by Alma Boykin
He settled down once the fanfares ended, giving his rider a chance to look around. Lvarna sprawled down the slopes of a low, broad hill. The houses seemed mostly white with wooden trim, and as she got closer she saw that they were built of brick, instead of wood or stone. Bright red or green, or both, wooden shutters covered the windows, and the black roofs looked much steeper than those of the Empire. Some buildings had a door in the second floor that opened onto a small, unguarded platform. “That’s for snow,” one of the men told another soldier. “My great uncle traded here once. Said they get snow drifts three meters deep and more, some winters.”
Halfway up the hill the road turned hard to the left, coming up against a stone wall. The hill turned into a steep, grass-covered dirt wall, and as she tipped her head back, Elizabeth could see the foundations of a stone fortress. The cobbled path twisted back and forth, keeping anyone from riding straight into the citadel. To her surprise, a wooden palisade topped the stone base, and the buildings inside the walls all looked like wood. That’s foolish. Fire would gut this in an instant, and one good blow from artillery and the citadel opens like a book. She noted the tall metal rods that poked up from roofs and some parts of the palisade. For flags and banners? Oh, no, those are lightning diverters. She’d read about them in an artillery manual. The men guarding the gates and walls looked alert, not hostile but not overly friendly, either. She approved. And laughed at herself. You are an utter novice in the military arts, watch and learn but don’t be so quick to judge.
As anticipated, once the imperial party reached the main forecourt of the citadel, a quick sorting-out took place. Elizabeth found herself separated from the Starlands, Princess Ildiko, and Archduke Lewis. She listened to the official greetings, straining to understand the words through King Bogumil Sobieski’s accent. Trapped behind tall men, she could not see the king. Worse, she kept being distracted with worry about warning the stable hands before Snowy bit or kicked someone. That thought prevented her from concentrating on the full opening exchange, that and the ache in her legs from riding astride for two days almost without pause. The crowded courtyard smelled of hot stone, dust, and animals, with bits of something foreign and spicy, probably from the kitchens. One did not wait until the day before to start cooking for a dynastic wedding.
Beasts seen to and baggage claimed, Elizabeth followed a bubbly young maidservant to her quarters. She admired the other woman’s crown of golden braids and wondered what dye gave her dress that light pink tint. The servant opened a door and let Elizabeth into the chamber, before asking, “Do you need help with your hair?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied. “Do you have a name?”
“Oh, yes, I’m Ekaterina.” Elizabeth took off her hat and light, knee-length jacket. “Oh! Your pardon, sir, I thought you were a woman.”
St. Gerald save me. “I am a woman. I am Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas, niece of the ruling Duke of Sarmas.” She turned around to face Ekaterina. “I am also a soldier. That’s why I wear armor as well as skirts.” And right now I want to be shed of both and scrubbing with hot water. “All I need of you right now is water for washing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The wench vanished, giving Elizabeth time to wriggle out of her mail tunic and put her weapons out of the way. She removed the strike metal from her pistol, as a safety precaution, but left it loaded with the cloth safety patch and flint in place. She’d pulled off one boot and was working on the other when Ekaterina returned. The Poloki woman left one full and one empty bucket by the door, along with towels, and disappeared again.
Elizabeth stewed as she scrubbed. St. Gerald’s bricks, but what does it take to be treated like a lady? I even outrank Lady Martina Graff, since I have the title by birth instead of appointment, and mine has been confirmed by his majesty Rudolph of Babenburg himself. She washed off the road dirt as best she could, dunking her hair in the last bit and scratching her scalp vigorously. Nothing fell out, but then she’d been fastidious about keeping her clothes and blankets away from other people’s bedding. She’d also used some of the stinging black tar soap the last time she’d been able to truly bathe. It seemed to help keep insects away.
“Tap, tap, tap,” someone rapped on the door. Elizabeth pulled a shirt on and stepped off to one side. “Yes?”
“My lady?” A woman called.
“Come in.”
Ekaterina, head down and shoulders hunched, followed an older woman. The elder servant wore the crispest white wimple Elizabeth had seen outside of a convent, and Elizabeth almost bowed out of habit. Instead the two servants curtsied. “Your pardon, Lady Elizavet,” the older woman enunciated carefully. “We misunderstood your position. I am Sonia. Ekaterina and I will attend you during your stay. Is there anything you need? Light refreshments will be served in the greeting hall after the next bell.”
“Thank you. I need someone to wash my travel clothes,” and she pointed to the dusty, mule-scented pile. “Otherwise no, thank you.”
Sonia nodded. “They shall be seen to. My lady, pardon my plain words. Ekaterina says you do not need assistance with dressing?”
“No, I need help with my wedding clothes. I do not need assistance with my hair. I wear wigs.”
Both women’s eyes went wide and Ekaterina started to blurt something. Sonia clamped her hand over the girl’s mouth and hissed in her ear. “Lady Elizavet, only, ah.”
Oh no. Elizabeth raised her hand, stopping the words. “I am a warrior and a postulant of Godown. I must keep my hair short for health and modesty. I am not a kept woman.” When the two servants gave her blank looks, she repeated, “I am no man’s leman or prostitute, I am not ill or mad.”
“Ah. Thank you, Lady Elizavet. I shall make certain that none of the chamber women speak falsely,” Sonia assured her. She glanced at Ekaterina, who slunk out of the room. “Forgive her, please, my lady. She is new, just come to the citadel from the border.”
“No harm has been done, so there is no need for pardon,” Elizabeth replied, feeling much better about things. “Will someone show me where I need to go, when the time comes?”
“Yes, my lady,” and Sonia swooped down on the laundry and carried it off, along with Elizabeth’s boots.
Elizabeth latched the door and flopped back onto the bed in a very undignified fashion. Blessed François, but my back hurts. Except it wasn’t just her back: her thighs and abdomen also ached. She froze, trying to count the days since her last cycle had ended. Twenty days, if she recalled correctly. Oh, St. Sabrina have pity on me and please, please may this not be… A burning muscle spasm rippled out of her guts, down her back and into her legs. She curled into a ball, trying not to cry. I’ve been so careful, please oh please no, please go away, please. Almost five months had passed since she’d had pains this bad. It had to come from riding so much. Please make it go away, St. Sabrina, please, she implored the patron of women in distress. Godown please forgive me for whatever I have done to offend You.
It took several minutes before she could get to her feet and paw through her baggage. There, below her emergency coins and writing materials, she found the small, flat-sided pottery bottle. She undid the metal cap and poured a wad of salibark and wheat-soot the size of her thumbnail into her hand. She began chewing it despite the bitter, sour taste that made her eyes water. “Chew until your ears ring. Then swallow it,” the herb wife had said, and Elizabeth did as ordered. The pain faded just enough that she could begin moving.
Several years later, while chatting with Matthew Starland about his own impending nuptials, Elizabeth realized that she could not remember the week before Lady Miranda and Prince Ryszard’s wedding. She knew that she had accompanied Miranda to several events, had sat vigil with her in the citadel’s church one night, and had ridden Snowy into the fields around Lvarna, but only because her notes told her so. The Imperial women met with Queen Minka to discuss protocol for the wedding, and Elizabeth attended. And she’d studied the layout of the citadel, noting the different layers of defenses, and sketched
ideas for improving Donatello Bend and the Lander ruins near the bridge. But except for what she’d recorded in her little books and her papers, she recalled none of it. All she remembered was a misty white blur and never-ending pain. But Godown and St. Sabrina heard her prayers. The pain faded after five days, and both pain and bleeding ended the day before the wedding.
Sonia and Ekaterina arrived just as Elizabeth finished washing and putting on her underbodice. Ekaterina pulled the strings, snugging the garment tighter than Elizabeth could herself. The girl also got the lacing more evenly arranged, much to Elizabeth’s relief. She hated hanging out in one place and being pinched in another. Then came the three underskirts and the white cotton shimmy that covered the underbodice and top of the skirts. Elizabeth held very still as Sonia arranged the pale green overdress. Sonia tugged down, Ekaterina tugged up, and Elizabeth held the ends of the shimmy sleeves until everything settled into place. Blue cotton ties, the same color as the trim on the dress, held the neck of the shimmy closed. The shimmy filled in the neckline of the dress, hiding her bust. The servants gave Elizabeth’s court boots a hard look, but she was not going to stand on stone all day in slippers. Plus her stockings needed to be mended and the garters required some adjustment. No one is going to see my feet, so who cares if I wear boots instead of slippers? I do need to get a pair of shoes, though. I’ll ask where Princess Kasia has hers made.
Sonia escorted Elizabeth as far as the gathering area near the church. Archduke Lewis appeared and the two ladies curtsied. He wore Babenburg colors, making Elizabeth sigh with envy yet again. His dark hair and skin, and bright green eyes, looked handsome against the rich blue and black of his coat and vest. Dark blue turned her into even more of a ghost and made her hair look worse, if that were possible. He also sported white leather breeches tucked into shining dark brown knee-boots and a white shirt. She noticed Sonia giving Lewis an appreciative glance from under the cove of her wimple, and Elizabeth had to agree.
The rest of the Babenburg party assembled and Sonia curtsied and departed to her next task. Lord Matthew remained with his sister, leaving the others to make their way to the church on their own. The protocol puzzled Elizabeth, but she shrugged. Until Miranda and Ryszard exchanged vows and tokens, the members of the Imperial party were no more than guests of the Poloki Crown and received no better or worse treatment than their individual ranks and Poloki tradition called for. After the wedding, things changed, and Matthew would become part of the Poloki royal family. Elizabeth’s rank also rose, or so she gathered from what she barely remembered of the queen’s explanation. At the time she’d been too miserable to do more than nod.
“Shall we?” Lewis inquired of the group. As agreed earlier, he took Elizabeth’s elbow and they led the group into the church of St. Michael–Horseman. The Poloki stood during their worship services, so the Imperial party gathered at the front of the church, forming a cluster on the left side of the white and black stone inlays marking the central passage where the priests and wedding party would walk. The Sobieski clan filled in the right side. Elizabeth eased away from Lewis so that she could bow to the presence candle. An ornate statue of St. Michael on his rearing black horse filled the space between Godown’s symbol and the high altar. She wondered what kept the statue in place. She couldn’t see chains, like the ones supporting the holy symbol. Maybe there were thin, dark-colored metal strips bolted to the wood and stone columns beside the altar, like she’d seen elsewhere.
A trumpet blared, raising echoes from the stones of the church. Elizabeth and the others turned to face the central aisle. First came the acolytes, dressed in brown and white, one girl carrying a candle as big around as Elizabeth’s forearm and the other bearing a relic of St. Michael in a gilded glass case. The congregants bowed as a young man brought the Holy Writ to the high altar and set the large book on the stone table with reverent care. Wisps of blue-grey incense smoke spread from the censer a junior priest swung back and forth ahead of the senior priest, King Bogumil Sobieski, and Matthew and Miranda Starland. At least, Elizabeth assumed that the figure shrouded in a heavy blue veil was Miranda. Elizabeth couldn’t tell. The quartet bowed to the altar and spread out, the priest taking his position behind the Writ, King Bogumil in his crimson robes and red-gold crown to the right of the altar, and Matthew and Miranda facing the witnesses and worshippers.
Hooves rang on stone, and Elizabeth whipped around, jaw dropping before she caught herself. Prince Ryszard and his brother Imre rode into St. Michaels, Ryzsard on a black horse and Imre on a white. Oh, my. Sister Amalthea will have a shrieking fit and Lady Orrosco will faint. Elizabeth half-flinched, waiting for the cries of protest before she remembered that the two worthy ladies were a continent and two years away from the scene. Both princes sat perfectly still as their horses bowed to the altar, and then the men dismounted and bowed as well. You’re in a different world, Elizabeth reminded herself. Archduke Lewis and Princess Idliko both stared at the Poloki princes, Lewis looking envious and Ildiko angry. Servants led the animals out before they could leave any mementos of their presence.
After the princes’ arrival, nothing about the wedding could surprise Elizabeth. Duke Starland, Emperor Rudolph, and King Bogumil had concluded the transfer of the bride price, dowry, and alliance promises months before, sparing the watchers several hours of recitations and token protests. Matthew stepped aside, removing Miranda’s veil as he did. Elizabeth relaxed when she saw that indeed, it was Miranda who stood there, nervous, her dark hair braided and woven into an elaborate crown decorated with silver drops that trembled when she moved. Prince Ryszard, dressed in pale red and cream, took a bundle of cloth from the hands of his sister Kasia and shook it out, revealing a red cloak decorated with strips of white fur. This he placed over Miranda’s shoulders to show that she now came under his protection. Good. Someone needs to look after her, Elizabeth sniffed, then scolded herself for such ill manners.
The vows came straight out of the prayer book. She’d sung in so many wedding choirs in Frankonia as a girl that Elizabeth knew the words by heart, and almost launched into the sung refrain at one point. But the Poloki used no music. She realized why when the priest raised his hands and intoned the opening of the liturgy of St. Michael as soon as Ryszard and Miranda kissed. Elizabeth joined worship with enthusiasm and energy. They’d not brought a chaplain on the trip from the empire, and she missed having weekly services and evening liturgy. So enrapt in the service was she that she almost didn’t notice Princess Ildiko’s frantic head shake when her uncle tried to lead her into the line for the elements. Elizabeth hesitated as Lewis growled under his breath before stepping around the agitated young woman. Although perturbed, Elizabeth concentrated on keeping her heart and mind calm and still, open to receive Godown’s blessing through the bread and anointing oil. She returned to her place much comforted and reassured. Ildiko’s black eyes seemed to bore through both Elizabeth and Lewis, but she looked down when she noticed Matthew Starland frowning at her. Your highness, don’t ruin Lady Miranda’s blessing, Elizabeth pled. Godown, please ease her heart of whatever hurts it.
Four soldiers, including Prince Imre and King Bogumil, raised a cloth canopy on thick, white wooden poles. Ryszard led Miranda under the red and white cover, and they walked out together, the men keeping the canopy over the couple as the witnesses cheered and threw grain. Young men slung two horseshoes that skittered and clanged across the stones ahead of the couple, chasing any ill luck out of the bride and groom’s path.
Elizabeth felt a warm hand taking hers and she startled.
“What’s wrong?” Archduke Lewis tightened his grip on her fingers.
“Nothing, your grace, just surprised.”
“Come, then,” and he tugged, not enough to pull her off balance but enough to convince her to follow. Lewis shifted his grip until he held her hand. He took his niece by the arm and the trio followed Lord Matthew out of the church, across the crowded, banner hung courtyard, and into the main throne room. The afterno
on and evening’s festivities would be held in the enormous, high-ceilinged room. A series of long tables took up the middle of the room, and she’d seen more tables in the courtyard. Elizabeth heard musicians tuning and she glanced around to try and find the seats for those who choose not to join in the dancing.
“Up here,” Matthew Starland called, leading them to the head table. Elizabeth let go of the archduke’s hand and stepped out of the way, studying the lower table and its simpler settings. Place cards sat at each seat and she began looking for hers. “Lady Sarmas, here,” Matthew pointed, indicating the space between him and Lewis.
She shook her head. There had to be a mistake. She should be near the head of the lower table. “Get your mulish self up here,” Matthew hissed, poking down at the chair with increasing force. Uneasy, she wanted to protest, but surrendered before she caused a scene. “Didn’t you listen to Queen Minka? Now that Miranda is a princess, you as her sister share her rank, at least during the festivities,” he reminded her. In his irritation he sounded exactly like his father and Elizabeth flinched and blushed. She sensed the men exchanging looks over her head and she plopped down onto the stool before anything else could go wrong or she offended someone.
The meal included eight courses, many of them featuring fresh fruit, green grains, seasonal herbs, and cream. Elizabeth sipped wine from an elaborate red and clear glass cup, glad that Ildiko and the others had plaztik. They still outranked her. Elizabeth wondered about the rich, sweetish red meat that formed the fourth course, and after a few bites decided not to worry about it. Princess Ildiko refused to touch the dish, and as Matthew distracted King Bogumil, Lewis switched the women’s plates. Elizabeth devoured the second helping with gusto: it was bad luck to waste food, rude, and a sin.