Elizabeth of Starland (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 1)

by Alma Boykin

  “That’s enough, Lady Elizabeth,” the Wisdom interrupted as she turned to the next chapter. “The rest is lists of wonderful goods and machines that Pedro hoped the company would provide.”

  She sat back as he removed the two books and put them back in their special cases. When he returned, Elizabeth paged back through her notes. He sat down across from her and waited. “Wisdom, the books say nothing about the worship of Selkow.”

  He smiled a little. “No, because Pedro wrote about people that he knew.”

  “Ah, does that mean that Selkow is… from beyond the sky? Was brought by aliens?”

  “We do not know, Lady Elizabeth. It is possible that aliens came during the chaos following the final collapse during the third and final visitation of the Great Fires, but no record or rumor survives if they did. No,” he sighed, his sorrow plain. “It is more likely that Selkow came with the colonists just as Godown did.”

  Elizabeth frowned and paged through her notes, pointing to a quotation from a chronicle of the Babenburg family. “But this says that Selkow first appeared two hundred years after the Great Fires.”

  Wisdom Lawrence nodded. “That is true. The first known worship of Selkow appeared then, well to the east, beyond the Golgow Sea, in the wet forests. A few old texts refer to an earlier work by Brendan, a student of St. Gerald, who claimed that the religion came from a combination of old Earth religions, including ‘Hindoo’ or ‘Hinduh,’ but he was killed by one of the first known Sworn Acolytes.” The Wisdom sighed again, “None of Brendan’s works survived the sack of Golden Plains, so all we have are later references by people who had seen the original writings, or heard of them from their teachers.”

  If the followers of Selkow are so terrified of people who speculate about their religion, what does that say about their religion? Elizabeth snorted. But then St. Mou’s followers would burn several of the books and manuscripts here, she reminded herself. The difference is that the rest of Godown’s followers keep the fanatics in check, unlike the Turkowi and Selkow. “Wisdom, does anyone other than the Turkowi worship Selkow?”

  He spread his hands and shrugged. “We do not know. They block all contact with anyone who might live to the east of the Turkowi lands, and we do not have the population yet to build ships to cross the seas far enough to contact them by circumnavigating Colpatshki.” He got to his feet. “And it is past the noon hour.”

  Elizabeth curtsied and bowed her head. Wisdom Lawrence rested his hand on her head. “Godown bless you in your strivings,” he offered.

  “Godown be praised for His wisdom,” she replied.

  She packed her material and hurried back to Starland House. She’d forgotten the time, and now had just a few moments to change and collect Snowy before meeting Archduke Gerald Kazmer of Babenburg. He’d offered to take her out riding and to show her the military areas outside the walls. One of her new riding habits should do, she thought, especially since the trim’s color was only one or two shades lighter than the Babenburg blue. She also picked up a hat, one that fit her real hair instead of her wig. She finished dressing and then tacking up Snowy just in time. As she led him out into the main courtyard, the outer gates slid open and Archduke Gerald rode in, accompanied by a groom on a rather dull-looking horse. The groom had Malcom on a lead rope and Elizabeth suddenly wondered what message she’d missed. She curtsied. “You grace.”

  “Mount up, Lady Sarmas, and let’s be on our way before the weather changes,” he ordered. She settled into the saddle, arranged her skirt, and turned Snowy out of the gates, following the emperor’s brother. He stayed quite as they wound their way through the busy streets. Three days before, heavy snow had kept people indoors and made cart traffic questionable at best. Now that the main streets had been more or less cleared, people bustled about shopping, running errands, delivering goods, and visiting. Elizabeth felt confined by the buildings and the pedestrian traffic, always watching out of the corner of her eyes for threats and possible attackers. It came as pure relief when the guards at the northern gate saluted the archduke, allowing the three riders free passage through the thick wall. Gerald accelerated to a trot and Snowy followed, tossing his head a little.

  Elizabeth slapped his neck. “Agreed.” The nobleman turned and smiled at her, then led the way off the main road and between some low fences into a seemingly endless snow covered field.

  “This is the primary cavalry drill area,” he informed her. “Let the killer mule run.”

  She bowed in the saddle. “Your grace.” She sank deep into the saddle and touched Snowy with the riding stick. He shot forward, lurching into a canter and kicking up a spray of snow. Elizabeth gave him his head and they charged across the field, curving around to return to where Gerald and his servant waited. Mule and rider swung around behind the others, and as they passed, Gerald turned his bay stallion’s head and joined Elizabeth in her romp. After another lap, the Archduke’s horse accelerated and turned, aiming for a low jump, only knee-high at most. Snowy snapped at the horse and followed. Elizabeth checked his speed just enough to ensure that Gerald had cleared the fence safely before turning Snowy to it. He surged again, leaping the low obstacle with as much energy as if it were a two-meter wall. Elizabeth laughed at his enthusiasm, then brought him back to a trot and returned to the starting point.

  Gerald followed, his horse snorting and blowing. “Have you fought in the open with Malcom?”

  “No, your grace,” Elizabeth told him. “The opportunity has not arisen…” and she realized what he wanted from her. “With you grace’s permission?”

  “Yes. Terry, mind the mule’s teeth.”

  “Yes, your grace.” The servant waited until Elizabeth had dismounted and handed him the mule’s reins before releasing Malcom’s lead rope. “My lady, his bridle is in the bag behind his saddle.”

  A saddle that is under a blanket. On a horse that spooks at pictures of blankets, she groaned. I really do not want to have to walk back to Vindobona. With great care she folded back the blanket, revealing the bag. The gelding did not fuss as she replaced his halter with the bridle, even accepting the bit without the usual evasion. She left the halter around his neck and kept a firm grip on both the reins and the lead rope as Malcom began sidling and swishing his tail. “You might move to the side, your grace, in case he lunges.”

  Gerald and Terry got well clear of the fidgeting horse. Elizabeth undid the buckle on the blanket and waited. Malcom snorted and pawed but did not react. Then she folded the blanket back. The instant Malcom realized that an evil, ferocious, horse-eating blanket sat on his back, he came unglued, rearing and kicking. Elizabeth hung on to the rope and stood still, letting the gelding shed the terrifying thing. As soon as the fabric fell off, he calmed down and walked up to her. “You are an idiot,” she told the horse. Snowy brayed. “See, even he agrees with me.” Elizabeth confirmed the saddle girth’s tightness and hauled herself aboard before undoing the buckle on the halter. “Thank you.” She handed the halter to Terry. “Right.”

  “Follow me,” Gerald commanded, and Elizabeth pushed Malcom with her knee. He sidled, and she repeated the command with stick and knee. He obeyed. Archduke Gerald led the way to a series of obstacles. “Repeat the pattern once I’ve cleared the course.” The red-brown stallion leapt forward and Elizabeth watched him flying over the snow, jumping two low obstacles, cantering over a bridge, weaving between poles, and then charging down a wooden figure that looked vaguely human. The archduke passed Elizabeth and raised his sword in salute.

  Blood racing, she turned Malcom to the side. “Tsa!” she yelled, sending the horse into a scrambling canter. He charged forward and she ducked, keeping low over his neck as he curved around towards the first obstacle. She checked him a little, then released him to sail over the poles. He stumbled but she rode through it and pushed him on, over the second barricade and the bridge. Malcom balked at the serpentine and she circled him, and then worked him through the poles. As he ran at the human figure, she jammed her ri
ding stick into her belt and drew her sword, managing the reins with one hand and the blade with the other. She leaned and swung, as if beheading the manikin. Malcom turned away and she sat up, slowing the excited gelding to a fast walk before stopping in front of the two men.

  “Well, Terry,” Gerald inquired. He’d swung one leg over the pommel and looked too relaxed for Elizabeth’s taste. If she did that, Snowy would leave her sitting in the dirt.

  “She rides better than most young my lords, your grace.” The servant shifted on his placid gelding. “Can she fight that well?”

  She backed Malcom one step, then another, as a slow smile crossed Gerald’s face. He drew his own saber again. Terry led Snowy away from the riders as Gerald began circling Elizabeth. Then he bore down, using his stallion’s mass to try and knock her off her horse. She raised her own blade, blocking his swing as she tried to guide Malcom out of the way with just the reins. Malcom squealed and dodged the stallion’s charge, losing his hind footing. She rode through the stagger, then urged the gelding to evade Gerald’s next move.

  The opponents passed eachother and she managed to get a stinging blow on Gerald’s shoulder with the flat of her saber, then ducked as he swung. Malcom squealed at the blow to his rump. Elizabeth kicked him, turning him away from the archduke. Gerald pushed his mount to meet them but they evaded, turning wider to avoid his next attack. All at once she hauled back, bringing Malcom to a sliding stop. Without letting the noble guess what she intended, Elizabeth squeezed her leg against the Malcom’s flank, sending him into a trot and passing the archduke. She shifted her weight back in the saddle and he rose on his hind legs, as if trying to throw her. Gerald misread the horse’s rear and rushed forward, intending to take advantage of her distress and either hit her or dump her into the snow. Instead Malcom dropped onto all fours and kicked out, sending a load of snow into Gerald’s and the stallion’s faces.

  As the males regrouped from the surprise attack, they slowed and turned to the side, now ahead of Elizabeth. Malcom surged forward and she leaned over, betting everything on Gerald’s confusion. “Sarmas!” she screamed, dropping the reins and grabbing the archduke’s leg, using his surprise and her momentum to rip his leg out of the stirrup and almost throw him from the saddle. He lost his seat as his horse twisted under him, trying to bite Malcom’s hip. But the black gelding had cantered well clear and Elizabeth let him keep running as she picked up the reins again. After a hundred meters or so she eased him back to a walk and sheathed her saber. She slapped Malcom’s neck and walked him to where Gerald sat, both legs back where they were supposed to be.

  “You nasty minx,” he hissed, face as pale as the snow, breathing hard as she rode up beside him.

  “You started it, your grace,” she panted, telling her hands to quit shaking. He was a lot harder to tip than she’d thought. “With all due respect.” She took a few more breaths before adding, “And you did not specify if I was to attack, evade, or fight in the classical style.”

  He snarled something she could not quite catch, but that probably did not flatter her ancestry. Malcom reared, then dropped hard onto all four legs and shook his head, ripping the reins out of her loose grip. As she reached forward, Gerald slapped the flat of his hand onto the gelding’s hip. Malcom lurched forward and ran. Shit! Elizabeth tried to keep her seat, but Malcom aimed for a tree with a low branch. She swung her leg clear of the leaping horn, kicked off the stirrup, and launched in a controlled fall into the snow, landing on her hip, knee, and shoulder, rolling to take more of the energy.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Gerald’s laugh rang through the cold air.

  Elizabeth got up and checked herself for sprains and breaks. She found none and planted her hands on her hips until she calmed down. Right, your grace. My turn to play dirty. Then she took off her left glove and stuck her two fingers into her mouth. “Fweeeeeee!”

  Snowy jerked the reins out of Terry’s hand and trotted to where she stood. Elizabeth caught him and mounted, staying astride in the saddle for the moment. The pair stalked off, cornering Malcom against the fence at the far end of the drill ground. Elizabeth grabbed the horse’s reins as Snowy kept him penned. “Come on you bastard,” she hissed, still astride. She led the intimidated gelding back to Terry. “Here,” she ordered. He took the reins and she backed Snowy, then set her left leg around the leaping horn and found the stirrup. “Congratulations, your grace,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You win.”

  “Hold Terry’s horse while he puts Malcom’s halter back on,” Gerald ordered. She complied with ill grace but held her tongue. “Can you fight on the ground?”

  “Only with a crossbow, your grace. And with a knife if it comes to that, your grace.”

  He nodded, leaning forward, reaching down, and checking his girth again. “You’re a little old to retrain, Lady Elizabeth. But you certainly do justice to Aquila’s training, and to whoever taught you to ride.”

  She bowed in the saddle. “Thank you, your grace.”

  “Do you ever ride astride?”

  “Yes, your grace, and Major Wyler has been teaching me to fight astride, but I prefer sidesaddle, either side.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Why?”

  “Because if feels safer and more secure, your grace.”

  Archduke Gerald gave her a dumbfounded look. “Are all Frankonian women odd?”

  She looked away. “I would not know, your grace. I was not permitted to be a normal Frankonian woman.”

  “A good point. We need to return to the city before Terry freezes to death or I am late for yet another longwinded speech by Count Windthorst about the state of the borders.” Gerald led the way back to the main road into Vindobona.

  “I’d think the state of the borders could be summed up in the word ‘porous,’ if I might be so bold, your grace,” she observed wryly.

  “Indeed, which makes one wonder why the good count holds forth in such painfully repetitive detail on the topic,” Gerald replied. “But you did not hear me say that.”

  “No, your grace,” she agreed.

  None of the riders spoke until they reached the gates of Starland House. “You fight well, Lady Elizabeth. My brother will be most pleased to hear that his investment is reaping such dividends. Good night.”

  “Good night, your grace,” she bowed in the saddle. “Thank you, Terry,” and she slipped him a silver coin.

  “You are most welcome, Lady Sarmas,” the young man said, saluting her.

  Aquila Starland summoned her to his office before she could do more than pull her boots off. “I trust you passed his grace’s tests?”

  “If you mean did we both return home in one piece and without broken bones, yes, your grace, I believe that I did.” She would have some impressive bruises, despite the snow cushioning her fall.

  “Good. I want you to sleep in tomorrow, then go enjoy yourself in High Street, within reason,” and he slid two gold coins to her. “That is to pay for your new riding suit and uniform from Franco’s. He is expecting you after noon.” Aquila looked down at a paper on his desk. “Oh, and he’ll take your measure for new shoes as well as boots.”

  “I don’t have to get embroidery or sparklies on them, do I, your grace?”

  He leaned back and brayed a laugh. “Oh, blessed Godown, to send me the only female who does not want fancy shoes!” He caught his breath. “No, you do not.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she curtsied. He shooed her off and she fled to the bathing room while she could still move.

  Chapter 8: Spring on the Marches

  “That’s it,” Aquila Starland fumed. “Pull the other three. He won’t need them for a few weeks anyway, not with this weather.” The thick mud had sucked off yet another of his big gelding’s shoes.

  Elizabeth had already given up and had assisted the farriers as they removed both Malcom and Snowy’s shoes. She’d been riding patrols well away from any cobbled or paved roads, and even cleats didn’t help in the black muck of the soil near the Di
viding Range’s foothills. As she waited for Aquila to mount again, she gnawed a bit of field bread and studied the land around them. Low clouds hid the distant mountains and masked the tops of the foothills. Lush green extended as far as she could see, the abandoned fields shading into the darker green of forests and feral woodlots.

  “A pfennig for your thoughts, my lady,” Lazlo Destefani ventured.

  “Just wondering how much food could be growing here. Human food,” she amended with a nod to the horses and mules around her.

  Lazlo, Captain Kemal Destefani’s much younger half-brother, spat. “A goodly amount, my lady, if the soil permitted.”

  “It does,” Matthew Starland told them. “Not just grain, but potatoes, beets, and other root crops. There are still potato fields in this area, and muckroots.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Elizabeth nodded. She saw Aquila starting to mount and heaved herself onto Malcom’s back with a silent groan. Silent, because she did not want her men or the Starlands to think that she was as tired as she was. The hard riding and patrols made her monthly times even worse, leaving her drained of all surplus energy. St. Sabrina, show me a solution, she whispered yet again to the patron of women in distress. Only a few more days and she’d be fine, or as fine as any of them were. She nudged Malcom into motion.

  They found evidence of another Turkowi scouting party later that afternoon. Aquila studied the remains of the observation blind for several minutes before turning to Elizabeth. “Sarmas, back-track as far as you can. Standard procedures apply. Take three birds.” The homing doves worked when heliographs couldn’t, like in the pending rain.

  “Yes, your grace.” She watched as the soldiers hung two bird boxes on the pack-mule’s frame. “Let’s go.” The ten soldiers assigned to her command sorted themselves out under her and Lazlo’s watchful eyes. The men no longer grumbled about obeying her, at least within her and Lazlo’s earshot.

  A tracker led the way along the Turkowi back trail, but even Elizabeth could have followed found the route: the interlopers had made no effort to hide their path and presence. As she rode, Elizabeth loosened the safety straps on her pistols and saber by touch, not taking her eyes off the land around the squad. “Spread out,” she ordered.