by Alma Boykin
2
Diplomatic Dances
Elizabeth knew the unhappy sound very well. “You do not like the idea.”
Mina finished shaking out the back hem of the skirt and walked around to face Elizabeth. “No, my lady. The cut you describe needs trim, wide bands of it. Even in a milder color,” her term for drab, “the style would not flatter you.”
“And if I add the trim, people will wonder why I’m suddenly following the mode.”
“There’s that too, my lady,” Mina allowed as she inspected her mistress’s gown. She reached into the neckline and tugged on Elizabeth’s shimmy, pulling a bit more white fabric up to peep over the top of the brown overdress’s snug bodice. “I fear none of this season’s looks will suit you, my lady.”
Elizabeth sighed, then shrugged. “Godown did not make me to fit the mode.” She was too tall and too strong, with too much nose and not enough chin. “Speaking of mode, do you have any idea who gave Snowy the flowered ear bonnet?” She’d walked out of the house three mornings before to find her favorite mule looking utterly lost, his ears covered by a pair of knitted fly-covers of delicate rose and yellow hue, with crocheted flowers on the brow-band. She’d almost hurt herself laughing at the sight, much to Snowy’s disgust. He’d sulked the rest of the day.
Mina smiled, her brown eyes dancing with laughter. “No, my lady. No witnesses have come forward?”
“Nary a one. It is as if St. Michael himself draped Snowy, unseen by mortal man.” She admired the bravery of whoever had done it. She’d left the covers on for the rest of the day. The flies were bad this spring. A more dignified set of ear covers had appeared the next day, the same cream color as clean, unbleached and un-dyed shahma wool.
“Perhaps someone thought that was the best way to give you spring flowers, my lady?”
Elizabeth chuckled as she set her court wig in place. She felt Mina adjusting the back, tugging a little here and there to ensure that the upsweep did not roll under in back and give the game away. “Yes, well, it is that time of year. Has Helga’s swain been back?”
Mina leaned around and gave Elizabeth an affronted look. “Of course not, my lady. We all know how you feel about such things,” the maid assured her.
“So when will the Diligence be published?”
“Tomorrow, my lady.” Mina tugged a bit by Elizabeth’s ears. “No one foresees any problems, my lady. His parents only moved to Vindobona from the Plate Valley ten years ago, and her people come from the east. They were mountaineers, before the troubles.”
“That’s good to hear. Or not to hear.” The Diligence would find any possible conflicts or too-close relations between the senior maid-of-work and her chosen man. No relations closer than second degree could be permitted without special dispensation, unless one or both parties were known to be infertile. The ban dated back to the years just after the Great Fires, Elizabeth had learned. It made sense, and she’d wondered if part of Laurence of Frankonia’s problem was coming from two generations of double first cousins. Of course, that assumes that he’s really descended from whom he is purported to be descended from. Rooster, hen, and so on.
“Yes, my lady.” Mina finished her work and stepped back, picking up Elizabeth’s shawl. “Will my lady be returning at the usual time?” The servants considered her a strange creature indeed for keeping such early hours, even during the imperial capital’s social season. Elizabeth ignored their concern, while admitting that she’d probably never recover from the habits ingrained during her days as a religious.
“I believe so. There’s no need for anyone to stay up.”
“Of course, my lady.” And Elizabeth would return to find half the staff still up, in case she needed a late meal or bath or other service. She’d given up trying to stop them.
The servants’ behavior was Lewis’s fault, she mused, gathering her skirts and picking her way down the staircase. One of the maids opened the door for her and strolled into the courtyard, still thinking. Lewis spent more time at Donatello House than she did, and often came in very late, well after midnight, hungry and wanting attention. She sighed to herself yet again and accepted a hand from the footman as she stepped into the waiting carriage. Grumbling about Lewis kept her mind occupied during the short ride and long wait at the palace gates.
Impatient, she climbed out of the carriage. “Thomas, I’ll walk the last few meters into the garden,” she told the coachman. “Go park and I’ll have you called when I’m ready.”
He touched his hat brim. “Yes, m’lady.”
The opening party for Crown Prince Imre and the other Poloki, weather permitting and Godown willing, spilled out into the formal garden inside the palace’s residential section. To Elizabeth’s irritation Archduke Lewis had ordered the servants to plunder the solar at Donatello House and half her favorite plants had vanished to provide additional flowers and greenery for the display. He left the pfeaches she reminded herself. He could have taken those too. She loved pfeaches, but they only grew well south of Donatello Bend and the soft fruit did not travel well. Lazlo had persuaded his father’s sister’s husband to let him bring two seedlings back with him after a visit several years ago. Delighted, Elizabeth had planted them in enormous pots in the solar and then threatened everyone with a dire fate if they killed, trimmed, or even spoke harshly to the little trees.
She joined the throng walking into the palace garden. Torches flickered in their holders and a few of the precious electric lights glowed here and there. As always, Elizabeth sensed the other women studying and then dismissing her. She posed no competition to them or their daughters. A twenty five year old, homely, dowerless female could not interfere with anyone’s match, be it for love or by arrangement. After all these years Elizabeth no longer minded the lack of interest, and she nodded to a few of the older ladies before joining the long line to welcome Prince Imre and whoever he’d brought with him. She guessed it would be a few cousins rather than one of his siblings. Princess Kasia, all rumor to the contrary, would not marry Crown Prince Thomas. Ugh, that would so have complicated the inheritance lines! No wonder the Poloki nobles managed to agree on the first vote for once. It was a token offer anyway, as we all knew. But the gesture was made. She liked and admired Queen Minka. I wouldn’t mind being her daughter-in-law, except for having to marry one of her sons. To Quill and Marie’s delight Miranda Starland, despite her initial temper fits and protests, had settled down with Ryszard Sobieski-Pilza and the marriage warmed into a love match, producing four children thus far with rumors of a fifth on the way.
“It’s our little horse breeder!” A hearty voice called, and Elizabeth blinked to find Ryszard himself standing in front of her. “Well met. I’ll have someone to talk to, Godown be thanked.” She curtsied, all too aware of the unhappy murmurs and whispers bubbling up around her. “I’ll find you later, unless their majesties have other plans for me,” the pale man told her before disappearing into the crowd again.
Crown Prince Imre was more restrained when she finally reached the end of the line, where he stood with his royal hosts. Elizabeth curtsied to the ground before Emperor Rudolph and Empress Margaretha. Rudolph already looked tired and Elizabeth shivered, breathing a prayer for his health. His dark complexion seemed paler than she recalled from their earlier encounters, and his hair looked stringy and lank. He’d always been cadaverously thin, and his weight appeared unchanged. Prince Imre, golden haired and blue eyed, raised her after her curtsey. “The fair mule-breeder. You look well”
“Thank you, your highness. Your visit is an honor.”
As he turned to greet the next person in line, she eased through the courtiers and nobles, skirting the clusters of conversation until she found an empty chair among the dowagers and spinsters. Dowager Countess Montoya acknowledged her presence with a nod before returning to the gossip of the evening. Elizabeth took in the scene, sighing over the ladies in their lovely, ribbon trimmed dresses. She saw more red than usual, no doubt in honor of the Poloki visitors. One
woman sported a dress entirely in brilliant red and Elizabeth wondered how much her husband had spent on it. Just the dye alone cost a fortune, especially for that much true crimson. Elizabeth brushed her fingers over her brown fine shahma-wool skirt with its cream trim, The material in your dress cost almost as much as the dye on hers, she reminded herself. A tall figure in black appeared in front of her, cutting off her view of the other guests, and she startled. “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth,” Lewis intoned.
She dipped her head in a seated bow. “Your grace.”
“Come,” and he extended his hand. She pretended not to see it as she got to her feet, following him past several groups of nobles. He stopped and she took a step back, keeping clear air between them. Lewis pointed to the left with his chin and a small, languid hand wave. “The gentleman in brown, with the green waistcoat.”
She peered around and saw an older man, her height, with thinning brown-grey hair and a sour expression on his round face. He wore deep brown with a high-collared, green on green embroidered waistcoat. “Yes, your grace?”
“Avoid him. He wishes to speak with you. Do not be seen alone with him, or go into the garden if he does.”
She bristled. Who was he to be ordering her not to speak at an invitation-only diplomatic reception? Then she remembered the look in Gerald Kazmer’s eyes after the council meeting. “Very well, your grace.”
“My brother has concerns about you. Do not make them worse.” With that Lewis stepped to the side, then strode away to speak with someone else. Fuming, Elizabeth wound her way through the clusters of people, a polite and bland expression on her face. She walked outside, into the garden, to look at the flowers. After that irritation she needed fresh air.
I’m not sure anyone irritates me the way Lewis does. And he seems to know exactly how to rub me the wrong way, she marveled. He had a gift from Godown—that was the only way she could explain it. She looked at the cherry trees as she tried to calm down. They seemed about to burst into bloom, as did some other plants. Ah spring, the season of love. And of mud, and lambing, and the first biting flies, and floods, and twist-winds, and sneezeweed, she laughed. Equanimity restored, she wandered back into the grand hall, admiring the way the light played on the cut glass hanging from the ancient plaztik and metal ornaments high on the walls. The light yellow paint on the walls reminded her of a sunny day and of the fields of yellow wildflowers that had bloomed at Lord Anthony Armstrong’s estate in Frankonia. She whispered a silent prayer for his health and well-being, as she always did.
“Save me,” Prince Ryszard ordered, appearing beside her and grabbing her elbow before she could flee from the horde of courtiers trying to swarm him. “Talk horses.”
A servant handed them drinks and she gathered her wits. “Your highness, do you have any suggestions for training a war horse versus a parade mount?”
“Is the horse in question suitable for both?”
“He seems to be, your highness. Sound conformation, good disposition, showy but not overly so. Black stud with a snip and rear sock.”
Ryszard drank some wine. “If he were mine, and suitable, I would train him for both. How old?”
“Six, your highness.”
“Train him for both, because parade noises can be the same as battle, as you know. Trumpets, flapping banners, other animals and people pressing too close,” and he gave one of the younger noblewomen a firm glance with those words. She caught the hint and backed away, still fluttering at him.
“Thank you, your highness. I shall do as you recommend.”
“And how is the famous mule?” Humor glinted in his blue eyes. “Has he eaten anyone?”
Duke Midland’s son laughed, a thin, ugly sound. “I’d never tolerate a poorly-trained beast, your highness.”
“Master Snowy, I believe you call him?” At her confirming murmur Ryszard continued, “Snowy is a most well-trained mule, one of the best I’ve encountered. It is a rare mule that will tolerate remaining near a fight, let alone do it well.”
“Quite true, your highness,” another young man assured everyone.
“Master Snowy is doing well, your highness. The passing years have neither slowed him nor sweetened his temper.” She allowed herself a smile.
“Good.” Ryszard looked around, over the heads of the courtiers hemming him in, as if trying to find someone or something. “Your sister-to-be sends her greetings.”
“Ah,” she blinked, bewildered. “Your lady wife?”
“Yes, Miranda, once of Starland.” The group around them began murmuring and whispering, as if he’d let some magnificent piece of gossip slip through his fingers. “Are you not marrying her brother?”
Elizabeth laughed, trying to cover her sudden queasy feeling. The courtiers’ unfriendly and appraising looks grew worse, even though she assured the prince that, “Oh no, your highness. Lord Matthew has several far better matches under consideration, or so I’m given to understand.” Quill’s last letter mentioned a possible Eulenberg candidate, and one from Tivolia.
“Better than our little mule breeder? Oh, I doubt that,” and he laughed. The looks from the young courtiers grew very hostile and she winced inside. She wanted to glare at Ryzsard for even making such a ridiculous suggestion.
She was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of Count Eulenberg himself. “Your highness, I apologize for intruding, but his highness Crown Prince Thomas wishes a word with you and your brother.”
“Very well.” Ryszard nodded to Elizabeth. “Later. I wish to see this new parade mount of which you spoke.” As Ryszard followed Count Eulenberg and the servant, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the man in the green waistcoat working his way towards her.
Mindful of Lewis’s warning, she tried to get away but young lord Midland asked, “Parade mount, Lady Elizabeth?”
“A young horse of uncertain quality, my lord. As you yourself have often said, fine looks do not guarantee a good beast.” He’d never said it, but she did not want to antagonize him and his father.
“Yes, indeed. A fine horse is only as good as his training and rider. I have one such beast just now,” and he began to hold forth on this new addition to his father’s stable. Elizabeth used the moment to ease away, then hurried to another conversation group. She repeated the move four times before reaching the door. Satisfied that she’d done her social duty and had spoken to everyone she needed to, Elizabeth found a servant and called for her carriage. The green-clad man seemed to have given up trying to catch her.
“Countess Sarmas, a moment?”
She turned to find Count Albinez approaching. “My lord,” and she curtsied.
“I detest speaking of serious matters at such a happy gathering,” he began. “But how fast could you finish your muster at Pilovna and Donatello Bend, should the need arise?”
“From first notice? Ten days and all available troops and supplies would be ready to leave. Assuming Godown grants dry roads and no complications or delays, and it is not planting or harvest, or mid-winter,” she cautioned.
“Thank you.” He strode off as quickly as he’d arrived. She accepted her shawl from the servant by the door and hurried out to meet her carriage at the garden gate.
The next morning Elizabeth and Sam, one of Donatello House’s grooms, rode to the Imperial Riding School. They led the grey mule and Ricardo II. Elizabeth rode Molly. If the gray jack proved as good as he looked, she’d sell Molly, and riding her in town served as good advertisement. Once at the school’s huge training area, Sam found a place to leave the two new equines and checked the fit of their tack while Elizabeth consulted with Major Antonio Wyler, the retired officer in charge of training.
“Ah, Countess Sarmas,” and he tapped his hat brim, not taking his eyes off the cadet riding in the smaller end of the arena. “I understand you have two new acquisitions to try.”
“Yes, Major. I’d like your opinion of the horse, since I already know your thoughts on mules.”
The lean horseman ordered, “Try
your mule first, my lady Colonel, then when I’ve finished with this young gentleman I’ll see what you have.”
“Very good, Major,” and she touched her hat brim. Here, he outranked everyone.
The grey jack fidgeted back and forth in the ties as she re-checked his soundness and his tack. He settled down, alert but not nervous, once she let him smell her hands. He did not mind having his ears touched, but rolled his eyes when she picked up his front feet. Sam untied him and she mounted, then waited. The jack stood still. She took up the reins and tapped him in the flank with her heel. He took one step, then another, and they walked into the wide end of the sand-floored riding area.
She walked him back and forth, getting used to his way of going and warming him up. He trotted very well for a mule, and she nudged him faster. Instead of cantering, he shifted into a running walk! Amazed, she rode him around and around the arena, changing directions, working through the serpentine poles, then stopping. He stopped square and stood quietly. “Good mule!” she gushed, delighted beyond belief. She backed him a few steps, then pushed him into a trot and gallop. His gallop left a lot to be desired, but the running walk! “Ooooooh, you are such a good mule,” she cooed at last, scratching his crest and stroking the thick neck. “Such a good mule.”
She dismounted. The jack watched her but did not try to walk off. “Good boy.” She led him back to the cross ties outside the arena. “He’s a keeper,” she informed Sam. “Very much a keeper. And his grace needs to repeat this cross and see if he gets the same results. If so, he’s got a mint in the paddock.”