by Alma Boykin
She tried not to gawk or stare as they approached Vindobona. The Frankonian kings, or at least the last two Laurences, preferred to keep court and city separate. Not the Babenburg family, who lived in the middle of the largest city in their empire. The gray walls stood as tall as the great walls at Starheart, but thicker, with more gates. Foot, beast, and wagon traffic moved in and out. Soldiers in Babenburg blue and cream uniforms watched the people coming and going, and one guard stepped into the road. “What is your business in the city?” he demanded of George.
“We are the advanced party for his grace Aquila, Duke of Starland, here on Starland business.” George and Elizabeth showed the gate guard their badges with the Starland crest on them. “Lady Elizabeth, me, eight guards, and two carriages, plus the three baggage wagons,” George counted off, turning and pointing to the rest of the caravan.
The guard’s associate took notes, counting the group. The senior guard returned the badges. “All weapons are to be peace-tied within the city walls. No vehicles or mounted riders are permitted within the palace quarter unless you are on imperial business. There is a curfew in place. The outer gates close one hour after dark and open one hour before dawn.”
“Very good,” George replied. Elizabeth made a mental note of the rules, then nudged Snowy to follow George’s horse. Given the tension between Frankonia and the Eastern Empire, she’d decided to speak only when spoken to, at least until she could get rid of the last of her accent. When she was tired, even Aquila had trouble understanding her. Snowy snorted at a new smell and she leaned forward, patting his neck. He’d grown quite a thick winter coat, to her surprise. I hate to think what you will look like come spring, she mused, imagining clouds of white hair. Maybe I should get a riding apron in natural linen or unbleached wool, so the hair won’t show as much.
The group took a roundabout way to the Starland town palace, following the curve of the ancient walls until they reached one of the few straight streets leading to the heart of the city. Traffic grew lighter and Elizabeth relaxed some of her guard. She noticed most of the women walking along the street wore cloaks and coats shorter than her own well-worn garment and decided that she would have to get one for herself. George snorted, “Shift change at the houses of pleasure,” he said in a low voice, nodding towards one of the women. Elizabeth flushed a little, glad that her hat and scarves hid her blush.
The Starland town palace dominated a small square, its yellow and blue walls and cream-colored trim breaking up the grey of the cobbles and the sky. George banged on the vehicle entrance with his riding stick and a boy peered out the small peephole, then hauled the wooden doors open. George and Elizabeth rode in, followed by the two carriages. “Over here, my lady,” George directed and she followed the horse master to the stable doors.
Snowy stopped beside a mounting block on his own and she laughed. “Glad to be rid of me, are you?” She scratched around his ears and along his crest. She’d trimmed his mane so at least that much of him was presentable. A groom came up and held out his hand for Snowy’s reins. Snowy bared his teeth and snapped. “Snowy bites.” When the young man failed to register the warning, Elizabeth repeated carefully, “Snowy bites very hard and does not like strangers standing in front of him. He is a fighting mule.”
“Very well, my lady. We can solve that problem.”
“No, you will not ‘solve that problem’,” she snapped, imitating her mount. “You will be careful around him. He is very valuable as he is.”
The groom opened his mouth to protest when George appeared. “You are the new groom?”
“Yes.”
“I am Master George. Treat Lady Elizabeth’s mounts with care, because they are all trained to defend her. At his grace’s orders,” and George gave the young man a firm look.
“Ah, yes, sir.”
“I’ll see to Snowy, my lady. You need to go find your quarters before one of the maids finds your luggage,” and he smiled at her long-suffering sigh.
“An excellent point, Master George. Thank you.” She located one of the servants, who showed her a snug room with a stove in the corner. A weapons rack occupied the other corner and the maid began apologizing. “No, it’s no problem at all,” Elizabeth assured the young woman. “If you could bring hot water so I can remove some of this road dust, I would be grateful.” As soon as the girl left, Elizabeth stripped off her armor and saber, hanging them on the stand. She was pulling off her boots when the servant returned, with a second maid in tow.
“I will help my lady with her hair,” the older woman stated. Rather than protest, Elizabeth removed her scarf and head cover. The servants both backed up and the younger maid brought a corner of her apron to her nose and mouth.
“I am not ill, nor am I mad,” Elizabeth assured them. “I simply prefer to wear headscarves and wigs. Now, if I could have some hot water, please.”
Hot water arrived with commendable speed. A hearty meal appeared not long after. The long day plus the heavy stew and bread proved too much for her, and rather than explore, Elizabeth fell into bed after saying her evening prayers. She did remember to drape her coat over her weapons, hiding them for the moment.
The next day Elizabeth ventured out to the Cathedral of St. Gerald. “Follow the road to the center of the city,” Master George told her. “And come back along the same road, starting at the Sign of the Pine.” Elizabeth memorized the different shops and palaces as she walked but did not look in the windows or at the displays on tables along the street. Instead she hurried through the cold morning, determined to attend the second service at the cathedral. She reached St. Gerald’s Square and stopped, awestruck. She’d never seen anything so magnificent!
Creamy white walls, topped with a copper roof and single golden spire, rose to the sky. Brilliantly colored mosaics depicting the mercy of Godown and the life of St. Gerald and other early saints covered the doorways, above huge metal portals that gleamed with touches of gold. The bell began tolling and Elizabeth rushed across the square, barely slipping into the enormous cathedral through a side door before the introit and procession began.
This is what paradise is like, Elizabeth knew, breathing deep and letting the chanting and incense carry her spirit into proper worship. It was the feast of St. Thomas and she recited the litany along with the hundreds of other worshipers, their voices forming a solid chorus, supporting the magnificent bass of the chief priest. Elizabeth joined the long line of congregants as they filed up to the main altar to receive the peace and elements. A tall, dark-haired layman in plain brown velvet and moleskin, with a small silver circlet on his head, held out the bread while a brown-clad priest touched the faithful with the holy oil.
After the service ended, Elizabeth lingered to meditate before the high altar. Brown, amber, and gold paraments covered the altar and the pulpit, and matched the curtains that shielded the tabernacle from the laity. The figure of St. Gerald stood under the beautiful carved and inlaid symbol of Godown, one hand holding a model of a broken bridge, the other raised in blessing. The sculptor had captured what Elizabeth had always loved the most about St. Gerald, his warm smile and kind eyes. She knelt in prayer, feeling as if after long searching, she had come home.
Elizabeth studied the shops on her way back to the Starland town palace. It appeared that fashion favored dark colors this season, along with very long skirts, strange necklines, and little embroidered slippers. She puzzled over a dress in one window, wondering if anyone could look even presentable in the layered, dark blue confection. The heavy cloaks and coats caught her eye and she decided to come back with her purse and see if she could find something stylish that would not turn her into a dark lump of fabric. She sighed over a necklace and rings at a jewel dealer, tried not to laugh at the latest in hats, and stared at the bits of Lander technology in an antiquarian’s display.
She returned to the Starland residence even more aware of her worn and shabby state. But she did not have time to mope. Master George found her checking on Snowy. �
�In case you are curious, my lady, he attempted to eat a stable boy this morning.”
“Did you?” she asked the mule. Snowy refused to admit even a possibility of guilt. She shrugged, “Well, we did warn them.”
“Yes, my lady, we did. And you are to meet with the training master of the Imperial Stud tomorrow at seven in the morning.” George smiled at Elizabeth’s wince of anticipated pain. “And to visit the Imperial Military Archive this afternoon at your convenience.”
Several hours later, Elizabeth decided that she must have died during the night, because now she stood in Godown’s blessed realm. Light trickled in through high clerestory windows, revealing paintings of battle scenes, a mosaic floor, antique weapons, and more books than Elizabeth could imagine. “Now, my lady, not all of these are military history per se,” Master Leopold cautioned his awe-struck charge. “War is simply one facet of statecraft, and many of these are accounts of the Eastern Empire and other states, their histories, economies, and geography. And biographies of great military and political leaders.” He walked over to one shelf, unlocked it, and pulled out a small, yellowed volume. “The Desert Fox, the biography of Erwin Rommel,” he told her, smiling. He took another out. “This is Col. Lee Tse-pin’s autobiography and the best account of the human-Dorlo war.”
“May, ah, may I read one? And take notes? I brought pen, ink, and paper.”
The black-skinned archivist nodded. “Yes. From what his grace Duke Starland writes, I believe you would be best served by Maersk’s history of the conflict called the Thirty Years’ War. And this is a second reproduction, so you do not need a dust mask or gloves.” Elizabeth felt a little like a puppy following a butcher through the meat market as she trailed behind Master Leopold. “Here,” he set the book on a table by the window. “I will tell you when you need to leave.”
“Thank you,” she managed, voice and hands all trembling. She sat, tucked her skirts around her, and opened the ancient cover. For the next few hours she marched through a continent called Europe on the planet Earth, following the armies of the Catholic League. It was only when the archivist called her name for the second time that Elizabeth realized the light was fading and that she’d spent so long without moving that her back and neck hurt. Her mind still wrapped up in the first military-industrial war in Earth’s history, she drifted back to Starland House. No one stopped or robbed her, although she realized later that evening that she would not have noticed anything odd unless Godown Himself appeared in front of her and hit her on the head.
She hurt again the next morning, not from reading too long but because she’d fallen off the tallest equine she’d ever seen that was not hooked to a cart or plow. The heavy, dappled gray beast nosed her as she picked herself out of the sand. The gelding snorted, reminded her too much of Snowy. For the third time in an hour she caught the horse, checked his girth, and hauled herself back into the saddle, arms and shoulders aching from the effort. “Figure Four again,” the riding master barked. He raised his long whip and Elizabeth nudged the gelding with her lower legs, urging him forward. This time she kept in the rhythm and managed the transition from trot to battle kick without falling off. “Good. Long trot, then figure five.” The gelding trotted, gathered himself, surged onto his hind legs, kicked with his forefeet, and left Elizabeth flat on her back in the sand behind him.
“Enough,” Major Antonio Wyler decreed. Elizabeth fought to get her breath back, rolled onto her stomach and then got to her feet. She caught the gelding and led him over to where Maj. Wyler stood, his long whip at rest, tip in the sand. “Not bad,” the tall man grunted. “Especially for a woman. You ride side-saddle?”
“Yes, Major.”
“You’ll learn both, then. But not on Gray. Aquila is right, you’ll never have enough strength for the heavy cavalry. Come back at the same time tomorrow.” He turned away, adding over his shoulder, “There is a soaking room for women behind the curtain with the leaves on it.”
As she soaked, Elizabeth wondered if she could even walk back to Starland House, she hurt so much. Maybe a smaller horse would be easier for her to ride. But he’ll probably find one just as broad as Gray, she moaned to herself. Elizabeth ducked under the water, rinsed her hair, and dragged her sore self out of the warm water. She returned to Starland House at a far slower pace than how she had left it.
On the way back she caught sight of a small church tucked into a little square behind a professional scribe’s office, roughly halfway between the stables and Starland House. Elizabeth knew which saint the church honored the moment she glimpsed part of the east wall. She shuddered even as she admired the skill of the artist who had created the long mosaic.
Why anyone devoted so much time and effort to such a hideous image Elizabeth could well guess. The church belonged to St. Mou, and St. Mou’s followers preached the most terrifying version of the Great Fires that she’d ever heard. For half the length of the building, men and women in the close-fitting clothes of the Landers struggled to escape raging flames that poured down from a ferocious sky and leaped out of shattered buildings and cracks in the ground. Burnt children littered the ground and Elizabeth locked her jaws against a wave of nausea as she thought of the remains she’d seen in the gutted village. St. Mou glared down on the fallen, pointing to symbols of test tubes, nuclear power, wind turbines, and other elements of the evil that had forced Godown to send the cleansing Fires.
Or so the saint’s followers proclaimed. Even Sister Amalthea, as traditional as she was, insisted that the flames never touched the ground or burned people’s bodies. Elizabeth turned away from the mosaic. She couldn’t bear to look at the second panel, the one depicting the details of the Landers’ fate. A larger panel featured St. Mou’s faithful watching and gloating over the scene: pious gloating, to be sure, but still gloating. Elizabeth felt certain that St. Gerald had never rejoiced over the suffering of anyone.
That afternoon she returned to the Military Archive and spent more hours lost in the past. To her mild dismay, part of that past intruded itself into her return to Starland House. As she came around a corner near the High Street, she discovered a ring of onlookers surrounding two women in red and black dresses and black coats who stood in the road, yelling and waving sheets of paper. Just past a small cross-alley, a fat man in red and black shouted, “You dare deny the truth? Heretics! Godown and St. Mou have turned their faces away from the Babenburgs. Why else would Godown permit the Turkowi to rampage? This is punishment! Repent, return to the true, pure way,” he demanded at the top of his lungs.
Elizabeth stopped beside a cluster of passers-by, all watching the ranter. Some of the people shook their heads, their displeasure obvious. She ventured, “Is this common in Vindobona?”
“If you mean lunatics standing in the street, often enough,” one man laughed. “Especially when the Imperial council meets.”
An elderly woman frowned. “I don’t hold to all the tales of St. Mou, but the raids and murders must be punishment for something.”
“According to Selkow’s so-called chosen acolytes, they are punishment for not bowing to Selkow,” Elizabeth countered. “But then they hold everything to be a punishment for not worshipping their goddess.”
“True enough, miss,” the woman agreed. “But we still need to stop sinning.”
“Yes, we do,” someone else concurred, and Elizabeth nodded. For did the scriptures not say that all sinned? Godown gave all people free choice. The knot of onlookers broke up and Elizabeth hurried back to Starland House, her stomach reminding her that many hours had passed since breakfast.
The next afternoon Elizabeth stayed at Starland House. After looking for a quiet, semi-private place with good light, she perched on a window seat in the long upstairs hall, writing down her thoughts on the current military and political situation. She wished she knew more about what Emperor Rudolph planned to do once campaign season truly got underway. From all the probes and raids, she had to think that the Turkowi intended to launch a major offensive once
the passes re-opened in the spring. The last year’s relative calm had given the Empire time to recover and re-arm, but it had also done the same for the Turkowi.
She heard running feet and saw Elsa, one of the maids, rushing down the hallway. “Lord Starland is here and we had no warning,” she called as she sprinted past.
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Master George had told the staff that the rest of the Starland people would arrive by the end of the week. Was that not enough warning? Apparently Elsa did not think so. Elizabeth shrugged and retreated to “her” room in order to be out from under foot, especially if Lady Marie was tired and cross.
Elizabeth emerged at suppertime and walked headlong into chaos. She heard a commotion and peered around a large wardrobe in the hallway to find Lady Miranda and her younger sister, Lady Annie, yelling at eachother as their brother tried to calm them. “It does matter and it’s not fair! Why should you be allowed to marry whoever you wish when I have to marry a smelly horse prince and go live in the bogs and forests?” Miranda’s voice climbed into a piercing shriek, “It’s not fair!”
“You look like a horse, so why should it bother you,” Annie hissed. Elizabeth winced at the painfully accurate jab. Annie continued, “You get a full dower and more, you get to be a princess, you get to live where it is safe, and you might just become queen. So quit whining because Count Kossuth’s son asked father’s permission to court me.”
“Annie, that was not kind,” Matthew injected. “And Miranda, nothing is fair.”
Both sisters turned on him. “What would you know? You’re a man. Men have it easy,” Annie snarled.
Miranda agreed, hissing, “You won’t get sent away. You don’t die in childbed. You can order people around without pretending to like them and you don’t have to be nice to women you hate.”