Rakóssy

by Cecelia Holland

  Denis brought the pot. Rakóssy swabbed pitch over the long furrows on the horse’s rump. The horse stood, quivering.

  “You’ve broken up a beautiful friendship,” Denis said.

  “He’ll forget all about it when he heals.”

  Rakóssy went through the rest of the stable. Denis trailed along behind him.

  “What are you going to do with that money?” Denis said.

  “That’s my business. Why is everybody so interested in that money?”

  “It’s a fortune.”

  “I’m taking it all to Buda in a couple of days.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “No. You stay here and make sure nobody burns the place down.”

  Denis followed him out of the stable. Alexander, Arpád’s brother, was standing near the gate. He came over and said, “Have you gone through the kitchens yet?”

  “No.”

  “One of the scullions got himself bitten by a rat.”

  “A rat? Did they kill it?”

  “Yes. It was this big.”

  “Someday I’m going to have the hide off that woman’s back.”

  Denis said, “Is the scullion all right?”

  Alexander pulled his mustache. “I guess so.”

  Rakóssy started for the kitchens. Denis took a step after him. Alexander caught his arm. “Stay out here,” he said. “It’s a better show when you’re not in the middle.” Alexander whistled, and everybody in the courtyard came lazily to attention. Rakóssy went through the kitchen door. There was a moment of taut silence.

  Fat Anna, the cook, hurtled thorough the door and fell into the courtyard. She swore and got to her feet. Rakóssy appeared in the doorway. He held the corpse of a gigantic rat in one hand. He leaned against the doorjamb and tossed the rat into the yard.

  Anna began to scream curses at him. Rakóssy waited until she was out of breath. He came down the steps from the door slowly and headed for Anna. She stood her ground for a little while. When he was within two paces of her she began to back up.

  “You get rid of those rats,” he said, “and clean up every inch of that kitchen, or I’ll peel your skin back and open your fat gut.”

  “Stay away from me, you dog-eating—”

  Rakóssy hit her in the stomach. She doubled over and he tripped her. She lay, gagging, on the stones of the courtyard. He said something Denis could not hear and walked away. Anna rose after a while and shook herself, so that all her fat body rippled. She looked around her and went back into the kitchen.

  Rakóssy came over to Alexander. “If she wants help for the rat hunt, give it to her.”

  Denis looked at his boots. Alexander went away.

  “How long will you be in Buda?” Denis said.

  “Not long enough for you to turn Hart Castle into an enlightened bit of paradise or a commune. I won’t expect you to keep my discipline, but don’t attempt to win everyone over by loving kindness.”

  “Why not?” Denis said, looking him in the face.

  “Because it won’t work.” Rakóssy stamped off.

  Denis went up to the library. He settled himself with a book. He could hear the noises from the courtyard through the window; he closed his ears to them and read.

  Rakóssy was away almost two weeks. The Jews came and went. For a while, everybody in Hart and the village below it had bright new clothes and jewelry. Denis spent most of his time in the library. The castle required little attention. The brothers Arpád and Alexander organized the knights and the keep, where the knights lived, and the servants had their own routines. One day Arpád came to Denis and told him that Anna wanted the kitchen inspected. Denis went down and found the kitchens clean and ratless.

  “We killed twenty-two big rats,” Arpád said. “Big. Like this.”

  “I’m going to roast them for your brother’s table,” Anna said.

  “Just don’t feed them to me,” Denis said.

  Anna laughed, showing all her teeth. “For you, little one, grapes and lamb.” She went back into the pantries.

  “You should have hit her,” Arpád said.

  “No,” Denis said, and went back to the library. He heard Arpád shouting in the courtyard below. Denis could remember when his father had spent hours in deep discussion with priests and learned laymen from all over Hungary, Bohemia and even Austria, often right in this room. It was different now. Only this room was the same. It was here that he had learned to read. He settled himself with the Vita Nuova, taking notes and pretending he was organizing a lecture. When he was done, he emendated his notes and rearranged them.

  He had the choice now of beginning the Commedia immediately, with about two hours before dinner, or of reading something else and waiting for a fresh day. He remembered something one of the doctors at Louvain had said — that the great masters should be approached only after a good night’s sleep and a full meal. He stood up to put the Vita on the shelf and stood reading the titles of the other books. The door opened and Rakóssy walked in behind him.

  “János,” Denis said. “You startled me.”

  “Everything’s all right?”

  “Yes, just fine.”

  Rakóssy took off his cloak and hung it beside the door. “I want you to write a letter for me.”

  Denis went to the desk. “Of course.”

  Rakóssy shut the door. He stretched. His eyes moved uneasily over the shelves of books.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before,” Denis said.

  The corner of Rakóssy’s mouth drew down. “It doesn’t particularly appeal to me.”

  Denis sat down at the desk, took a piece of paper and a pen, dipped the pen in ink, and said, “I’m ready.”

  Rakóssy prowled once around the room, his eyes wandering, leaned on the desk, and stared at the books.

  “Don’t sit on the desk like that. You’ll break it.”

  “You sound just like Father.”

  “You really don’t want me to write this letter, do you?”

  “It has to get written.”

  “I mean, you don’t want me to know what’s in it.”

  Rakóssy looked down at him. He looked amused. “Don’t say the obvious. I don’t think it can be helped.”

  “Do you dislike me because I can write?”

  “My God, no. Why should I?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems an unfair advantage.”

  Rakóssy shrugged. “Father’s predilections. It was his money.”

  “He tried to teach you.”

  “So he did.”

  “It’s odd, you look like Father, and I look like Mother, but I’m much more—”

  Rakóssy waited for him to finish. Denis put the pen back into the inkwell.

  “Your father’s son?” Rakóssy said.

  “I’m sorry, János.”

  “Little brother, you credit me with feelings I have not got. As for your unfair advantage, it isn’t much of an advantage at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been to Italy and France and you speak Italian and French and Latin and Greek, but if I wanted you to write Turk, you couldn’t do it, and you can’t write German, although I wish you could. You’re precious little use to me, for all you’ve been across Europe and back. As for being like Father, I would only wish that on my enemies.”

  “That’s unfair. That’s a terrible thing to say. Father was—”

  “A scholar. Write the letter in Latin.”

  “All right. But go slowly so I can translate.”

  “To his Magnificence the Archduke Ferdinand . . .” Rakóssy looked down. Denis was not writing. Rakóssy said, “Is anything troubling you, little brother?”

  “To his Magnificence the Archduke Ferdinand,” Denis said, and wrote.

  “Greetings. I have just now come back from repaying the agent of the Fuggers in Buda.”

  “You borrowed money from the Fuggers? Father would turn in his grave.”

  “Probably. I — this i
s the rest of the letter. I shall come to Vienna in the late summer. I will bring with me thirty knights and my brother, Sir Denis Rakóssy, who will act as my secretary. This must be completely secret in Hungary. For this reason I send this letter through my own means instead of the Fuggers’. I ask you to present my compliments to the Lady Catharine.”

  Rakóssy stared. Denis said, “Is that all?”

  “Yes. Put some fancy end to it.”

  Denis corrected two or three mistakes and copied the letter over.

  “Have you been dealing with them long?”

  “The Fuggers or the Hapsburgs?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Almost two years.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I enjoy being three thousand bezants in debt. And—”

  Denis wrote carefully. His handwriting was beautiful. “And what?”

  “You sound like a priest.”

  “Why did you borrow it?”

  “Because I needed it.”

  “Why?”

  “Denis, don’t be stupid. I don’t want to tell you. I don’t intend to tell you. You’ll find out in good time. Stop asking me questions.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Rakóssy said nothing. Denis wrote a courtly closing to the letter. He said, “Shall I sign it?”

  “I’ll sign it.” Rakóssy took the pen, inked it, and leaned down to write his name. He straightened away from the desk. Denis sprinkled sand over the page and shook it gently, Rakóssy melted wax over the candle and put his seal below his name. He put his signet ring down on the desk. Denis watched the ink dry and the seal cool. He sat still, trying to decipher the design on Rakóssy’s sword hilt.

  “I’m getting married,” Rakóssy said.

  Denis’s gaze flew to his brother’s face. “What?”

  “I am. In the late summer, in Vienna.”

  “Who is she?”

  “One of the ladies-in-waiting to the Archduchess. Catharine de Buñez. She’s supposed to be the bastard daughter of the King of Aragon.”

  “Good Lord, isn’t that high?”

  “We’re the same rank.” Rakóssy shrugged. “The blood relation to the Hapsburgs is nil, and they want to be rid of her.”

  “But János, you’re nothing but an obscure border baron.”

  Rakóssy’s black eyes flashed. “That depends on who you are, little brother.”

  “This is all because you hate Malencz.”

  “Of course I hate Malencz. Everybody hates Malencz, except the Turks, and they love him.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “I went to Vienna last winter.”

  “Do you like her? Is she pretty? Is she nice?”

  “I prefer her sister, to tell you the truth. But the sister’s married.”

  “The wax is cold.”

  “Heat it up again.”

  “Ivo told me you were — I mean, that you were courting some girl in the kitchens.”

  “Courting her? I’m sleeping with her. She’s a Slav. Do you think I’d marry some Slav girl from the kitchens?”

  He took the wax and sealed the folded letter. “Get Stepan Hálasz.”

  Denis called for a page and sent him for Stepan. He came back, settling into his chair again.

  “I’m fascinated,” Denis said. “I didn’t think you’d ever get married.”

  “I have to get an heir. You don’t think I’d leave this to you, do you?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “You couldn’t handle one half of it.”

  “I don’t suppose I could.”

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?” Rakóssy turned. The door opened. It was Stepan. Rakóssy said, “Take two fast horses and ride to Vienna. Give this to the Archduke’s secretary, Mansfeld, in the Hapsburg palace. If you have any trouble seeing him, tell them you’re from Hart Castle in Hungary. Nothing more, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rakóssy dismissed him. He swung back toward Denis.

  “Why don’t you learn how to fight? Or speak Turk? Or even German? Learn to be of some use?” He turned and snatched his cloak from the rack. He slammed the door behind him.

  In the late spring the Turks broke the treaty. They attacked a cattle camp, ran off the herders, and took the cattle back into the hills. A Slav brought the news to Hart a few days later. Rakóssy took fifty men and headed into the mountains.

  Once they had left the foothills, they were in the heart of Mustafa’s territory. Rakóssy knew the mountains along the border of his land almost as well as he knew his own hills. He cut straight across to the road that led south to Belgrade and waited by it for a few days. There was no sign of a supply train coming. Rakóssy got bored. He divided his men into two bands and sent Arpád with one south along the road to destroy any bridges they could find within four days’ ride. The other twenty-five men Rakóssy led toward Cliff’s Eye.

  The mountains along this stretch crawled with Turks. The Magyars stayed on the move, eating what they could find along the way. On the second day{s} after they had left the road, their scouts sighted a small bank of Turks headed slowly east. Rakóssy circled around in from of the Turks, set an ambush and sprang it that evening. They killed two Turks and ran off their horses. The remaining Turks stood off their second charge, and Rakóssy quit. He headed northwest.

  That following morning they camped in a gorge running east to west just below the timberline. A little boiling stream raced along one side of the floor of the gorge. Rakóssy posted sentries on the banks and rode along the gorge, alone, toward the east. The gorge ended in a waterfall that spilled over a cliff to a narrow valley.

  Rakóssy went back to his camp. Most of his men were asleep. He found Alexander, rolled in a cloak, and woke him up.

  “What’s down there?” Alexander said.

  “No way out. It’s a very neat trap. Wake everybody up. We’re moving out.”

  Alexander got up, yawning, and started waking up the men. He called two men to carry the one who had been wounded in the ambush. Rakóssy rode down the gorge to a place where horses could climb the walls and went up. The sentries had seen nothing.

  “If you see a large band of Turks — anything over fifteen — we scatter and go home,” Rakóssy said. He told this to all his men. He took the bridle off the mare and loosened her girth. He found a thicket, wrapped himself in his cloak, and slept.

  Alexander woke him up at twilight. “There are six Turks riding on the other side of the gorge,” he said.

  “Scouts?”

  “They’re riding pretty fast.”

  Rakóssy stood up slowly. He went to the edge of the trees. All around him his men lay in the brush, tense and silent. The Turks were galloping through the scattered pines on the other side.

  Alexander said, “I don’t understand this.”

  Rakóssy tugged his mail shirt straight. “We’re being herded. Like that time we got caught on the mountaintop.”

  “Herding us north? Then let’s go south.”

  Rakóssy shook his head. “He’s probably got us ringed, except for the east. And east’s that cliff. We’ll break up and go home.”

  He put his hands around his mouth and made a sound like a woodcock’s call. The brush around him rustled. Slowly his men gathered around him.

  “How is Martón Nagy?” Rakóssy said.

  “Healing fast.”

  “Good.” Rakóssy sat on his heels. His men drew closer. “We’re going to scatter. Pál, you and Michael Szabo take Martón back. Be careful. Take your time.”

  “What about the horses we captured?” somebody said.

  “Leave them. You couldn’t get them through the Turks anyway. Take your time and be careful, all of you.”

  They left, padding softly away through the trees toward their horses.

  R
akóssy got Alexander by the sleeve. “Meet me at the Old Man by tomorrow moonrise,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Never mind. Just meet me.”

  Rakóssy turned and went after the black mare. He stood by her, talking to her, until he was sure everybody had gone. He led her up the slope toward the timberline. The moon was coming up. He climbed a tree and looked out. He could see nothing but the trees and the silver of the moonlight. The roar of the stream in the gorge reached him faintly. He climbed back down the tree and mounted the mare and turned north.

  He rode at a walk, keeping just below the timberline. Toward midnight he heard horses coming up from below. He pulled the mare into the shadow of a twisted old pine and dismounted. He put his hand on her nostrils.

  Eight Turks in single file rode out of the trees and onto the naked slope, into the full glare of the moonlight. Their helmets and the tips of their lances flashed. There was no wind. They came slowly toward Rakóssy. He held his breath. They turned uphill again and rode toward the heights, where they could see more of the slope.

  He started to breathe again. The Turks stopped and looked back the way they had come. Rakóssy led the mare away from them, his hand still clamped over her nostrils. When the trees were thick around him he mounted and rode on.

  Twice before dawn he stopped and dismounted while bands of Turks rode by him, moving slowly and headed east. After dawn he was almost afraid to ride on. He saw no Turks and thought he was out of the circle that they had been building around him and his men. He relaxed enough to doze in the saddle. At noon, without warning, he was jumped by a good fifteen Turks.

  The mare bolted at the first shout and headed for the thick of the forest. Rakóssy steered her around an impenetrable thicket and across the slope of the land. The Turks yelled and whooped and charged after him. He heard them calling wildly back and forth behind him, but he could not hear the words. He thought that they were as surprised as he was.

  The mare broke out into a meadow and sprinted. She leapt a little stream, skidding on the soggy, slippery grass, and he spun her around and headed for the nearest trees. A lance wobbled past him. The mare thundered through belly-high grass into the trees and he bent in the saddle, his head by her neck, to avoid the swinging branches. A branch raked across his back. He turned slightly and saw that the Turks were still in the meadow. He spun the mare straight down the slope. Almost at once they reached another meadow. He raced her to the eastern edge, where the grass grew thinnest, and dismounted. He listened. The Turks had lost him in the trees. They were spreading out to find him again. He led the mare into the forest and made her lie down in the lee of the rock where the dead leaves were drifted high. He lay down beside her, one hand on her head, and waited.