by Alma Boykin
He turned back to Matthew. “Right. So you need to work on court manners, more logistics, and how to fight without losing sight of the big picture. Because in many ways that separates a successful field commander from a poor one: knowing the larger scope of things, as much as possible, and when to shift resources to where, or when to fall back to await a better time and place.” Matthew closed his eyes, head starting to throb from more than just the stinging lick Paul had scored on him. “But not all today. Today you both go home, bathe, rest, eat some real food and not cat-in-a-bun or pork disguised as shahma.”
Matthew opened his eyes as Paul made a gagging sound. He’d turned pale with a greenish tinge. “People really eat pig?”
Matthew tipped his head to the side and stared at the younger Kossuth. “Of course. Swine give you a lot of meat for what they eat, and they eat almost anything. They can take care of themselves, and the meat cures well. Pigs are sort of like lagom without the fur. And the hides make great, durable leather.”
“There you have it,” Count Kossuth stated. “You both need to be at the library at the same time tomorrow.” He got to his feet, the signal that the boys were dismissed.
That evening at supper Matthew found himself seated next to Archduchess Sarah. Normally he listened rather than speaking unless someone asked him a direct question, especially when he felt this tired. Instead, the crown prince’s youngest sister seemed determined to keep him chatting, a bit to his dismay.
She’s very plain-spoken for a princess, he thought yet again. She laughed freely, discussed politics and other things as avidly as her brothers, and did not hesitate to let them know when she thought they were wrong, unlike the Oligarchs’ daughters. She also rode very well and handled her pony-cart like a master teamster. Her brown eyes and honey-blond hair, along with how she managed to get into every conversation, reminded Matthew of a golden weaverbird.
He fought off a yawn, but she caught on and pursed her lips in a small frown. “Am I that boring this evening, my lord?”
“No, Your Grace, not at all. I’m just excessively tired from studying all morning and training in the afternoon.” He would be glad when the final course of baked apples came and he could go to his room and fall asleep.
She laughed, a sound like bell chimes. “You men are all alike this time of year, trying to beat each other into little lumps so you can impress the ladies once winter court begins.”
“And does it work, Your Grace?” He’d never tried to impress a lady.
Sarah blinked at him. “You are serious?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She pursed her lips as she thought. “Yes and no. Yes, it can impress women if you are skilled but tactful about it. Just walking around with your arm in a sling, or bragging about how you beat up the younger son of a minor gentry family is not going to win the heart of a fair maiden.”
I wonder if that’s what Kossuth meant about more than fighting? Be good but don’t say it—show it, and let others figure it out? He finished his last bite of fish. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is good to know.”
Count Montoya’s son, Carlos, sitting across from Matthew, shook his head. “Haven’t you seen what Duke Tillson’s court is like? Or the Patrician of Florabi?”
“No, I have not. My understanding is that Duke Tillson’s court is strictly for ducal business. All socializing, such as I’m told it is, takes place in the hunting field, at the edge of the tournament stands, or before and after horse races.”
Sarah made a face. “Ugh. Duchess Tillson must be furious with her husband.”
Matthew wondered what he should say. All he had were rumors, none of them kind to say the least. “Ah, Your Grace, I have no knowledge of Her Grace’s thoughts on the matter.” True and safe, and not likely to cause offense.
She changed the topic and the apples arrived. Matthew managed to finish without slumping nose first into the plate. “I must beg your pardon Your Grace, my lord,” he said to Sarah and Carlos in turn. “I would like to stay, but I fear Count Kossuth expects me to be both present and awake tomorrow morning.”
“Give the old badger my regards,” Carlos said, playing with his cup of cordial. “Glad he’s found someone else to pick on.”
Sarah smiled and patted his arm. “You may go. Thank you for the excellent conversation this evening.”
“Um, ah, you are welcome.” He got up, bowed to them and to the crown prince at the head of the table, and staggered up to his room. He managed to get mostly undressed and to put out the candle before exhaustion hit him over the head and dragged him into slumber.
Over the next few days he noticed Prince Alois watching him closely. Matthew wondered if he was looking for improvement in something, or just happened to be curious to see how badly Count Kossuth had beat him up. Not that badly, as it turned out, although Matthew’s four-color bruises left even Paul impressed. “Damn. Those are mean.”
“Yeah. Glad we were using practice blades.”
Paul grinned. “Yes, because the churigon’s not that good about getting the right limb on the right stump, especially before his third cup of chokofee.”
“Maybe that’s why we do all our fighting in the afternoon?”
One of the older soldiers listening in laughed and corrected, “Nah, young lords, it’s so we can retire to our tents after battle without the missus presenting a list of chores ‘since there’s still light’.” That drew general laughter and some comments that quickly grew raunchy and pointed. Matthew ignored them. He’d heard much of it before.
Matthew had decided after his first encounter with Emperor Michael that speaking little was the safest course. He learned what he could without upsetting anyone, or so he thought. Wisdom Robert seemed pleased with his progress, and left him alone to read for several hours, returning to discuss what Matthew and Paul learned. That suited Matthew quite well. When he wasn’t studying or fighting, he rode. In the evenings he had supper with Alois, Sarah, and any of the younger nobles in the crown prince’s circle who happened to be in Vindobona, listening much and occasionally adding a word or two. One afternoon Sarah coerced him into coming with her to meet some of the other women of court, and he did his best to navigate the perils of chatting with eight single ladies and two dowagers. He’d already been impressed by Lady Marie Hoffman and considered trying to make a better acquaintance with her until he realized that she’d been promised to one of Foreign Minister Peilov’s sons. After that he stayed polite but didn’t seek her out or favor her over the other ladies.
Prince Alois seemed irritated that evening. Matthew considered asking why, but changed his mind during the main course when he remembered that there’d been a foreign policy meeting that afternoon. If I had to juggle Tivolia, Morloke, the idiots in the Bergenlands, and the prickly Poloki, while keeping one eye on the Turkowi and one on Frankonia, I’d be irked too. I’m glad I only have Marteen to worry about.
“Nothing,” Alois snapped when Montoya finally did ask him. “Personal matter.”
Oh, that changes things. I wonder what her name is? In Matthew’s experience, men didn’t snap like that unless a woman was involved. Unless he lost money on a race, since that comes out of his pocket and not the Crown’s accounts. That would sting. Well, either way, it had nothing to do with him. Matthew went back to watching Eulenberg and Lady Jones playing a cutthroat game of marble chess.
Things came to a head on the afternoon before the holy day. Instead of training, Count Kossuth had taken Paul and Matthew out on a ride and quizzed them on how they would attack, and then defend, Vindobona. From there talk turned to related topics, including how to feed an army large enough to besiege Vindobona. “I’d start by stripping whatever the city’s defenders left, including digging up all those root crops,” Matthew point to the field beside them with his riding whip. “And turn the orchards into firewood after I strip them. Live off the land as much as I can for as long as I can, to spare my supplies and in case someone tries to come up behind me, they won’t fin
d much they can use.”
“What if it’s your city?” Paul challenged. “Your people won’t thank you for starving them once you take it back.”
“Not my fault.” Matthew shrugged. “It’s the enemy’s fault, and I’ll use what I loot from him to buy supplies for the next while until a harvest can be brought in.”
Count Kossuth made a noise. “It seems we are about to have company.” The trio moved to the side of the road as three women on highbred horses trotted up. Kossuth the elder removed his hat and bowed low in the saddle. “Your Majesty, Your Graces.”
Empress Laural tapped the brim of her hat with her riding stick. “Count Kossuth, Count Malatesta, Lord Kossuth. A pleasure to find you out this lovely afternoon.”
“The pleasure is all ours, to see a rich land graced by such lovely ladies,” the border lord replied.
The younger women fluttered a little and Matthew thought, Smooooth. No wonder he’s popular at court, or so rumor says.
“This is the Blackbird? He’s so fair,” a woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin like the crown prince’s announced.
“Plumage is not the best mark of coloring, my lady Peilov,” Count Kossuth replied, indirectly identifying her for Matthew’s benefit. “Neither face nor fancy reveal the heart.”
Empress Laural laughed, much like Sarah did. “Indeed, you are a poet as well as a warrior my lord Kossuth. Perhaps you gentlemen would accompany us back to the city?”
“As my empress commands.” They paired off, the empress with Anthony Kossuth, Archduchess Ann Peilov née Babenburg with Paul, and Archduchess Sarah with Matthew. After a kilometer or so, Matthew ventured to ask, “Do you mind a foolish question, Your Grace?”
“It depends on the question and the questioner. Ask away.” She smiled from under her broad-brimmed hat.
“Why do you and your aunt rank as Archduchess, when your brother is a prince? The books of courtly manners I’ve read say that your title should be princess.”
Sarah nodded, still smiling, then turned her attention back to her horse. “It would be if I were the oldest, in which case Alois would be Archduke, unless father decided that my husband would not inherit the throne. According to mother, it became very confusing during the last years of Uncle Andrew’s reign, may Godown give him peace, because not only were his brothers Prince Thomas and Prince Michael in residence, but Princess Ann and my mother, plus Prince Rudolph, Alois, Princess Sabra, and then I came along.”
Matthew considered the list, checking Red when he seemed overly interested in sampling a passing haywain’s contents. “Quit. I don’t care to pay for what you might steal,” he told the horse. “And I can see how that could get very confusing to someone who did not know birthdates and seniority, Your Grace.”
“Exactly. After Andrew’s passing, Emperor-Uncle Thomas and my father agreed that the heir, my father, would remain prince, and any other siblings would be archduke or archduchess, unless they came into the line of succession. The royal council agreed unanimously and on the first vote, which father says Uncle Thomas claimed was proof that Godown still works miracles.”
Matthew laughed at that. “Since I have never heard of all the Oligarchs agreeing on anything, let alone on the first vote, I believe your uncle had the right of it, Your Grace.”
Once they entered the walls, Count Kossuth and the empress dismissed Matthew to escort Archduchess Sarah back to the prince’s town palace. They rode into the courtyard to find Prince Alois standing there, steam all but coming out of his ears. “Trouble, brother?” Sarah called, dismounting with easy grace in a flutter of skirts.
Red spooked a little and Matthew sat hard, settling the horse until Sarah had gotten well clear and grooms led her gelding away. “Easy, boy,” he patted the bay’s neck. “Skirts never killed a horse.” Only after he felt the gelding relax did Matthew swing out of the saddle. He let a man take Red to the stable. Matthew heard boots ringing on the cobbles and turned to see Alois bearing down on him, his expression pure thunder. “Your Highness?”
“What are your intentions toward my sister, Count Matthew Charles Malatesta? Answer me truly,” Alois demanded, hissing.
Matthew rocked backwards, taking a defensive stance without thinking. “I have no intentions toward your sister, Your Highness.”
“Oh?” Alois stopped a few centimeters from Matthew, close enough that Matthew could smell mint on the prince’s breath and count the black hairs in his reddish beard.
“Oh, Your Highness.” Surely you don’t think I’ve compromised her honor in some way, you idiot.
“Why not?”
“Huh? Wha—? I— Am I supposed to? Is there a cradle betrothal no one told me about?”
“Why don’t you like her, if you don’t like her? Do you think something’s wrong with her? Is that it?” Alois pushed closer and Matthew backed another pace. “Do you think she’s ugly?”
“Oh hell no. She’s quite charming in a bubbly sort of way, if you like that in a girl. Her nose is a little small for my taste, but she’s not bad looking at all.” Alois growled something unintelligible and before Matthew could stop himself, his mouth said, “I prefer bustier women myself, but they say quality can make up for a lack of quantity.”
He ducked the punch but it took his hat off.
“How dare you—!” and the fight was on. Matthew tried not to hit the prince at first, but when Alois pushed it, Matthew gave as good as he got, sending the prince staggering back after a heavy blow to the stomach that left him gasping for air. Alois recovered as Matthew was fingering his nose to see if the prince’s last swing had broken it. “Bastard,” and all Matthew could do was roll with the blow, landing on hip, then shoulder and knee, on the hard cobblestones. He kept his head off the stones and grabbed for Alois’s collar, hoping to choke some sense into him when—splash!—a bucket of cold water hit both men, leaving them gasping and spluttering. Alois rolled off to the side and Matthew scrambled out of reach. “You damned son of a—”
Someone, in fact two very strong someones, grabbed their collars and heaved the men to their feet. Before he could do more than flail around, Matthew found himself under water, a large hand pressing his head down. He stopped fighting and began counting. At three the hand eased up enough for Matthew to emerge and gulp some air.
“That’s not,” and Alois’s voice turned to a gurgle that stopped abruptly. Matthew did not move until he heard and saw the prince emerge from the horse trough. The people behind them let both men up and Matthew started to turn around.
“You are a pair of utterly, completely brainless idiots with less maturity and sense than a two day old mule colt.” Matthew recognized the cold, growling voice and dropped to one knee, head down.
“He insulted Sarah,” Alois informed his father. Matthew heard the sound of a hand hitting flesh and winced at the yelp, but didn’t risk looking up.
“I can defend my own honor quite well, brother,” Sarah announced.
“Yes, you can,” her father intoned. “And for that little outburst you are confined to your room until dawn services, then for the rest of the holy day. Go.” Footsteps retreated from the courtyard, leaving Alois, Matthew, Count Kossuth, and Emperor Michael.
After a tense silence, the emperor asked, “What exactly did he say about Sarah, besides his opinion about women’s figures in general. I heard that bit.”
Oh shit. Holy Godown, please may the stones open up and swallow me. Matthew’s face burned and he didn’t dare look up.
“He said he had no intentions toward her, even though he’s been leading her on as if he wants to court her. Then he insulted her looks.”
I did not! I said she is charming and I have not been leading her on.
A pair of elegantly polished grey riding boots appeared in front of Matthew. “And have you been leading my daughter on?”
“Ah, I don’t know, Your Majesty. I don’t think I have—that is, I didn’t mean to if I was.”
He heard a snort from above him. “
Stand up before someone mistakes you for a mounting block or hitching post, Malatesta.” Matthew staggered to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knee and blinking hard as his head swam. Alois glared at him, sporting what looked like it would be a spectacular black eye to go with the red mark on his cheek. The emperor, fists planted on narrow hips, continued, “I’m tempted to hold both of you under water until you develop sense, but the surge of stupidity washing out of the sewer would probably kill every fish in the Donau Novi.” Matthew flinched and Alois ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, avoiding the emperor’s eyes.
“Matthew Charles Malatesta, you will continue to treat my daughter with respect as due a lady of rank and quality. And you will spend more time studying deportment and manners, so that you better understand why the crown prince felt obligated to pound you into a pulp.” Before Matthew could respond, the emperor turned to his son. “And you will apologize to Count Malatesta, you will attend dawn worship tomorrow no matter what your face looks like, and you will spend the next two weeks’ mornings with Count Peilov learning how to conduct diplomacy without starting a war.” Michael met their eyes in turn. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Yessir.”
A loud sigh blew through the courtyard. “Shall I have a guestroom opened, Your Majesty?” Count Kossuth inquired.
“Tomorrow. While court is in session, I believe it would better for Count Malatesta to stay on neutral territory.”
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
Michael folded his arms. “Now shake hands.” The two did, reluctantly. “Go to your rooms, get cleaned up, and if I hear one more word of this, Alois, you will get to teach Malatesta how to run a sanitary sewer inspection.” Whatever that meant, it sounded terrible, Matthew thought. Alois agreed, apparently, because the grip strengthened.