by Boykin, Alma
“So, the boat is ready?”
“Yes, my lord, although this afternoon is not the best time to try sailing.” Thunder rumbled quietly, the first of the day, and both men looked toward the small window. “St. Issa’s fire is a blessing, but the waves and winds that come with it are, um, not so pleasant. Boats move a great deal in storms.” Geert held one large hand flat and rocked it from side to side, then dipped and lowered it as well, making Pjtor’s stomach a little sick. “Like that. You get used to it, but it is hard to learn how to handle a boat when the weather is bad.”
Pjtor gulped. If the ships that sailed between stars wiggled and dipped as much as Geert’s hand did, truly Godown had been with the Landers!
“No, Pjtor Adamson,” Gerald Allen corrected, neatly dodging the sailboat’s boom as it swung after Pjtor let go of the rope too soon. “Wait until you feel the boat taking the wind. Try again.”
Horses, Pjtor decided, had one advantage over boats. Horses stopped before they died and they responded to the rider’s voice. Boats did not. He bent double as the boom crossed over him and tried again. This time he caught the wind properly and tied off the rope correctly. The white canvas puffed out and the little craft, named Swift One, bobbed steadily upstream, well above Lake Morava. Peter’s face stretched into an enormous smile. His teacher, a sailor Geert knew through a mutual business acquaintance, smiled as well. “As you see, Pjtor Adamson, it is not as difficult as it seems, as long as you keep your head. If you quit paying attention, she’ll bite you in the ass, hard.”
Since he’d been bitten the first time he tried to get into the boat, ending up in the lake instead, Pjtor nodded in rueful agreement. He liked being on the water. The boat made sense, and was as predictable as the wind. He was coming to prefer the boat to much of his family. The boat never tried to follow him back to the manor once he put it away for the day. Would that his own blood could learn to be so considerate!
A few gold-streaked leaves fluttered past, an unwanted reminder that summer had ended and he needed to return to Muskava and “take up his duties as husband.” Not as emperor, he’d noticed, just husband. Swift One started to tip, to heel over, and Pjtor’s mind returned to where it should have been just in time. He adjusted the sail, leaning away from the tipping, and Swift One straightened up.
“Good!”
They continued upstream for a while longer before reaching a very wide bend in the river, almost a pond with current. Gerald watched, not speaking as Pjtor guided the little sailboat to the far bank of the river, then began steering it across the wind. He untied the sail, then ducked as the boom swept over him. “Not so fast,” Gerald ordered, laying back. “You’ll break the mast.” Pjtor caught the rope with is free hand, ignoring the burning in his palms as he held the line and slowed the sail’s motion. “Better.” Swift One hurried around, then slowed as she lost the wind. “Furl the sail.” Pjtor secured the rope and loosened a different one, allowing the sail to start descending. “Furl, not drop, boy!” Pjtor clenched his teeth, reminding himself not to curse while on the water. He tied the tiller steady, then stood, slowly and uncertainly, and started easing the sail down so it didn’t just wad up on the boom. “Better.” Pjtor managed to keep his feet and the sail both out of trouble, earning, “That’s right.” He was still happier sitting, with his hand on the tiller, letting the river carry them back to Lake Morava. They’d probably have to paddle a little back to the shore, but Pjtor was not unhappy. He watched the trees pass, and the fields, most of them now cut to stubble or full of grain shocks waiting to be taken in to the barns. The storms had stayed away, allowing the farmers time to get the crops in. A few birds sung and the sun felt warm, even though it threw long shadows across the river. He hoped the wind would shift before they got to the lake, but Godown did not always listen to Pjtor. Gerald didn’t talk, only pointing and grunting occasionally if Pjtor needed to notice something. The river smelled happy and the sun pulled the sweet wooden smell from Swift One’s hull. Pjtor decided that if Godown was pleased with him when he died, he would get a sailboat in paradise.
Swift One behaved, and her sailors did not make too many mistakes, all the way back to Lake Morava. The wind alone failed to obey the emperor, but he’d expected it to fail him and the current was enough to get them within a half kilometer of where Pjtor wanted to beach the boat. He and Gerald both paddled, and Pjtor managed to land the boat without getting drenched this time. He also remembered not to leap onto shore. The first time he’d done that, he’d taken a cold bath and Gerald and Geert had both laughed at him when he surfaced, surprised to find Swift One well away from the bank. “Action and reaction, Pjtor Adamson,” Gerald had called. “Action and reaction.”
“Good sail, Pjtor Adamson,” Gerald said as he disembarked, gripping Pjtor’s forearm and shaking it. He rolled a little as he climbed up the slope. A swarm of service-slaves rushed down the grassy slope, ready to pull the boat out of the water. Pjtor did not watch. Today had been the last sail of the season and he did not want to see Swift One taken out of the lake and put away until spring.
Pjtor walked over to where his horse and Master Andrej and Geert waited. Two servants with beer and food also waited, and Pjtor grunted his acknowledgment as he tore into the good bread and thick butter with smoked fish and spices mixed in. Apples and honey followed and Geert and Gerald talked in the rough Dalfan dialect as Pjtor ate. Master Andrej waited until Pjtor had drank half the heavy beer before venturing, “Imperial Master, a special messenger from the Reagent arrived this afternoon.”
And did you hold his head in the wash trough until he drowned, Pjtor asked silently. “And?”
“Your future bride is waiting.” The old man leaned back a little. “As is your mother and the archbishop. But not here,” he added in a rush as Pjtor felt his face starting to flush. “They are at the monastery of St. Donnii, on retreat, and sent for you.”
“That’s damned inconvenient,” Pjtor observed after he swallowed, catching Geert’s eye.
The foreigner smiled just a little. “Indeed, Pjtor Adamson, indeed.”
Pjtor’s surprise at learning about the lack of monasteries in the Sea Republics had matched Geert’s surprise at the presence of homefolds. “Then where do men with a calling live?” Pjtor had asked.
“They are priests and do priest things, live in houses and apartments near the churches, my lord.” The mental picture Pjtor had of dozens of men in black robes leading worship at each and every church, or crowded into one bedroom, had to be wrong, but it made him chuckle. “Godown’s servants, unless women, do not withdraw from the world.”
That the women also worked in service, performing acts of mercy as well as praying, seemed to be another wonder and oddity. Pjtor had contemplated what Archbishop Nikolas would do if he met women like that. Probably lose his mind. Maybe he should see if Geert or one of the ambassadors could bring a few to NovRodi? The cost would be worth it if Nikolas and a few of the other old, greedy clerics fell over dead from shock or ran away screaming in fright. Pjtor finished his bread with a ferocious bite. “How long before they grow impatient?”
Geert studied either the sky or the brim of his hat, Pjtor couldn’t tell which. Master Andrej struggled for a moment. “Your honored mother, Imperial Master, if I might be so bold, is already impatient. His majesty Emperor Isaac’s bride is delivered of a daughter.”
Pjtor exhaled, letting out some tension. Then caught himself. “Wait. Already?”
“The child was born too early, but was definitely a girl, Imperial Master.” Andrej and Pjtor made the three-fingered blessing and Geert and Gerald made their own signs. “Godown have mercy on her and give her parents hearts ease.”
Selah,” the easterners said, echoing Pjtor and Andrej’s “Ameen.”
That changed things. If Pjtor had an heir first . . . Sara could be forced from power. And he could leave the wife in the homefold and do his own business without any of the women bothering him. Perhaps, Pjtor decided, a little haste was
called for. But not too much. He smelled the sharp-rich autumn afternoon and smiled a little. No, he’d enjoy the rest of the day that Godown had given him and then do his duty.
A week and a half later Pjtor’s mother, Nancy, lifted the veil from the face of his future bride. The young woman blushed and looked down, almost hiding her face. Pjtor caught a glimpse of brown eyes and a pretty little nose, and light brown hair covered by the thin fabric of the maiden’s veil. The girl dropped to her knees, bowed lower, and kissed the toe of his shoe. “Oh Imperial Master, may you live in Godown’s blessing,” she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her. This was not quite what he had in mind for his first meeting with his possible wife.
“Rise, Tamsin,” he ordered before his mother could. Nancy frowned. The black widow’s veil over her hair and her plain, loose black dress made her look like a spirit face, nothing but a floating frown. The veil also hid her grey hair and wrinkles, and Pjtor tried to fit the unhappy mother to the laughing woman in the portrait he’d seen in the library. He couldn’t, and wondered if Sara owed him for that as well. Or her mother, more likely. Lady Susan had made the shrieking wailers of the battlefield of legend sound like charming creatures. Godown grant her the peace she never gave the rest of us. The girl in front of him stood, eyes focused on the floor. “You may look at me, since we are to be betrothed.” He tried to sound kind.
She glanced up and he caught an impression of beauty before she looked down again. Was Tamsin that shy, or had she been told stories? Geert and Master Andrej both had warned him about first nights and what might have been said in the homefold. Geert had been a little embarrassed, but so had Pjtor at being forced to ask him. The soldiers talked about women all the time, just not when Pjtor could hear, they thought, and what he’d overheard had not made much sense. And he’d been warned over and over about the dangers of bedding the serving girls, and he’d never stoop to taking one of the service-slaves. Well, he decided, he’d do his duty to her and then go on with what he preferred to do. And a son would mean the end of Sara’s days in court. He looked at his mother, who watched him, her frown turning into a more eager and hopeful expression. “Welcome, Tamsin, in Godown’s name,” he said, quietly.
“I thank you, Imperial Master,” she whispered again, eyes still downcast. Pjtor glanced at his mother. Her dark blue eyes narrowed a touch, and her thin lips turned down, evidence of her growing frustration, probably with her future daughter-in-law’s lack of enthusiasm. Well, Pjtor thought, what do you expect, given what every marriage candidate has heard about court and about me? Then Pjtor caught himself. Tamsin likely heard nothing at all, if her father’s homefold had been as sheltered as most mid-rank nobility tended to be. Pjtor almost felt sorry for the girl.
The betrothal service lasted far longer than Pjtor’s nerves would have preferred, because Tamsin seemed on the verge of fainting. How long had she fasted? Too long, he guessed, and kept one eye on her in case she collapsed and he had to catch her. He’d heard about how the women of the royal homefold had sabotaged more than one marriage by deliberately weakening the candidate so she appeared ill and unfit to marry an emperor, and he hoped that Nancy or Sara’s people hadn’t hurt Tamsin.
Father Markus, the priest at the monastery, officiated at the service, his rich bass voice doing justice to the sung and chanted prayers. Pjtor joined in with a happy heart and caught a few envious glances from the choir monks as his bass voice joined theirs. His voice had deepened a little more over the summer.
Incense floated up from the sweetened betrothal candles before the altar. Green paraments, green for fertility and new beginnings, covered the altar and Fr. Markus wore a green robe and white stole with a white half-collar and skullcap. Pjtor’s betrothal robe, in green with black fur trim, failed to touch the floor, much to his mother’s dismay. He’d grown another two centimeters. Pjtor decided that he’d never wear floor-length robes again if he could avoid it. He glanced over at Tamsin, who seemed to be shaking. Was she having a fit? No one else appeared concerned, so Pjtor decided that the girl just suffered from nerves.
“. . . Pjtor, son of Adam, son of Martin, son of Mikael, son of Alexander, take the hand of Tamsin, daughter of Nikolas son of John,” Fr. Markus ordered. Pjtor turned and took the smooth, icy-cold hand, feeling it shake. It was rather small compared to his paw. “Pjtor, in Godown’s name, do you take this woman as your betrothed, to keep in your homefold, to honor with your body, and to take as wife should Godown bless the union?”
“I, Pjtor, take this woman as my betrothed, to keep in my homefold, to honor with my body, and to take as wife, Godown willing.”
The wizened, white-haired priest frowned a little at Pjtor’s wording but did not correct him. Instead he turned to Tamsin. “Tamsin, do you take Pjtor to be your betrothed, to live in obedience under his care and to honor with your body, and to take as husband should Godown bless this union?”
The veiled head nodded and the hand shook even harder as a very faint whisper said, “I, Tamsin, take this man to be my betrothed, to obey, to honor with my body, and to take as my husband should Godown bless the union.”
Fr. Markus looked a touch happier. Nancy handed him the crimson and green betrothal band, and he lifted the long strip of embroidered cloth for all to see. Then he laid it over the couple’s joined hands, whispered a prayer, and wrapped the long strip of fabric around the hands, tying it in an elaborate bow. “Those whom Godown has joined, may Godown bless and all men honor, that betrothal may become marriage if it is the will of Godown. Blessed be Godown,” he sang.
“Blessed be Godown, lord of hearth and harvest,” the witnesses and all present sang back. The candle flames flickered, and the gold leaf on the Gate of Grace shone brighter. The images of Godown’s works and of the saints seemed to nod in agreement.
“You may kiss your betrothed,” Fr. Markus told Pjtor. Pjtor caught an unspoken, “and that’s all, young man,” and wanted to respond, but held his tongue. With his free hand he lifted Tamsin’s two veils away. She kept looking down, and he settled for kissing her forehead. His mother made an unhappy sound and Tamsin blushed so hard it made Pjtor’s face hurt to see it. Was the girl that shy? He wished Strella had come. His sister could have talked sense into the little thing’s head.
Fr. Markus undid the betrothal band. The church would keep it until it was needed for the wedding service. Should Godown withhold the blessing of children from Pjtor and Tamsin, it would be cut into pieces and burned at the service ending the betrothal, showing that both were free to go and neither had any claim on the other.
The service concluded and Nancy and her maid took Tamsin back to the women’s section. Normally there would have been a large party, followed by consummating the betrothal, but not here. Pjtor suspected Sara’s unsubtle touch at work and growled silently. They’d leave the next morning, and then he could see about getting to know his betrothed a little better.
“. . . been like that for a month now, and I do not know what to do,” Pjtor concluded. He paced from one end of the long room to the other, from where his sister sat in the light of the window to the corner stove and back. Strella stroked one of her long, dark braids, playing with the bit of crimson ribbon tied around the end. “Do you have any idea what she’s been told? Because I don’t. She won’t speak to me.”
His younger full sister took a deep breath, let it out, and tossed the end of her braid over her shoulder as she stood. “Yes, I do. You should sit down, and please do not throw anything this time. I was pulling servants and slaves out from under the tables and out of bed-cupboards for two hours after your last fit.”
“That was four years ago,” he protested, but sat.
Strella crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. “Tamsin knew nothing about the betrothal until her father came into the homefold and told her to pack her promise chest. She assumed she had been betrothed to one of Lord Nikolas’s associates’ sons, possibly Lord Tarik’s oldest. She had no idea what was going on until she was
dumped, and I mean that, dumped in the courtyard of the homefold here. She barely even knew she’d been taken to a place within the walls of Muskava.” Strella patted the floor with one slipper-shod foot, venting her irritation. “Mother knew, of course, and Sara and her raven, but I had no idea until the poor thing was brought up here,” she gestured to the main chamber of the homefold, “followed by her promise chest and some new clothes in a bundle.”
“Oh.”
“Oh indeed, brother, oh indeed. She didn’t even know what betrothal entailed. Mother did take a moment to explain the, ah,” Strella turned a little pink.
“The basics,” Pjtor prompted, really not wanting to say “sex” in front of his sister.
“Thank you. The basics. Poor Tamsin! I thought she was going to faint. Her mother died when Tamsin was two, after giving birth to eight children, and her father apparently told the servants and her brothers to not say anything about the world outside his household to her. She’d never even been to a church!”
Pjtor’s jaw dropped. “Wha—? Not even on the great feasts?”
Strella’s braids flopped back and forth as she shook her head. “No. She’s horribly sheltered, Pjtor. Terrifyingly so, in some ways. Lord Nikolas—,” she pursed her small pink lips and shook her head again, not as hard, and unfolded her arms. “Lord Nikolas was unkind to leave her so ignorant. She cannot even manage the homefold, let alone a household. And she’s terrified of making a mistake. Even mother had to stop giving her instructions for a few days until the poor thing calmed down. What mother had to say about Lord Nikolas and his staff, well, I learned new words from her.”
“Oh.” Pjtor did not know if he should be furious with his betrothed’s father or feel pity for the poor girl. He decided on pity, since killing Lord Nikolas Boison might leave a bad impression. Although, Pjtor decided, Boison had added himself to Pjtor’s bad list. Godown made women smaller and weaker in body so they could be stronger in spirit, able to bear the burden of children and care of the household while the men dealt with the larger, dangerous world. To deprive a woman of the tools she needed to do what Godown had made her for smacked of sin as well as cruelty.