by Alma Boykin
“Thank you, your grace.”
“You will deliver it by hand, when the time comes.”
“As you command, your grace.”
Chapter 9: Trails and Recovery
Two months later, Elizabeth sighted from behind another farmstead wall and fired. “Zing!” The crossbow bolt struck home, piercing the raider’s armor. He glanced down, turned towards the low wall, and took a step before collapsing. Thank you, holy Lord, for stilling his voice, she prayed as she cranked as fast as she could. That made both scouts dead. Now all she and her men had to do was stay out of sight. Aquila, called to Starheart for the birth of a second son, had left Matthew and Elizabeth in the field with Ryszard Sobieski-Pilza. Ryszard had taken over the cavalry, running long patrols and scouting missions. Matthew oversaw the Starland troops, and Elizabeth remained one of his squad leaders.
I wish we could take prisoners and interrogate or convert them, she sighed again, crossbow reloaded and the safety engaged. She patted her pistol holster as well. Inside the stone barn, Malcom waited with the other horses. They’d tried questioning one prisoner. Apparently only the truly devout, or insane, crossed into the Eastern Empire, because interrogations gained the Starland forces nothing but long rants about Selkow’s glory and her servant Tayyip. After that, Elizabeth and her men just killed the intruders. Which is a damn sight better than what they do to us, she thought with a large dose of self-righteousness.
At that thought she patted the hidden pouch now sewn into her split-skirt. Two strips of embroidery, both almost identical in color and pattern, resided in that pouch. She did not know why she thought it was so important hold her silence about the second find, but she did. She’d caught Lazlo watching her as she inspected the dead woman’s clothes, but he’d also kept his thoughts to himself. He may have noticed the similarity to the material Aquila had kept. One woman from so far outside the Starland lands is strange. Three or four are a conspiracy or gross negligence at best. And why has no one told Duke Starland? Well, someone may have, but between the summer’s fighting and the possible birth of a second son, Aquila might not have passed the information on, she reminded herself. There was no point in seeing shadows where none existed.
Elizabeth took a sip from her water bottle and returned to watching for movement. The ground shimmered as heat rose from the summer-fallow fields, making the trees and building in the distance dance like rumors dancing through the Frankonian court. As best she could learn, the conspiracies and plots that throve in the divide-and-conquer atmosphere of the Frankonian court did not exist under the Babenburgs. She almost could not believe it, and had told Matthew Starland so. He’d laughed, as had his father. “Why should we? We have an enemy. We need more people to fill the land we already claim, and the Babenburgs know when to leave us alone and when to intervene before disputes become battles,” Aquila had informed her.
She wanted to believe them. But four dead Windthorst, or at least not Starland, women seemed to tell a different tale. In her heart of hearts, Elizabeth knew that a second woman had been at the Turkowi depot, and that she was the one who had brought the wrath of Godown onto the monsters. Elizabeth had no evidence but that did not stop her from believing. Which brought her back to the first question: why had Count Windthorst not notified the Babenburg court, and thus Aquila von Starland, about the kidnappings? He had to know, or to have heard rumors of missing women. Especially since he complained to anyone who would listen about the porosity of the borders and the need for stronger defenses. She had a few terrible ideas, and kept those ideas very close to her chest.
Speaking of chest… She backed up on her hands and knees and dug her latest find out of the pouch she wore around her neck. The men joked that her father must have married a sparkseeker bird, because of her knack for finding sparkly things. She shook the round bit of glass and metal into her hand, admiring the sheen and how the colors in the glass changed as she turned it. Maybe a necklace, or perhaps a hair pin? Yes, I could have it set into a hair pin for my wig, she decided, tucking the bit away.
Gary suddenly looked up, twisting to see over his shoulder. She froze, watching and listening. A faint “tweet twee—twee tweet” cut through the afternoon heat. The watchers waited until the whistle code repeated, then released held breaths and a few half-muttered curses. “About time,” Gary grumbled.
“That’s the trouble with Turkowi,” Lazlo grinned, offering Elizabeth a hand to get to her feet. “They have no respect for other people’s holidays and observances.”
“Indeed. I’m adding that to my list of complaints for Tayyip the Inedible,” she replied. “Along with the declining quality of his horseflesh and his followers appalling taste in clothes. Yellow?”
“Perhaps Selkow is colorblind,” another soldier volunteered. He’d been examining the dead scouts, checking for any possible information or loot-able valuables. He shook something out of a pouch and she could see his eyebrows draw together under the brim of his helmet. “My lady, look at these.”
She clambered over the wall, Lazlo at her shoulder. The man held out two sets of insignia, the kind worn to show membership in a noble family’s household or guard. She picked one of the metal badges off his palm and held it so Lazlo could see. “This bothers me greatly, Lazlo.” She turned the badge over, revealing the maker’s mark.
She heard his breath catch before he replied, “Very greatly, my lady.”
“How many badges did you find?”
The soldier shook the bag again, patting the leather. “Just two, both Windthorst.”
Lazlo backed up so that he was no longer breathing in her ear. “My lady, I do not like this one bit. With these, anyone could enter Windthorst lands without being challenged.”
“At least not if they had enough eastern equipment and could hide their accent.” She held her hand out. “I’ll take the other badge and the pouch, please.” The soldier dropped them into her palm, then wiped his hands on his trousers.
As they walked back to the farmhouse to reclaim their horses, Lazlo observed, “Life would be easier if Turkowi did not look like us.”
“True. Maybe his majesty should ask the Turkowi to wear helmets with antlers on them, so we can be sure not to confuse them with followers of Godown.” Snorts of derision met her suggestion and she smiled a little despite being hot and itchy.
Gary brought Malcom out into the sunlight. Elizabeth gave the gelding a quick inspection, tightened his girth, put his bridle back on and tightened the girth one last time. Lazlo gave her a boost into the saddle. Matthew and Prince Ryszard both complained about her insisting on riding sidesaddle, she knew, but only when they thought she and Duke Aquila couldn’t hear. Elizabeth and the four men with her rode back to meet Matthew.
That evening, just after the night meal, one of the guards spotted a cloud of dust. “Courier?” Elizabeth inquired. Lazlo shrugged, returning his attention to reading the draft of her report, and she asked, “Anything I missed?”
“No, my lady,” and he stopped. The square-jawed, dark haired man bent over her writing table, as if pointing out something on the page. “What about Windthorst?” He asked under his breath.
Should she tell him? She made a snap decision. “Not in an open report. His grace needs to know, but…” She met his worried gaze. “I’ve put together everything that we’ve found.” She swept her left hand over the papers, as if in frustration. “I’m a foreigner. A Frankonian.” She left the rest of the thought unsaid.
Lazlo straightened up. “Ah. Quite true, my lady. In that case there’s nothing I would add.”
“Thank you.” She began folding the now-dry page when the sound of a commotion reached her tent.
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is, but that’s not all.”
“Godown be praised!”
“Lord Matthew won’t be pleased.”
“Why not? I was thrilled when I got the news.”
“Yeah, but you’re not the heir.”
Elizabeth and Lazlo em
erged into the evening to find the soldiers milling around. A few saw her and saluted or bowed. “What’s all this?”
The man closest to her explained, “Messenger from his Grace, my lady. It is a boy, to be named Roland.”
“Godown be praised! Any word on Lady Starland?” Marie would never be Elizabeth’s best friend, but she hoped that the delivery had gone well.
“Yes, safe and strong, through the grace of St. Sabrina, my lady.”
Elizabeth skirted the happy chaos, cutting through the remuda to reach Matthew at the headquarters tent. She poked her head inside and found not just George but Kemal Destefani as well, both in courier’s vests. “My lord?”
Both men looked up at her voice. Captain Destefani nodded his greeting. “Good, Lady Elizabeth, your highness. I can tell this just once, then.” She ducked out of the way as Ryszard pushed in past her. “You have to go north, to the Garibey Hills. His grace will meet you at Castillo Nuevo, along with other Imperial troops.”
She peered at the map. The Garibey Hills lay on the north side of the Coulmain River, almost into the Dividing Range proper. Kemal told Ryszard, “Your highness, his grace sends his regards and strongly recommends that you contact Prince Imre, telling him everything you’ve seen this summer.”
Captain Destefani then turned to Elizabeth. “My lady, his grace apologizes, but you must stay with Lazlo and Lord Matthew at least until his grace meets you. He will explain then.”
She closed her eyes. “I hear and obey, and Laurence V is an idiot. No, I take that back. Even idiots can make places for themselves and help others. Laurence V is a selfish fool.”
“I doubt that my lord father will attempt to correct your opinion, Lady Elizabeth,” Matthew stated. “Pick your best troopers, the ones who can operate without you, and give me names.”
“Gary Sotomayor, Ted Rogers, and Mit. Lazlo, of course.”
Capt. Destefani smiled, flashing white teeth. “Glad to hear that the baby has made himself useful, my lady.”
A hurt voice protested, “I am not a baby!” She twisted, looking over her shoulder to see Lazlo Destefani storming into the tent. “Your highness, my lord, lady, Captain,” he acknowledged.
“I said the baby, not a baby, Lolo.” Lazlo’s face darkened with embarrassment at the pet name. Elizabeth put her hand on his arm before he did anything foolish. “Send the men you named here, my lady,” the elder Destefani continued. “They will continue the patrols while the rest of you ride north.”
“And you, Captain?” Ryszard asked.
“His grace has left me in charge of Starheart and the Starland lands, at least until her grace recovers from the delivery.”
After more discussion and a review of what needed to be done before morning, Matthew dismissed everyone to see to their men. Elizabeth caught Prince Ryszard. “Your highness, might I beg a favor of you?”
“What?” He radiated suspicion and she guessed that he’d been importuned once too often.
“Your highness, I have, let us say concerns, stemming from our observations this summer. With your permission, I would like to leave them in a letter with you, so that if I am unable to present my thoughts to the appropriate person myself, it will be known that someone noted potential troubles.”
Ryszard stared down at her. “What sort of concerns?”
“Your highness, I do not wish to say. It is probable that I am seeing shadows, in which case please destroy the letter and forget that it ever existed.”
He straightened up and looked into the distance over the top of her head. “You may not be alone in your concerns Lady Sarmas. I will take the letter and keep it until I hear from you or from Duke Starland.”
She curtsied very deeply indeed. “Thank you, your highness.”
The next morning, Prince Ryszard Sobieski-Pilza rode north and west with his servants and guards, carrying her letter with him. Elizabeth watched him from her seat on Snowy, glad to be riding the steady mule. Her cramps had returned even worse and the infusion of salibark only dulled the pain.
It took just over two weeks for the eighty soldiers and their equipment to reach Castillo Nuevo. Elizabeth had to force herself not to stare at the enormous number of men, horses, cannon and other artillery, and the even larger number of camp followers. As Lord Matthew’s party entered what was essentially a traveling city, she averted her eyes from the field brothel, even as she wondered if they had extra lint or rags that she could buy. The men mistook her expression for one of shyness. “My lady, my apologies,” Lazlo stammered.
“It is part of army life, is it not?”
“Yes, my lady, but, ah—”
Duke Aquila’s appearance saved him from trying to salvage the situation. “Good. Follow Rohan to your section of camp, then meet me at headquarters.” They rode past the duke and Elizabeth sat up straighter, biting her tongue against a whimper. The ache of overused muscles had replaced the cramps. Godown, holy lord, I think I begin to understand why women do not ride and fight with men. Show me what you would have me do, please. And make my leg stop hurting, please. She talked to Godown more now than she had as a postulant, Elizabeth realized. The thought amused her.
As soon as she’d seen to Snowy and Malcom, and her tent was up, she made use of the nightsoil box and hurried off to find the command tent. It sported the banners of Starland and the Babenburg family, making it a little easier to track down amidst the ordered rows of tents and shelters. “Hey, wench, get back to your quarter!” A voice called.
She ignored it. A second voice, laughing, called, “Can’t you see she’s in uniform? Must be the officers’ doxy.” Angry, Elizabeth kept walking. If she ignored them, they’d quit.
Instead someone grabbed her arm and spun her around. “You too good for us?” She replied by breaking his grip and kicking him just under his kneecap. “Ow! Stupid bitch, I’ll show you,” and he lunged for her. She dodged and he overbalanced, falling into the dust. Elizabeth didn’t wait to see what happened next. She hoisted her skirts and ran for the command tent, her face burning. She’d heard stories about men like that, but to meet one? How dare he mistake her for a whore! How could he mistake her for a whore? She slowed to a trot, then walked, gasping for air, to the entrance of the command area.
“Elizabeth,” she stopped to catch her breath. “Elizabeth von Sarmas reporting as ordered,” she panted.
The youngster on orderly duty gave her a skeptical look, but went to announce her. Lord Matthew appeared and waved her in. Still breathing hard, she ran a hand through her hair to settle it before she ducked into the warm shadows. She peered around until her eyes adjusted. “Your grace.”
“There was no need to run,” he told her, amused. “We’re not under attack yet.”
“Yes, your grace.” He did not need to know about the little misunderstanding. She got out of the way of the “door” and waited as other officers arrived.
From outside she heard an angry, loud voice demanding, “You seen one of the whores run by? Dark coat and skirt, face like the back end of a dead mule?” She locked her eyes on one of the tent poles and felt her face blushing a painful crimson.
“No, why? She overcharge you?” Someone laughed.
“Acted too good for herself and kicked a sergeant, then tripped him and ran off. Probably stole something.”
To her horror, Duke Aquila broke off his conversation with Matthew and two other young nobles. He stalked over to where she stood, gave her a long look, and beckoned with one finger. She followed him into the bright sunlight, blinking and trying not to walk into his back. Aquila led her to the edge of the enclosure, where the men were talking. They snapped to attention at his arrival. “Is this the woman in question?” He pointed to a still-flushed Elizabeth.
“Ah, yes, your grace, that’s her.” The man, an officer cadet by the look of his uniform, darted glances from Aquila to Elizabeth.
“For your information, Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas holds the rank of captain of a hundred. She has held a combat command fr
om his majesty for the last nine months.” He spoke loud enough for everyone around to hear him. “She is no man’s whore or doxy, and Lady Elizabeth is not to be harassed or touched. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Yes, your grace,” came a flurry of replies.
“Good.” He spun on his heel and led her back into the welcoming shadows of the tent. “Where did you kick him?”
“In the knee, your grace, after he grabbed my arm.”
Aquila looked at the heavy boots peeping out from under her skirts. “Why the knee?”
“In case he was wearing a codpiece, your grace.” Actually, she’d not thought about it, had just reacted. She’d have stomped his instep except that he’d been wearing boots.
“Good choice. Now that everyone’s here,” he added as Lazlo skidded in, looking worried until he spotted Elizabeth. “A Turkowi army is on the march. They’ve already reached the Black Gate,” and his aid pointed to a pass in the Dividing Range, east and south of the Garibey Hills. “They have not crossed yet, Godown be praised. The mountain folk are delaying them, that and the weather. They seem to be reluctant to travel during storms.” He raised an eyebrow, looking at Matthew and Elizabeth, who nodded their understanding. “My goal is to meet them at the Kidron Valley.” The aid pointed to a broad area between the hills and the mouth of the pass. “I want to stop them before they can spread out, as I assume we are outnumbered, and possibly outgunned.”
“Outgunned, your grace?” A narrow-faced man in brown, with brown hair and skin, sounded and looked offended.
“Yes. Rumor has it that Tayyip bought several of the latest Frankonian artillery pieces, probably mortars and cannons.” Elizabeth’s face began burning again, this time with anger.
Aquila pushed on, “So. You, Thomas Kornholt, will be on the south, wherever you can get the best sighting for your long guns.” The brown man nodded. “Montoya, Albinez, between him and the center. Eulenberg, how many did you bring?”