by Alma Boykin
“I’ll make note, my lady. Mind the black boy’s teeth, my lady. He’s being snappish.”
“Is he?” She frowned. “Not a good start.” She repeated the inspection and noted how Ricardo II swished his tail, his ears tracking her. Someone dropped a stable rake on the stone floor and he spooked, jumping a little, ears going back, eyes rolling. And, like his sire, he tolerated hands near his ears with ill grace. Elizabeth was not impressed.
She rode into the arena relaxed but ready for trouble. Ricardo snorted and she felt his back starting to hump. She urged him into a trot, distracting him, and he settled down. Major Wyler beckoned and they extended their circles as he walked into the arena, until horse and rider circled around the riding master. He raised his long longe whip and snapped it down. Ricardo accelerated into a canter, tossing his head. Elizabeth tried to get him to change leads and he complied. At Wyler’s gesture they slowed to a walk, then halted. “Back,” he called and Elizabeth tried backing Ricardo. He balked, and she signaled more firmly. Wyler stalked up, reversed the longe whip, and waited. Ricardo remained stock still, ears twitching, chewing on the bit. “Cue him again.” As she did, Wyler poked Ricardo in the chest with the butt of the whip, just hard enough to make the point. Ricardo shifted his weight back and rider and trainer both relaxed their efforts. They let the horse “think” about the results, then tried again. This time he backed four steps. “Ride him out, then dismount,” Wyler commanded.
Elizabeth watched as Wyler re-confirmed the girth and mounted. Ricardo chewed furiously and the old man waited, then urged him forward. The stud obeyed. After several minutes Wyler managed to tighten the black horse’s gait until he did two steps of the piaff. Wyler immediately let Ricardo stretch out, rode him up to Elizabeth, and dismounted. “Back you go.”
She heaved herself into the saddle. She heard conversation from the visitors’ area and ignored it, since the gentry and officers frequently stopped in to watch. “My lady Colonel,” Wyler called. Elizabeth turned to look at him just as a blue banner fluttered down from the gallery and began flapping against the wall, while someone waved a coat or something in the viewing stand. Ricardo jumped, spooking and starting to bolt. She caught him and rode through it, turning him through the poles and making him “listen” to her cues. Not two minutes later, “bang!” The shot made the high ceiling ring, she jumped, and again Ricardo bolted. She turned the bolt into a circle, forcing herself to calm down and calm the anxious horse as well. As soon as she had his full attention she rode back to where Wyler stood, calm as you please, talking to two blond men.
“Is this the stud?” Prince Ryszard called.
Heart still racing, Elizabeth bit back a nasty reply. “Yes, your highness.” She held Ricardo still as the two princes inspected the sweating stallion. They finished and returned to stand next to the major.
“Back him.” This time Ricardo backed nicely. “Hmm. Your thoughts, your highnesses?”
Imre rubbed his chin. “Oh, he has potential.” He put a hand in his jacket pocket as he studied the horse. “Certainly. Nice conformation and good paces, but,” and he drew his hand out and tossed something at Ricardo’s front feet. The thing made a loud buzzing sound and rolled around.
Ricardo reared. Elizabeth held on. He reared again, screamed, then crashed back down and destroyed the device or whatever it was, pounding it to death with his front hoofs. Elizabeth, still panting, let him walk away after he finished. She circled him and brought him back to stand well away from the remains of the noisemaker.
“Keep him,” Ryszard told her. “He’ll learn, he’s got good instincts, and you look good on him. Parade and war horse both.”
Wyler, arms folded, nodded. “I concur with his highness’s judgment.”
And I’m going to strangle all three of you with that longe whip, Elizabeth panted silently. “Thank you for your appraisal your highnesses, Major Wyler,” she managed to squeak.
“Good ride, Lady Elizabeth. Bring the stud back tomorrow morning and we will begin his war training.” Wyler dismissed her with a wave. Ricardo seemed content to walk back to the stall block. There she found Sam conversing with one of the imperial stable’s grooms.
“My lady, a stall is ready for your war horse,” the small man informed her. “This way,” and he led her almost to the end of the stallion row. “Here.”
She dismounted, knees weak, and stripped Ricardo’s tack herself so she could see if there were any hot spots or rub marks. She found two, showing that he needed a different saddle. Don’t I have… yes. Lazlo would remember, but I’m sure I have Ricardo’s old tack and war saddle still. It can’t hurt to try those first before having a new one made. Good tack cost a great deal of money, so she tried to reuse as much of it as she could.
While she finished grooming the stud, the Poloki princes strolled up to watch. Imre waved for her to move out of the way, and he began inspecting Ricardo II. Elizabeth handed the tack to a waiting servant. “Pack it on the molly mule,” she ordered.
Imre finished his inspection. “Ryz, your impression?”
The crown prince got out of the way as Ryszard looked over the stud. Ricardo started twitching, impatient or nervous. “Shhh, easy,” Ryszard soothed, bending down to feel the stud’s forelegs. Ricardo mouthed the prince’s hair. “Quit.”
Ryszard straightened up from looking at Ricardo’s hoofs. “He’s part Oberland?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Good depth, nice bottom. Has he stood at stud?”
“Yes, your highness.”
Ryszard grunted. Imre said, “I want his next two get, colt or filly.”
Elizabeth took that as a positive sign. “I’ll tell his grace, your highness. Do you want them young or broken?”
“Imprinted but not fully trained to ride.” Imre glanced up the row of stalls. “And we are late for the horsemanship display.”
Ryszard snorted, “If it is as bad as the diplomatic display last night, brother, at least it will be entertaining.” Elizabeth wondered what disaster she’d missed, but forbore to ask as she curtsied to the princes.
She and Sam returned to Donatello House. This time she rode the grey jack mule. He’d regained a second wind but seemed content just to look around instead of spooking or balking. “My lady, do you want him stabled near Snowy?” Sam asked as they neared the gates.
“Oh no,” she laughed. “He’ll just get bad habits. No, put him with the work mules, or in the stall between Braun and his grace’s mare, the one with the four white socks and nasty disposition.”
“Very good, my lady.”
She stopped by the mounting block and dismounted. The grey mule stood square. “Good mule.” Elizabeth studied him, taking note of the blocky shape of his body and his sturdy legs and neck. “You are square, aren’t you? That’s your name: Square.” She’d never seen the point of fancy names for horses or mules. Elizabeth watched the grooms lead the horses off before going inside. She took a quick wash to remove the worst of the horse scent and fear sweat before going to the office. “Has anyone heard from his grace?” She inquired.
“No, my lady,” a maid-of-all-work replied. “Ah, your pardon, he left a message for you, my lady. I saw it by the time candle.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth found the note propped up beside the fat pillar candle on the mantle above the now-closed fireplace. She read it and smiled. He’d be gone for several days on crown business. She filed the note and took her place at the smaller, more cluttered of the two desks. Elizabeth pulled a pair of keys on a chain out from under her overskirt and unlocked the drawers, then unlocked a dispatch box containing her cyphers and keys. Someone had already opened the shutters and drapes, allowing the afternoon sun to enter the dark-paneled room. She settled her skirts and began work.
Some time later she heard a firm hand tapping on the woodwork beside the door. “Yes?”
“Dispatches and news, my lady,” Lazlo called through the part-open door.
She sat up and felt her ba
ck protest. “Come in and be seated.” As he set the papers on the small desk, she stretched, twisting left and right, raising her hands and shaking feeling back into fingers gone numb from holding the pen-shaft too tightly. “I wonder if any military in history has ever had the budget it wanted.”
“Before or after looting, my lady?” He looked around and pulled Archduke Lewis’s chair out, reversed it, and sat. His eyes widened as he leaned back against the leather-padded wood. “I say, my lady, this is not bad at all.”
“No. It seems comfortable, at least if the stories about the amount of time he spends in it are true.” Elizabeth had her doubts. “So, Major Destefani,” and she sagged against the low back on her own chair as much as her stays allowed. “What news?”
“His grace Duke Grantholm has called for bids for men as well as supplies,” Lazlo began counting off on his fingers. “The passes in the Dividing Range are open, except for the northernmost two, which are impassible to anything not descended from a mountain leaper, or Master Snowy.” She smiled at the sally and Lazlo continued, “Axel is certain there won’t be enough grain this year and is very worried about an invasion before planting is finished, as usual. There’s an outbreak of a rinderpest among the northern sea cities.” Elizabeth shuddered and made the sign of St. Gerald’s bridge, warning off the news. “And the spring floods are subsiding for the moment, and St. Gerald be praised the Donatello bridge is unharmed.”
“Thanks be!” She’d fretted about the bridge since the first reports of rising water reached Vindobona. The Donau Novi seemed higher than she remembered for this time of year, although it could well have been from the earlier thaw. Spring seemed eager to reach the Babenburg’s lands. “All the passes are open?”
“In the Dividing Range, yes, my lady.” She hunted around for a map and unrolled it where he could see it. The Dividing Range ran north to south, forming the de facto eastern edge of the Babenburg family’s Eastern Empire. The Tongue Sea extended from the Northern Ocean almost to the northern end of the range, leaving a swampy lowland for anyone seeking to travel from the central plains to the eastern grasslands. Elizabeth traced the Donau Novi west, from Vindobona at the great bend in the river and along to the north flank of the eastern end of the Triangle Range. “The Triangle passes remain closed, my lady, at least as of last week. Prince Gerald André may know better.”
She tapped the southern reach of the Donau Novi, where it flowed parallel to Morloke and Scheel before entering the Sunland Sea. “Frankonia is not the problem.”
Lazlo studied the map and sighed. “Their highnesses and his majesty think it is.”
She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “Has Grantholm had any luck recruiting?”
“Yes, my lady, but prices have gone up. The Frankonians are willing to pay silver in advance, a quarter again as much as last year’s rates for horse and rider, more for specialists. Infantry rates remain unchanged.” Lazlo frowned and rubbed under his nose. “My lady, I wonder if Rohan-Roi is planning a rapid raiding campaign this year, harassing the Sea Republics. Why else would he be wanting more cavalry than infantry?”
“Is the rinderpest affecting equines or just cattle?” Elizabeth turned so she could glance at the window to see where the sunlight fell before looking back at her second-in-command. “If it’s affecting horses, people may be demanding more because of the risk of infection.”
“Just cattle, my lady, or so I’ve heard. The Poloki have not banned the horse fairs yet, and I’d assume they would be the first to close their borders to sick animals.”
“If its cattle, that will raise the price of grain on the market as well as the price of beef and beasts.” Elizabeth hunted through her papers for the farm file. “Here.” She handed the pages to Lazlo. “His grace wants to bring in leggers, of all things, and this is the estimate for a herd of twelve, coming from Hämäl.”
As Lazlo read the letter, Elizabeth pulled her supply ledger out of the main drawer in the desk. She opened the oversize tome to the current page, hunted up a wax board and stylus, and ran a cost guess. “Ugh,” she muttered under her breath, wrinkling her nose at the large number. Four thousand thalers just to feed the men from Donatello and Peilovna, let alone provide their mounts and other supplies. Godown have mercy, that’s an enormous sum. Are the Bergenlands even worth it?
“My lady, don’t ask that outside these walls,” Lazlo begged. She flushed—she’d not meant to think aloud. Lazlo continued, “His grace is serious about trying leggers?”
Elizabeth opened her hands, elbows on the desk, in a combined shrug and invocation of patience. “He’s a fool if he tries it, in my opinion. He’s getting excellent results from the Oldenberg mares and that new Mazzolni stud. The Greyland cross mules fetch top bids, even the rejects.” She leaned forward, smiling, “Don’t tell anyone but that grey mule? He’s got a running walk.” Lazlo’s jaw sagged and she nodded briskly. “Oh yes. Can you imagine how long the waiting list will be for more of that line?”
“As many people as have tried to buy Master Snowy out from under you, my lady? Lewis has a mint in the paddock.” He waved the pages. “Leggers? Not worth it.”
“No. He’ll just ruin the lines. And there’s no market for racehorses, not down here. Perhaps someone can persuade his grace not to bother.”
He returned the papers, brushing her fingers as he did. “If you can’t my lady, we’d best pray to St. Michael and St. Gimpel.”
She covered her mouth to stop the laugh bubbling out at his audacity. “Indeed. I’ve thought of petitioning for a shrine to St. Gimpel. He should be the patron of armies as well as of, yes.” She would not say the word fools.
“It is said St. Gimple is the patron of Frankonia, my lady,” Lazlo ventured, teasing her.
She responded with a smile and a little headshake, not enough to dislodge her head cover. “St. François, who has his hands full. Perhaps as the royal patron.” Joking about real saints made her uncomfortable. “Back on topic, Major, any word when Grantholm wants to start moving?”
He leaned back in Lewis’s chair, crossing his legs at the knee and locking his fingers together behind his head. “Not yet, my lady, that is, he does not want to move yet, not until he sees what Rohan-Roi does. His Grace does want the troops ready to move at his call, however. A muster near Kossuthna Secondaire has been discussed, but nothing is set yet, my lady. Or so I’ve heard.”
She twisted again in the chair, trying to ease her back. “Very well. Ah, have you taken family leave recently?”
“No, my lady, and Godown forgive me for being a bad son, but I don’t want to. I got a letter from Kemal two days ago?” He looked up as he tried to remember. “Ugh. Terrible cobwebs in that corner, my lady, begging your pardon, and yes, it was two days ago. Father is determined to see me married, preferably as of this midwinter past.” He met her eyes, expression a touch wistful, or so she thought. “Kemal doesn’t like the current candidates, all of whom are lovely girls with fathers who want a dutiful farmer son-in-law who will have lots of strapping sons.”
His father could petition Duke Starland to have Lazlo marry if the family truly needed offspring. Elizabeth sighed, I hope it doesn’t come to that. She hated the prospect of losing Lazlo. He’d become her right hand over the past decade and had buffered her from Archduke Lewis on several occasions. “Kemal never has married, has he?”
Lazlo hunched forward, as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. “Ah, my lady, that’s…” His voice dropped to a near-whisper and he murmured, “Kemal and his grace Duke Starland have an understanding. I’d prefer not, that is, my apologies, my lady, but…”
“Thppppth.” She made a rude sound. “Lazlo Destefani, your brother is of age. He’s a good man. His private life is not my concern. Godown knows our hearts better than we do, and if no one is hurt and if Kemal upholds the honor of Godown, his family, and his liege lord, all else is between him and Godown. Back to the matter at hand, are there any other brothers with families?”
Lazlo slumped as if boneless and Elizabeth felt a stab of pure envy. If she tried that, her breast support and bodice would cut her in two. “Yes, my lady. Kemal is the oldest of three, two boys and a girl. A fourth died in the womb and took Kemal’s mother with it. My mother has had five, two boys and three girls. I’m the baby, although Kemal says that our father’s still,” and he stopped as Elizabeth blushed fiery red. “Ahem. Your pardon. I have over twenty nieces and nephews still living, some older than I am.”
“So I do not have to worry about your father appearing at Donatello Manor, a young lady in his cart and waving a copy of the banns and a marriage order at me?”
“No, my lady,” Lazlo began laughing and straightened up. “Not with two sons already giving him grandsons. He’s more likely to arrive with a request for dower land.”
Which is not my problem, she thought with a sense of relief. She did not want to have to order Lazlo to obey his father and get married. “Which actually leads me to the next topic: moving to Donatello Bend for the season.”
“So soon, my lady?”
“There’s no reason to stay here,” and she waved at the house around them. “The summons will come to the estate if it comes. The court season is coming to a close,” and she rubbed tired eyes. “And Lazlo, to be honest? I’m restless. Snowy is restless. I want to get away from Vindobona before I do something rash.”
“That could be arranged, my lady.”
She smiled, still rubbing her eyes. “The departure or the something rash? No, don’t tell me. Snowy would love to be given a tour of the palace gardens. He’d probably invite himself to choir practice at the palace chapel, as well. And then tell Square what a wonderful time he had.”
She opened her eyes. Lazlo seemed intent on a page of scrap paper. “Square, my lady?”
“The grey jack mule. He’s square,” and she used her hands to demonstrate.
The light dawned. “Ah! I can see that, my lady, and no, Snowy does not need encouragement.”
He got to his feet and pushed the archduke’s chair back into place, then helped Elizabeth to her feet. Her thighs and lower back seemed to have given out as well as aching. “Thank you.” Aching already? But I’m not due for a week. Strange. Well, she’d not had a bad cycle for some time, meaning this one would probably be ferocious. She sniffed. “Major, are you wearing a new scent?”