcher, so she took the hint and washed herself better, then put on the “new” garments. The skirt seemed a little short, as did the petticoats, but everything else fit. She sighed happily as she pulled on the clean, dry, thick socks. No fine dress or jewelry could compete with warm socks, she decided.
She found a candle and lit it using the starter in her panniers. Then she sat down in the chair and pulled out her “prayer book,” intending to read more of Sun Tzu. Instead someone knocked on the door. “Yes?”
The door opened and Rowena came in. “Miss, her Grace, ah,” she looked around, puzzled, until she saw Elizabeth in the chair. “Her Grace wishes for you to dine with her. If you will follow me, please?”
“I will follow if you have a pair of slippers that I may borrow.”
“You did not bring luggage, miss?”
Elizabeth counted to three. “No, I did not. I left Frankonia with what you saw me wearing earlier. No slippers, no cosmetics, no court wig. I would be happy to come to the meal as I am but —”
A horrified expression appeared on Rowena’s face at the prospect of someone dining with the duchess in sock feet and a servant’s blouse. “Oh, miss! No, just a moment please,” and Elizabeth heard running footsteps. Not long after the servant returned with stockings, slippers, and a much nicer blouse, jacket, and overskirt. Elizabeth really did not want to take off the socks, but sighed and put on the thin stockings and slippers, along with the other clothes. She also told herself not to complain about the color of the jacket and overskirt. Nothing flatters you, so quit sighing! It was true: her hair was the ugliest shade that could be called blond, and no color flattered it. “I’m ready,” she told the much happier Rowena.
The middle-aged servant led Elizabeth up two flights of stairs, around a corner and down a long passage. “This is the family quarters,” she informed her guest. Elizabeth nodded, cataloging the route and making note of weapons, including two-shot crossbows, hanging from brackets at regular intervals. Several colored windows caught her eye and she wondered what the patterns depicted, and marveled at the luxury. Tapestries covered the parts of the wall free of weapons and she wished they could stop so she could see the pictures. They rounded another corner and paused at a side door. Rowena tapped on the wood, listened, and then opened it for Elizabeth.
She took two steps in, stopped, and curtsied to her grace Marie Starland nee Peilov. Elizabeth would come to recognize the duchess’s coloring in her distant relations, the Babenburgs, but now she tried not to stare at the combination of wavy black hair, dark tan skin, and pale green eyes. The duchess wore a gown of unfamiliar cut and Elizabeth wondered if that were the current style in court. For her part Marie scrutinized Elizabeth, her dark eyebrows drawing together when she saw her guest’s shins and ankles. “I apologize for not greeting you properly earlier, Miss Elizabeth. I trust you understand the seriousness of the news Master George brought?”
“Of course, your grace,” she murmured.
“Come.” Elizabeth followed Marie to a table set for five. “My eldest daughter, Lady Miranda,” and she pointed to a young woman with Aquila’s height and her mother’s coloring. And much of her father’s face, Elizabeth thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for the woman. “You have met Capt. Destefani,” and the man nodded. “And Lord Jan, my younger brother.” Elizabeth curtsied, her hackles rising at the appraising glitter in the round-faced man’s eyes. He looked like the sort who carved notches in his walking stick and not because of his prowess at deer hunting.
Elizabeth managed to do nothing more than make small talk until the main course arrived. Then she inquired, “Lady Miranda, forgive my ignorance, since I am a foreigner, but is ‘miss’ a formal or courtesy title?”
“It is a courtesy title, Miss Elizabeth, for an unmarried woman.” She took a portion of the meat course, pausing mid-bite as she belatedly realized that Elizabeth wore a black ring on her left hand. “Father failed to say: are you a widow?”
“No, my lady. I inquire because in Frankonia I was called Lady von Sarmas. My father, Godown be with him,” and she raised her hand with the mourning ring, “was the brother of the senior duke of Sarmas and so father’s title carried to me.”
Jan leaned back and made a sound of disgust. “You are Frankonian?”
“No, my lord,” she corrected, trying to stay polite. “I departed Frankonia and hope to find a place within the Empire.”
Lady Marie leaned forward, pale eyes avid. “Have you been to the royal court? Do you know their mode?”
“I attended court when I was younger, your grace, but it has been several years. All I recall of the mode is that wigs remain in fashion. I believe this year the women are weaving flowers into the upsweep.” The only reason she knew that much was Sr. Amalthea’s pointed comments about vanity, health, and the state of one’s soul.
“Do you know what colors are popular this year?” Miranda continued, “I do hope it is darker shades.”
That explained the dark blue jacket and skirt, Elizabeth thought. “I do not know, my lady. I left shortly after the Feast of St. Gerald, so I was not present for the opening of the formal court.”
“Yet you say you seek a place here,” Marie observed. She sipped more wine. “What sort of place? Tutor, chaperone, lady’s companion, a place in a religious house?”
“Tactical advisor, your grace. I have studied military history and tactics for the last decade, along with works more commonly read by women. That is, in part, how I recognized the danger of the ambush we encountered in the Hunter Hills.”
Honesty had not been the best idea, Elizabeth realized the instant after the words left her mouth. Marie and Miranda both eased away from her, as did Jan. Elizabeth returned her attention to her meal and silence descended on the table, broken only by the sound of cutlery on china. After the end of the fish course, Marie noted, “You must be tired from the difficult journey, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth refused to rise to the bait. “Thank you, your grace. It has been a challenging day.”
“Captain Destefani, if you would see Miss Elizabeth to her quarters?”
“Of course, your grace,” he agreed. Elizabeth rose, curtsied, and followed the soldier out of the room. Once they reached the main hall, he turned. “Right. Tell me about the ambush.”
“Captain, I would be delighted to, especially if you have a map of the area. But I am exceedingly tired and, unless things are different here than in Frankonia, tongues will wag if you do not return to dinner and I do not go to my chamber.” She tried to stop a yawn and failed. She really was tired.
“Very well, Lady Elizabeth. We will speak tomorrow.”
“I am at your service, Captain,” and she bowed slightly, then turned and retraced her earlier route. Elizabeth took off the borrowed clothes, put the socks back on, and fell into the first dreamless sleep she
’d had in months.
As soon as she woke up, Elizabeth dressed and to her delight found her boots outside her door, cleaned of the worst of the mud. She pulled them on and trotted outside, across the courtyard to the stables. Her place memory remained good, even without light to help, and she found Snowy’s stall. He started to bray and she clamped her hands on his muzzle, stifling the sound. “Shhhh! You’ll wake everyone in the county!”
“The term is ‘province,’ my lady,” George corrected, then yawned. “How is he?”
She eased open the stall door. “Get back,” she hissed at Snowy, then inspected his legs by touch. “The sore place is almost back to normal.” He had adequate water and seemed content, so she scratched his crest, shook the hair off, and rejoined George in the hall.
“My lady, do you know anything about your beast’s pedigree?”
Elizabeth thought hard as she wiped her hand clean. “Yes. His full name is Sultan’s Snow, out of Sultana by Snowdrop. Sultana was a Brython out-cross and Snowdrop came from the Armstrong carriage stud.”
“That explains the running walk,” George nodded. “I may talk to Master Martin about trying a similar cross. And you need to pick one of the raiders’ horses for your use.”
“Assign me one, please, anything but the mare,” and she blushed at George’s chuckle.
“I believe that her grace has first claim to any mares, by her dower right, so I’ll have Martin look the others over.”
Satisfied with Snowy’s care, Elizabeth hesitated before asking, “George, where is the chapel?”
“First floor, the doors with the stars on them, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She returned to her room and changed boots for slippers before making her way to the chapel. She did not hear any sounds of worship, so she eased one door open just enough for her to slip inside. Unfamiliar incense, sharper than that used in Frankonia, stung her nose, but the calm quiet and the image representing Godown made her feel at home. Maybe You are my home? I have no country or family but Your grace. She gave a deep curtsey before the main altar, then glanced around the smaller side altars. “Ah!” St. Gerald, standing beside the remains of his bridge, caught her eye and she settled onto the kneeling bench to offer her morning devotions.