“You’re excited, aren’t you?”
“I have been this excited only once before. When I was ten. I sailed from Cadiz to Genoa. I’m glad we aren’t doing that again. The sea air was very bracing but a ship does not like my stomach. I can’t lean out like this anymore, Denis. It’s very tiring. Good day, sir.” She plumped back into the seat.
“Then I’ll ride with you,” Denis said. He opened the door and got inside, looping his reins through the window. “You know, Hart is a little castle and not very comfortable. We have rushes on the floor and that sort of thing.”
“He’s told me.”
“I used to think it was the grandest thing in the world, until I left.”
“When did you leave?”
“Right after my father died, in ’18. I was fifteen and I had my own valet. I felt very important, until I got to Italy.”
“Then you’re twenty-two now.”
“Yes. There was one between János and me, but she died, poor thing.”
“Why haven’t you ever married?”
“I will, someday. Women of good birth are rare around Hart, and I never thought of it while I was away.”
“Never?”
“Well, once or twice. But you’d be surprised how few well-born Italian and French girls want to marry the younger brothers of Hungarian barons.”
She laughed.
“Father originally meant me to marry the daughter of a northern Count, but it fell through when he died.”
“You’ll marry someday.”
“I’m sure I will.”
They rode through the gate in the Ringwall and turned to the east. There they left the coach. Catharine rode on the lead wagon, between Denis and a sweating, cursing driver. She talked to Denis for a while, but soon it was too hot and dusty to talk. She was fast asleep before sundown, her head resting on Denis’ shoulder and his cloak flung over her knees. She woke up a little when they made camp and watched the men swing the wagons into a square and build fires. She began to doze again.
Rakóssy’s voice jarred her awake. He was swearing horribly. She sat up, trembling. He was beating one of the men around the head and shoulders with his riding whip. Catharine sat rigidly, staring at him, shaking with her heartbeats. The knight merely huddled at Rakóssy’s feet, his arms over his head. Rakóssy flung down the whip, caught the man by the hair, and whirled him to face the wagon and the dry bed of an unlit fire.
The rest of the men were standing, watching, motionless; in the dim light of the other fires their faces shown with sweat.
“There is powder in that wagon,” Rakóssy said, and shook the man he had beaten. “Black powder, you God-damned fornicator with dead bodies.” He hurled the man away and kicked the fire bed to pieces. He swung around to face the rest of his men.
“Don’t be smug,” he said. “It could have been any one of you. You’re all just as stupid as he is.” He glared at them. “Get to work. All of you.”
They cringed away. Rakóssy saw Catharine, He hesitated a while and came over to her.
“Are you comfortable?” he said.
“What happened?”
“Pál was building a fire up against the powder wagon.” He took a saddle pouch from the wagon behind her and fished around in it. He went back to the powder wagon and marked a big X on it with white chalk.
He came back, threw the chalk into the wagon, and sat down. “This is going to take us almost a month, at this rate.”
“They’re frightened of you.”
“When they do something wrong, yes.”
“Don’t they ever fight back?”
“They know they’d be beaten twice as hard if they did.”
“Somehow,” she said, “the logic of this isn’t clear to me. Thank you, Denis.”
Denis held out another bowl to Rakóssy and sat down on Catharine’s left to eat. “Pál said to tell you that he’s sorry.”
“I’m sure he is,” Catharine said.
“You see what you married?” Denis said.
“Shut up,” Rakóssy said.
“I’m just—”
“I said shut up.”
Denis looked at Catharine and shrugged. Catharine said, “Are you worried about something, János?”
“Not really. I’m going to sleep. Denis, rig up some kind of a tent for her.” He got up and went away. Catherine saw him stop to talk to Arpád.
“Who is Arpád?” she said.
“Second in command. He and Alexander, his brother. Alexander’s back in Hart.”
“He’s very big, isn’t he?” She watched Arpád stooping slightly to talk to Rakóssy.
“He’s suppose to be part Czech or even German.”
“Is it so important to be a Magyar?”
“If you aren’t a Magyar, you aren’t a lord. Haven’t you ever heard of the Tripartite Code?”
“No.”
“Well, back about ten or eleven years ago, the peasants revolted. It was really awful. I remember once I was sent north with some knights, because Father was afraid they might attack Hart. After we put it down, they set up the Code. No peasant or descendant of peasants can own land or animals or anything. All the Magyars are equal — so I’m the equal of even Zápolya, the Prince of Transylvania. And the Magyars own the peasants and no peasant can protest any action of his Magyar overlord. Nobody really pays too much attention to your ancestry, as long as your name was on the records when the Code was made. Actually, though, the House of Rakóssy is very ancient and noble; we’re descended from the House of Arpád.”
“Well, I’m pleased I’ve married into a good family.”
“On Mother’s side we go back to the Macedonian dynasty in Constantinople.”
“My.”
“You’re sleepy. Here, let me make you a tent.”
He fixed up a tent on the wagon and spread a cloak out for her to lie on. She smiled. “Thank you, Denis.”
“Good night, Catharine.”
She climbed up into the wagon and lay down. She heard Denis talking to someone. She slept.
The next day they traveled through more hills. The days after she had trouble keeping straight from one another; they seemed always to travel at the same pace and through unvarying countryside. She talked to Denis and to Rakóssy. Rakóssy was not talkative and she decided that he was worried about something. He would not admit it when she asked him, and she knew enough not to press him. One night she told him another fairy tale, in German. For some reason he loved them. Denis told her that he had never liked to read with their father or listen to the old baron’s lectures. He loved fairy tales. It was funny to see him sitting there with his arms on his knees, listening to a story full of trolls and giants.
She changed into riding clothes, borrowing trousers from Denis, and rode the horse he had brought for her. She had not ridden for a long time and after the first hour or so she got off and rode in the wagon, so sore that she could hardly keep her balance on the rocking seat. She kept riding, and finally she could stay in the saddle the whole day long. She could not put her hair up by herself and wore it down, gathered at the nape of her neck. At night she sat in her tent, combing her hair, and listened to the noises the men made in their camp.
Often they would sing. She had trouble understanding many of the words, although they sang in Magyar, but one long song she could understand much of. It seemed to have an endless number of verses.
“János,” she said, “what is that song they were singing last night?”
“They sang at least four. What was it about?”
“Oh,” she said, “it was full of mournful things. One of the lines was something about rocks and going barefoot.”
“I am the wanderer, I am the barefoot wanderer in the rocks.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a lament for János Hunyadi, the Champion of Hungary. He fought the Turks and beat them, right and left. That’s a game, making up new verses.”
“Why do you like fairy tales?”
He
looked at her sharply. “Because they’re true.”
“True!”
“They’re not like the things in books. I . . . They may not be true. They may be made up. You can’t trust them.”
“You mean that fairly tales must be true because they aren’t written down?”
“Don’t laugh at me.” He smiled.
“I’m — I don’t feel the faintest temptation to laugh. That’s the oddest thing anybody ever said to me. You can’t even read.”
“The things that are written down . . . When you hear something you can know the man who says it and you can judge if it’s true or not, but when you read something you don’t know who wrote it and you can’t judge it. It may not be true.”
“They’re just stories, the fairy tales. They’re completely made up.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand them, then. You see? If you had written them down you would change them because you didn’t understand them. But you just tell me and you don’t say, ‘Look, this isn’t so,’ or ‘In the story this happened, but I know that can’t be so, so I’ll say that this happened.’ ”
“What do you mean, I don’t understand them?”
He reached out and tucked a long wisp of her hair behind her ear. “You don’t.”
She began to get angry, and he saw it and laughed. “So,” he said, “you see that I’m cleverer than you are.”
Before she could force an answer through her throat, he has spurred the black mare and was galloping off. She sat in her saddle, staring after him, and planned scathing answers and proofs of her cleverness for the next time. But there was no next time.
The days moved on. Whatever he was afraid of did not appear, and he grew more easy the closer they came to his own country. The broad Hungarian plain fascinated Catharine. She loved to watch the herds of horses galloping over it. Denis told her that Hart was not like this.
“It’s on the edge of the plain,” he said. “Where the mountains start. Hart’s in the foothills.”
On the thirteenth day they reached the Danube again and forded it. The river was strong and rough with a thousand hands. Rakóssy drove the wagons into it like a dam, each team of oxen linked to the wagon ahead, so that the horsemen could cross above it. The great wagon, weighted with the cannon, struggled over the ford, lurching when the wheels ran into holes in the riverbed. Sometimes the oxen, losing their footing, plunged to their knees, their heads thrust back, fighting to keep their noses above the water while the drivers lashed at them with their whips. Rakóssy ordered two teams of oxen yoked together to cross the heavier wagons.
“Is there no bridge?”
“North and south of here. Too dangerous.”
Why? She did not ask him. He spurred the black mare into the river and leaned down. He caught hold of the ring in the nose of the lead ox on the powder wagon and jerked. The ox stumbled after him, bellowing.
Two days later they saw a camp of Gypsies. Catharine had always heard that Gypsies stole children and cheated, but Rakóssy seemed glad to see them. He led the wagons to the camp and shouted for the chief.
A big, ugly man with scars all over his face strode up to them. He thrust his thumbs into his belt and said, “Rakóssy, is it. What are you doing here?”
“Going home. Have you seen any Turks? Or Magyars where they shouldn’t be?”
“Not a one. Lonely down here. It’s going to be a bad winter, so they say. Get down and drink with me.”
Rakóssy turned and shouted, “Arpád, make a camp. We’ll stay here until tomorrow.”
Catharine rode up to Rakóssy. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to milk him, sweet.” He looked at the Gypsy king. “This is my woman. Mine. Understand?”
“Hum.” The Gypsy walked all around Catharine’s horse, staring at her. “Want to sell?” He roared with laughter. Catharine flamed. Rakóssy was laughing with him. He swung off the black mare and tossed the reins to one of his men.
“János,” Denis said, “you shouldn’t—”
“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do. Come on, get down. We’re with friends.” He turned back to the Gypsy. “Eh, Trig?”
“Friends,” the Gypsy said. “I am Trig Columbo, young master. The king of this humble little tribe. You are welcome to my camp.” He turned and clapped Rakóssy on the shoulder. “Come along, friend. We have some liquor here.”
Rakóssy went off with him. They sat down in front of a fire and Colombo took a jug of liquor from one of the women. He uncorked it and took a long swallow. “Now. What can I tell you?”
“Have you been north?”
“North, south, east, west. Gypsies go everywhere. Is it Buda you’re after? I was in Buda only last spring. Or was it summer? Sometime. I was going north to see the Poles, but I changed my mind. Here.”
Rakóssy took the jug and upended it. The liquor burned in his throat and punched around in his stomach. “Jesus,” he said. “You make it stronger every year.”
“Your mother used to say that. Now, there was a woman. If she would have gone with me, I would have made her the queen of all the Gypsies in Hungary.”
“Malencz. Vrath Castle.”
“Malencz? His son died. Hunting. He was gored by a wild boar. Terrible thing. Now he has only the ones in Buda who are — what do you call them?”
“Pages. A pity.”
“His people don’t particularly like him. The King says, ‘I want money,’ and most of the Magyars say, ‘That’s good, I want money too, everybody wants money.’ But this Malencz, he gets the money and gives it to the King. And — here’s something — he wants knights. He wants to fight sometime next spring. Who, he won’t say. Where, he won’t say. But he wants to fight, somebody not the Turks.”
Rakóssy’s mouth twitched. “A pity.”
“There’s some that say he was tricked into it.”
“No man tricks another man into fighting.”
A girl sidled up to them with food. She smiled at Rakóssy. Her white teeth were as sharp as a cat’s.
“My daughter,” Columbo said. “She’s a piece, isn’t she? I have to keep a watch over my doors, I’ll tell you. She’s smart, though. She’s after Venn. Best horseman I have. He won’t look at her.”
Rakóssy looked at Venn, a tall, slender man in a vest sewn with gold pieces. Venn saw him looking, stared back boldly, and came over.
“Rakós’,” he said.
Rakóssy said, “And how is Mustafa?”
Venn muttered something. Columbo laughed. Venn looked down at his hands. The girl came back with more food. She ignored Venn and Venn ignored her. She went away and Venn shot her a quick, cautious glance. He got up and went off.
“Venn’s smart,” Rakóssy said. “All he has to do is snap his fingers and that girl will fall into his lap.”
“This woman you have. Is she your wife?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Hah? What is this?”
“You’ve seen her.”
“Yes. She’s not beautiful. When did you look at her last? There’s strength in that woman. And you — hunh. You snort after these flimsy things with their pretty faces and hips that show off everything they’ve got. Let me tell you, Magyar. A woman is a woman, and a face is a face, and after a while the face isn’t pretty or plain anymore, it is this woman’s face, and you love her.”
“The Devil. I don’t love her. I don’t love anybody.” He tilted the jug again.
“Your mother, now. There was a face, and a body, and the eyes, like . . . like . . .” He made a gesture like cupping water. “Eyes a man could drown in. I keep thinking they were black, but I know they were blue eyes. They were big and soft and they lied like black eyes. Blue eyes are honest and can’t tell you stories.”
“What about gray eyes?”
“Never trust gray eyes. They are honest like blue eyes, but cruel, too. I’ve never known a gray-eyed woman who wasn’t cruel. Especially the ones with long nails. If they aren’t scratching you
r face, they’re carving holes in your shoulders.”
“Malencz.”
“Five hundred knights, they say he can call. Between him and Levolt.”
“Levolt’s out.”
“Oh? Levolt was at Vrath only a little while ago. Give me some of that.” He drank. “A stupid man, Levolt.”
Rakóssy nodded and finished off the jug. Columbo threw it against a wagon and it broke. Columbo’s huge laughter boomed out after it. Someone began to play a violin and the Gypsies sang. The Magyars were divided up among the Gypsy fires. Denis and Catharine came over.
“Eaten?” Columbo said.
“Yes,” Denis said.
“Good. Here, boy. A little of this.” Columbo uncorked another jug. Catharine sat down next to Rakóssy.
Rakóssy took her by the chin and turned her face toward him. He looked at Columbo. Columbo said, “Gray eyes. You tricked me, Magyar.” They laughed. Rakóssy let go of Catharine’s chin. Columbo burst into song.
“What was that about gray eyes?” Catherine said.
Rakóssy looked at her hands. “And long fingernails, too.” He drank more of the liquor.
“János, you’re getting drunk.”
“No. Not yet.” He listened to Columbo for a while and began to sing with him.
“Will they dance?’
“I doubt it.”
“I thought Gypsies always danced.”
“Only on special occasions,” Columbo said. “Do you dance, lady?”
“Not like a Gypsy.”
Rakóssy kept the jug he held for himself and told Columbo to find his own. He put his arm around Catharine’s shoulders.
“You are drunk,” she said.
He laughed. “Want some?”
“No.”
Venn came over and sat down next to Denis. He yawned and turned to Columbo, on Denis’ other side. He said something in Romany.
Columbo’s daughter walked by, looking at the ground. Her face was solemn. Her bare feet moved slowly over the dust. Venn looked at her with his eyes half closed. Rakóssy looked down and saw Catharine watching the girl. Venn coughed and said something loudly to Columbo.
Catharine said, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
Rakóssy Page 8
