“Well,” Catharine said, “I suppose we’re here.”
“Yes.” Mari sent the porters away. “Arpád told Jansci about the baby and he was angry.”
“Don’t worry.”
Mari went to the window. “What’s that down there?”
Catharine looked. There was a flat-roofed building just below. “I think it’s the stable.”
“There’s Arpád.”
Arpád was putting cannon on the wall by the Countess Gate. The river shone beyond the gate, flooding west. The bridge was of gray-green stone.
“I’m going down to the kitchen,” Catharine said. “I’ll send for you when I need you.”
Mari said, “I suppose it might cause trouble. The baby.”
“Don’t worry Mari. I’ll take care of you.”
She went down to the kitchen. The cook was tiny and very old. Catharine sat at the baking table, drinking milk, while the woman told her what they had in the storerooms. They were curing meat and storing it, and bringing in vegetables and fruit and storing them in the basement, where it was cool. Catharine had never realized how the garrison of a castle was fed, how such quantities of food could be prepared.
All afternoon she listened to the cook and watched the women working in the kitchen. They baked bread for the evening meal until the loaves stood in ranks on the cooling racks. The kitchen was full of the smell of baking.
She went back to her room. It was nearly sundown, and the little page looked weary.
“Are they still working?” she asked.
“They’re digging up a trench in front of the castle,” the page said, “and making a breastwork.”
She looked down at the roof of the stable. A swallow flew up almost to her window, wheeled away, and swept down to the stable and in through the open door. “You may go if you wish.”
“If it please you, my lady.”
The page bowed very correctly and went off. The little feather in his cap bounced when he walked.
Rakóssy walked along the wall toward Arpád. He gestured with his right hand and said something. Arpád looked as if he were thinking. After a while he nodded and said something, motioning with his hands.
She could see the men digging up the plain, beyond the wall. It was just like chess — first line of defense, second line, and the third the desperation measures when you fought with castle and pawns to protect the King. She wondered if there was a priest here.
Mari’s baby. She wondered why Mari could have a baby and she couldn’t. She looked down at the carpet. Vrath was full of beautiful things. The table by the window was of some heavy dark wood she did not recognize, and it had been oiled and cared for so well that it glowed almost of itself.
We’ll live here from now on, she thought. And I can give balls and feasts. He’ll be released from the King’s ban and we can live . . . sedately. She took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the carpet. It was so different from Hart, almost like Vienna.
Rakóssy came in. “When are we going to eat?” He sat down and put his head back. “Oh, God. I’m worn out.”
She went to stand behind him and massaged his shoulders. “I’ll send down for dinner now. You should bathe.”
“Do I smell bad?” He sniffed.
She laughed. “Yes.”
He stood up, stripping off his doublet and shirt, and poured water into a bowl. Catharine sent Mari to the kitchens.
“How is it going, János?”
“Well enough. We’re building a breastwork out beyond the front wall.” He rubbed his fingers over his chin. “I don’t know what good it will do, but it might slow them down and break up their charges.”
“And the cannon?”
He stropped his razor. “If the Turks knock out the front wall, they’ll knock out half the cannon. On the bridges I have them stopped. I can hold both bridges from the walls.”
He had bruises on his body, too. Catharine watched him shave. Mari and two kitchen girls came in and laid out their dinner. Mari bustled around giving orders. Rakóssy put on a clean shirt and sat down. He looked over at Mari and examined her around the middle.
“My lord,” Mari said.
Rakóssy grinned. He ate a little and immediately went to bed. Catharine and Mari went into the study next door.
“Help me out of this gown,” Catharine said. “Nobody will come in here except János.”
“Everybody’s really working,” Mari said.
“How is Arpád?’
“Fine. He’s made friends with one of Malencz’s old knights. Named Béla.” She laughed. “He’s a real cock rooster, that one.”
Catharine turned around, and Mari lifted the gown up over her head and shook it out. “You know how Denis’ face was all banged up when he got to Hart?”
“Yes.”
“And did you see the bruises on Jansci?”
“How could I miss them?”
Mari grinned. “That’s a whacking big black eye he’s got.”
“It certainly doesn’t improve his looks.”
“Or his temper, Arpád said. Anyhow, Denis and Jansci had a fight.”
“What about?”
“Over Denis coming back to Hart.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Arpád says that Denis saw he couldn’t possibly beat Jansci, so he gave in. Everybody was very disappointed.”
“Why?”
“Oh, some of them think that Denis could beat Jansci.”
“Well, God help us. I hope they never know.”
“It might be good for him. Shall I bring you some wine?”
“No, thank you. Why?”
“Nobody’s ever beaten him. That’s not good for anybody. May I go now?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Just down the corridor a turning. On the right side.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, my lady.”
Catharine went into the bedroom and lay down. He was sound asleep. The black eye looked ridiculous. He looked belligerent even in his sleep.
If my mother had known, when she was lying beside the King, that her younger daughter would someday be in a cold, drafty castle in Hungary, married to a Baron and waiting for a war, she would have gotten out of bed and never come back. Catharine smiled. There, Mother. That’s one I’ve put over on you.
A week later Alexander and the knights he had taken with him returned from Buda with three wagons loaded with powder and shot. Rakóssy said that there was enough to keep them for a year, and had them take one wagon to Denis. The rest they stored in a dungeon two doors away from Malencz’s cell.
Catharine heard that Malencz was still alive and lost her temper. “When a snake’s bitten you, you kill it,” she said.
“My, my, how ruthless of you. It must be your Hapsburg relations coming out.” Rakóssy grinned. “Don’t worry about Malencz.”
She saw that he was taken food every morning and every night, although she wished that someone would forget about him. She made Arpád set a watch over him. Once she herself went down and looked through the barred window in the door, feeling like a child stealing a look into a haunted room. She saw a man lying on a pallet asleep, a rich blanket over him. His cell was large and dry, and he had water, a razor, soap, clean clothes. But no books, and she knew that he was a bookish man. She gave orders to the warder to give him some books.
“You should kill him,” she said to Rakóssy.
“He’s harmless,” he said. “Don’t worry about him.”
The men worked like animals. Even Rakóssy took his turn at digging. He and Arpád, Alexander and Béla would sit on the balcony in front of the castle in the evenings, drinking and talking about the Turks. Sometimes Catharine and Mari were allowed to sit with them.
Béla could not speak Turk, and he did not know very much about them. Arpád was teaching him a little Turk.
“If you’re ever caught,” Arpád said, “just say, ‘La ilaha il-Allah.’ ” The others laughed.
“What
does that mean?” Béla said. “Hello, you swine of Moslems?”
“There is no God but Allah,” Arpád said. “It means you’re a Moslem. That’s their idea of a Credo.”
“Better, too,” Alexander said. “It’s shorter.”
Rakóssy shrugged. “There isn’t much difference between the Christian Credo and the Moslems’, or even the Jews’. They all say the same thing.”
“I didn’t know the Jews had a Credo,” Catharine said.
“Ben Jakob told it to me once.”
They waited patiently, but finally Catharine said, “Well, what is it?”
“Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.”
“That isn’t like ours at all,” Mari said.
“Women,” Arpád said.
“Christians just go into more detail,” Rakóssy said.
“Are you a Christian, János?” Catharine said.
“I was baptized.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Oh, God. What a question. Do I believe that fifteen hundred years ago a man got himself crucified and died and came back to life again? Or do I believe that a religion is a good thing to have and that being a Christian is useful—”
“Useful?” Catharine said. “Dear God, what a terrible—”
Rakóssy put his hands over his ears to shut out the noise. “Don’t,” he said to the men, “marry an intelligent woman. They are forlorn creatures, misfits, and very nasty when crossed.”
“János Rakóssy.”
“Do Gypsies have a religion?” Mari said.
“They’re Christians,” Catharine said. “They were the people who turned Mary and Joseph and the Child from their door on the flight into Egypt.”
“Then they can’t be Christians,” Rakóssy said. “Maybe you’re not an intelligent woman after all.”
“Why are they called Gypsies if they aren’t Egyptians?” Catharine said. “You think you’re so clever, all you men do—”
“They don’t call themselves Gypsies, they call themselves Romany. That’s like you westerners calling us Hungarians, thinking that we are descendants of the Huns. But we call ourselves Magyars, and that’s what we are.”
“How do you know you aren’t Huns?”
“Because we’re Magyars,” Rakóssy said.
“Maybe your people changed their name. Maybe you’re the lost tribes of Israel. Maybe you’re even Gypsies.”
The four men sat up straight and glared at her. She laughed.
“I knew that would get you all. You’re blood-proud, the lot of you.”
“And with reason,” Arpád said. “Magyars are the best people in the world.”
“Your grandmother was a Czech,” Rakóssy said.
“Well, she had the sense to bed down with a Magyar, didn’t she?”
“Even being part Czech is—”
“You’re only half Magyar,” Catharine said. “You’re half Greek.”
“Well, that’s better than being Spanish, God knows. I wouldn’t be Spanish if — ouch! Quit it. Quit it.” He grabbed Catharine by the wrists. “Sit down like a good girl. After all, you’re a Magyar by marriage. You can afford to look down on — ouch! Catharine, stop it.”
He covered his head with his arms. She smacked him on the crown with her open hand and sat down again.
The other three men were laughing. “Nicely done, my lady,” Béla said.
“For a Spaniard,” Arpád said and pretended to duck.
“And a Christian,” Rakóssy said. “Is it safe to come out?” He lowered his arms. “You’re a good little Crusader. You should be a Janissary.”
“A Janissary?”
“Infantry,” Arpád said. “Turks. They’re terrible fighters. Almost as bad as we are in a fight. Pure poison.”
“And they’re Christians,” Rakóssy said. “So you’re eligible, Catharine.”
“Have you ever fought one?” Béla asked.
Rakóssy shook his head. “God, no. We fight border garrisons, not main-line infantry. We’ll see them when the Turks come.”
“Spahis are cavalry, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Mustafa’s men aren’t Spahis,” Arpád said. “They’re just horsemen. Mustafa is a ghazi. Whatever happened to that brother of his?”
“He probably sent him to Constantinople faster than he could spit,” Alexander said. “That boy was stupid.”
“Who is Mustafa’s brother?” Catharine said.
“His name was Harun,” Rakóssy said. “The dumbest Turk in the world. He came up to join big brother and got himself captured. I got hold of him and ransomed him. That’s how I paid back the Fuggers.”
“But Mustafa’s clever.”
“Who is Mustafa?” Béla said.
Arpád reared back. “By God in Heaven, man, where have you been? Who is Mustafa? Mustafa ibn Ismail, the master of Cliff’s Eye, the Sultan’s commander in the Transylvanian Alps, that’s who Mustafa is. And he’s clever. My lord, do you remember that time we got cornered up by Turkish Springs?”
“Mustafa,” Rakóssy said, “likes to catch people in traps. One time two, three summers ago we went up to burn a supply cache way the hell up on the heights, and he got wind of us and herded us neat as you please into a corner. We didn’t even know he was there until we were caught.”
“How did you get out?” Béla said.
“That you wouldn’t have believed,” Arpád said. He leaned forward. “They had us right up on the heights with our backs against a stone cliff. But it started to rain, and thunder and lightning and all, the whole thing. Right up there on the peaks, on the top of the world — it was raining so hard you couldn’t see your horse’s head if you were in the saddle, and the lightning rolled from one peak to another, the rocks were crashing down around us, and the thunder—”
Alexander said, “So we left. We just beat it out of there like a bunch of drenched rats, and Mustafa couldn’t see us or control his men enogh even to try to catch us.”
“Were you frightened?” Catharine said to Rakóssy.
Rakóssy grinned. “You might say so.”
“The lightning,” Arpád said. “Big balls of it, jumping from rock to rock like goats. Alexander came running at me — he’d lost his horse — and his mail was all lit up with some kind of blue fire. My horse almost kicked his head off.”
“Will Mustafa fight us if the Sultan comes?” Catharine said.
“Probably.”
They would talk like that for hours, after they had finished working for the day. Catharine thought that they missed their old kind of war where nobody really ever got hurt. They talked about Mustafa’s grand designs and elaborate traps and Rakóssy’s lightning strikes. They talked of the stealing of the Sultan’s Id-al-Fitr gift to Mustafa, a golden urn, and how they had had to throw it into a lake when the pursuit got too close. They talked of how Mustafa had sent Rakóssy a full suit of Turkish clothes and a copy of the Koran one Christmas, and how Rakóssy had grown a beard and put on the robes and fooled the master of a supply train into thinking that he was Mustafa. Mustafa himself was a Hafiz; he had memorized the Koran.
“Hafiz will give all of Bokhara, all of Samarkand,” Catharine said.
“That was another Hafiz,” Rakóssy said.
April brought almost constant rain. They had finished the earthworks and planted sharp stakes in it, facing the plain, to stop headlong charges. Rakóssy had a ditch dug beneath the front wall of the castle and ordered brush piled in it as high as a man’s waist. The cannon were in place and the larders were bursting with food. Rakóssy found broken and fouled drainage ditches in the back courtyard, on the side against the river, and ordered them cleaned and fixed. He taught all the men in the garrison how to clean, load, charge and fire the cannon.
They gathered up a flock of sheep and goats and put it to graze on the little plain, while several of the men built a pen for them in the back courtyard. The men from Hart and the men from Malencz’s old army had a riva
lry going. Once or twice it broke into active fighting, and each time Rakóssy roared and swore and beat the offenders. When it rained, it was worse.
Denis sent a letter and told Rakóssy that he should have scraps of metal and stone sewn into canvas sacks for shot. When the cannon exploded the canvas burned away and the scraps flew like a great scythe over the field. Catharine read the letter to Rakóssy. At the bottom she read, “No sign yet. We have seen no messengers. Shall I send my own scouts?”
“Tell him,” Rakóssy said, “that the stable at Hart has two feet of little stones under the floor. Tell him not to send his own scouts. Ask him if he’s figured out a way to shoot fire.”
“Greek fire,” Catharine said.
“Nobody knows the secret for that.”
The horses grazed on the plain along with the sheep and the goats, saving fodder inside the castle. Cartloads of vegetables from the cellars of the peasants rattled into the courtyard and were sent quietly down to the basement and stored. And yet there was no sign of the Turks.
Rakóssy was having trouble with Arpád, who was the leader of the little bunch of men from Hart who persistently baited the new recruits. Converts, Arpád called them. Although he and Béla were good friends, Arpád would pick fights with most of the others and beat them, being much bigger and stronger. Rakóssy berated him for it, but Arpád had fallen into a habit of sullen silence.
A messenger came from the north during the middle of April and hailed the porter at the Main Gate. He said that he was from the Diet at Buda.
Rakóssy went to the rampart and called, “What brings you?”
“I bear a message from the Diet of Hungary, signed and sealed by the King.”
“Who is it for?”
“Baron János Rakóssy.”
“He is not here,” Rakóssy said.
The messenger said slowly, “I think he is.”
“He is not.”
“Give me entrance.”
“While he is not here, I can give no man entrance.”
“In the name of the King and the Diet of Hungary, I demand it.”
“You could come in the name of the Emperor or the Pope, but unless you come in Rakóssy’s name, you cannot go through this gate.”
Rakóssy Page 16
