Rakóssy

by Cecelia Holland

  “No. He’d like it if they all got the idea that they could desert. They weren’t from Hart, were they?”

  “God no.” Arpád looked over at the river. “Do you think he caught them?”

  Rakóssy stopped and pointed down the river toward the bridge. A little band of Turks was fishing over the railing.

  “They probably hauled them out there,” he said. “The current’s too strong for them to swim against it.” He went on, walking fast.

  Béla was sitting in the courtyard, in the shade of the balcony, dicing with two more of Malencz’s old knights. Rakóssy climbed down the ladder and walked across the courtyard. Arpád saw that his limp was suddenly more pronounced.

  The three knights looked up. Their faces sharpened and became wary. Arpád thought, They knew.

  Rakóssy stopped in front of Béla. “Who were they?” he said.

  Béla stood up slowly. He looked around. The courtyard was suddenly full of Béla’s friends. They made a thick circle around Rakóssy, Arpád and Béla.

  “Who were they?” Rakóssy said. His voice was almost soft.

  “Peter Bársony and Milo the Czech.”

  The men around them murmured, angry that he had told. Béla glared quickly at them.

  “Did you know they were going?” Rakóssy said. He had not looked at the crowd of men, only at Béla, since he had come down off the wall.

  Béla did not answer, saw that that was a mistake, took a breath, let it out, put his thumbs in his belt, threw out his chest, and said, “I did.”

  Rakóssy backhanded him. Béla fell against the castle wall. He flung his arms out to brace himself.

  Rakóssy watched him a moment, standing easily with his hands open at his sides, and turned his head and looked slowly all around. The men were poised, ready to attack him, their faces wild.

  “God damn you,” Béla said.

  Rakóssy brought his eyes slowly back to Béla’s. “I should hang you high as Heaven,” he said. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Give us the word, Béla,” somebody said.

  Rakóssy did not bother to look around. He watched Béla. The left corner of his mouth drew down.

  “Give them the word, Béla,” he said.

  Béla said nothing.

  Rakóssy turned slowly, putting his back to Béla. He looked at Arpád and said, “We have to slaughter a few more horses. Take three of these men and do it.”

  He walked straight at the thickest part of the circle of men. They trembled, longing to attack him. He went straight at them and they parted to let him through. He hardly seemed to notice that they were there.

  Denis was on the rampart beside a pair of cannon. Rakóssy went over to him. Denis said, “Catharine was on the balcony.”

  Rakóssy looked, but the balcony was empty. Denis said, “If they had put a hand on you, I would have shot them to pieces.”

  “Mustafa would have loved that,” Rakóssy said.

  Horse meat was not bad, once they got over the idea that they had ridden it. The summer was cool, and it did not rain. Rakóssy got bored, and once led thirty men out to try to steal some of the sheep Mustafa held so invitingly near, but the Turks swooped down on them and they barely got back into Vrath.

  They never found out what had happened to Peter Bársony and Milo the Czech. No other men deserted. Arpád said, laughing, that they would rather fight the Turks than Rakóssy.

  “Béla’s a coward,” Arpád said.

  “Oh? I thought he was your long-lost lover, the way you were carrying on before.”

  “That was before.”

  Denis was still wearing a sling, but he was as busy as any of them. Catharine often pleaded with him to rest more; she was afraid that his arm would heal crooked.

  “I’m fine, Catharine,” Denis said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. My arm’s almost healed up. See?”

  “Don’t you dare take it out of that sling.”

  Rakóssy said, “She’s right. Do you want to be ugly?”

  Catharine sat back, sighing. “The two of you are impossible. János, we have to save more food than we are.”

  “If they eat less than they’re getting now,” he said, “they’ll drop in their tracks from hunger. We have enough meat for another month, counting all the horses, and there are plenty of vegetables.”

  “If we didn’t have to feed Malencz—”

  “He’s still alive?” Denis said.

  “Down in one of the dungeons,” Rakóssy said. “What he eats will make no difference.”

  “It makes me uneasy,” Catharine said. “I dreamt of him last night. I dreamt that he got out at night and prowled around with a sword in his hand, looking for you.”

  “He’s locked up and harmless.”

  Denis hardly heard them. Malencz was alive. He was locked up below, probably entirely forgotten by all but a few, forgotten in his own castle. He saw Malencz clearly in his mind, and his heart jumped with pity.

  He went down to the dungeons and found Malencz the next day. He had the warder unlock the door and he stepped into the big, dim room. Malencz rose at once and moved softly across the room to the corner.

  “Sir Denis,” he said. He rushed forward and embraced Denis. “Is it really you?”

  “Easy, sir,” Denis said. He smiled. “I just heard that you were alive.”

  “God knows why he doesn’t kill me.”

  That, Denis thought, is an interesting question. “Do you need anything?”

  “More food. I get one meal a day, and it isn’t enough to feed a half-dead cat.”

  “We’re all starving, slowly but surely.”

  Malencz’s eyes were sunken. Denis thought that he might be a little mad. Malencz smiled. “Denis. I’m glad you’re here. He’s turning me into a wild animal.”

  “Oh, Louis. Sit down, let’s talk.”

  Malencz told him about the time Rakóssy had come down to see him. “He’s a devil. He’s not human. I could almost see the horns on his head.”

  “He certainly fights like one.”

  “Tell me how it’s going.”

  “Well, the main part of the army’s gone, and all the guns, thank God. They don’t attack us and we don’t attack them. They’re waiting until we starve or give up. They’ve broken through one wall, but it’s too narrow a gap to make their numbers count, and I think they’ve given up trying to take us by storm.”

  “She’s a fine old castle.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Hart. Weren’t you at Hart?”

  “Yes. I held it until the beginning of June, I guess. What is it now — July? Almost August.” He shrugged. “I finally had to blow it up.”

  “Can you bring me some books? Someone had these brought down — I don’t know who.”

  “Probably my brother’s wife.”

  “Can you bring me some Pliny and Procopius?”

  “And some of your rotten Hellenic poets. Of course. And pen and paper, too, if you want.”

  “Good. Fine. Bring something you like, and we’ll talk about it. How did you hurt your arm?”

  “I knocked it against a cannon. It’s almost healed now.”

  “That’s too bad. But . . . the ill wind. You don’t have to fight.”

  “I . . .” No use. “Yes, I suppose so. I’ve read Procopius. We can talk about that, if it’s all right with you. And Ovid, I’ll bring.”

  “Thank you.” Malencz caught his good hand and wrung it. “You won’t tell your brother?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Good. Good. You’re looking well. Very well. Thin but well. I’d like some water to wash in, too.”

  “I’ll bring it.”

  “Tonight?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Good. Good.”

  They talked for a while, and Denis left. He went thankfully up to the open air and gulped it down. Malencz, he thought, never understood, never had a chance against my brother. Denis was sorry for him. He paced across the courtyard and
took his turn on the watch, wondering if he should tell Rakóssy. Malencz was not well, and if anything happened he wanted his brother to know where he was.

  He went up to his brother’s room after his watch was over and sat quietly until Rakóssy woke up.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly dark.”

  “You should have woken me up.”

  “János, I’ve been to see Malencz.”

  Rakóssy got up and shaved. “Oh?”

  “I’d like your permission to take him some books and talk to him.”

  “Oh.”

  Denis waited. He saw the long scar on Rakóssy’s leg and said, “How did that happen?”

  “A cannon exploded right next to me.” He washed his shoulders and put on a shirt. He sat down on the bed to pull in his boots.

  “Take a sword with you,” he said. “Be careful. Don’t go near him.”

  “Oh. Yes. I will.”

  Denis stood up. Rakóssy was buckling on his swordbelt.

  “Thank you, János.”

  The corner of Rakóssy’s mouth drew down. “I trust you, Denis.”

  Malencz groped over the problem of Denis. He was pleased with himself, he had spoken normally and without revealing anything, although the sight of Denis had turned everything suddenly around until it all fit. He was amazed that he hadn’t thought of it sooner, and recalled that he had needed much deep thinking and concentration before he had understood. He knew everything now, everything, and he could remember all the things that had happened. It was amazing that so many things had happened that he had been almost totally unaware of, but they had, and he remembered everything.

  Denis might be the helper that had been promised. Probably he was unwitting of it now, he was too young and too innocent to know, and it was for Malencz to take him in charge. The time would present itself. In the meantime he had to think, to consider, to scheme everything out and take careful note of everything that happened. But he was pleased that it was Denis who would help him.

  Kamal said, “They keep half their men in the breach. Wondrous careful, our little Magyar friend.”

  Mustafa, half a roast fowl in his hand, looked up and frowned. “Careful? We should go out there and sit at his feet, like disciples.” He turned the fowl to the plumpest part and bit into it. Gripping the fowl with his teeth, he reached both hands to water and cup, poured, and set down the jug. He took the bird in one hand and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Rakóssy must be dying of boredom in there.”

  “When you take him,” Kamal said. He sat down. Tenderly, he surveyed the camp, spread out in the morning sunshine. “When you take him, Mustafa, will you grant me a boon?”

  “O Kamal,” Mustafa said. He set down the fowl, belched comfortably, and called for water to wash his fingers in. “O Kamal, whom I love as my own fool of a brother, is there a star in Heaven I would not give you if I possessed it? The seas I would give you, to fish pearls from them.”

  Kamal smiled. He inclined his head slightly. “You do me great honor, and yourself more honor than I can — in my poor person — give you in return.”

  “Honor.” Mustafa lifted his head. His eyes searched vaguely in the sky. “Honor. Ah, we live for honor, Kamal. There is no greater thing a man can possess than honor in the eyes of Allah. Honor, Kamal, the finest word in our tongue. Which is why, my beloved brother, I cannot grant you the boon you desire.”

  Kamal’s face fell. For a moment, Mustafa saw, Kamal was dangerously close to impropriety in speech and vulgarity in thoughts. Mustafa lowered his eyes to the rings on his left hand. He said, “Honor, Kamal, is beyond barter and beyond revenge. And honor is not the possession of any one race — however much Allah may in His Mercy have ordained us its chief priests. The Magyar tongue has a word for honor in it too.”

  Kamal bowed. “I defer to your judgment, my lord.”

  “Kamal, Kamal.” Mustafa spread his hands. “I do you honor in this. You are . . . a rash child, my brother. A man of principle, and yet a man of some unsteady pride, of a certain—” Mustafa gestured vaguely — “not to say base, not to say in any way ignoble — of a certain — shall we call it narrowness of mind? Ah, Kamal, do not look so. I chastise you for your own good, and in my love for you I chastise myself.”

  Kamal said nothing.

  “Rakóssy is the child of the Devil, but forget not that the Devil was gently born, even as we — and what are we but devils whose redemption is not entirely impossible? But I will not dwell on theology. Rakóssy is a man of honor.”

  Kamal sputtered.

  “I know that you still itch from the trick he played on you. But I will not grant you a boon that will cast dishonor on you and on me. You want to avenge yourself on him when he is helpless, and that I will not permit. Do you understand me?”

  Kamal understood him.

  “I have instructions from the Sultan,” Mustafa said, “to take Rakóssy alive.”

  Kamal nodded. He had known that.

  “I am under orders to hold him until the Sultan summons him into the Presence. The Sultan was impressed by the defense of Vrath. He will offer Rakóssy a place in his army, if Rakóssy will renounce Christ and submit to the true Faith.”

  Kamal did not trust himself to speak.

  “Rakóssy,” Mustafa said, “will refuse. He hates priests and he is, after all, a child of Satan, but he is at heart a Christian, as, doubtless, all wicked men are. He will refuse, and he will be mercifully destroyed.”

  Mustafa smiled fleetingly. “I myself do not believe that we will be able to take him alive. I do not intend to lose fifty men to take one man who will die anyway.” He picked up the fowl again. “Go. Go watch his walls.”

  Kamal left, swirling his robes around him.

  “Rakós’,” Mustafa said, “you are still a great soldier.”

  Denis saw Malencz every three or four days. They did not talk about the war or Rakóssy. They translated Procopius into Magyar and read Ovid and Catullus. Malencz seemed better for it, and Denis felt easier about going down there. He did not particularly like it, but he felt guilty if he did not, and the glow in the man’s eyes was rewarding.

  One day Denis went to the burial service for the last of the men from the great hall. They had all died or gotten well, and the last two were buried almost on top of another grave. Arpád recited parts of the burial service.

  He said, “These men died here for the honor of Magyars. They lie in Magyar dirt. This land will never be Turkish. If they take it, the Turks will be thrown off by the earth they stand on. The rivers and the fields will not teem for them, the mountains will have no game for them, and the birds of the air will not nest here. Nobody will ever own this land but us.”

  Denis listened to that voice and forgot that it was Arpád’s. The voice was steady and deep. He shut his eyes.

  “We will die here. Everybody dies. The name of Vrath Castle and the names of the men who die here, you and I, will not be written down in books. We have been forgotten, except for God. Our lives will be written, for good or for wickedness, on the heart of God. If we fight for God and the honor of our race, it is for good. If we fight for nothing, only to fight, then we die for nothing, and it is for wickedness.”

  Denis opened his eyes. Arpád crossed himself. “God help us.”

  “Amen.”

  “The Turks. They will remember us. We’ll make them remember us. The Turks. The Turks.”

  Arpád turned and went off. Denis was stricken to his heart. His brother was not there, and he went to find him and could not. He wanted desperately to find him. It was like a bad dream, when he looked for his mother or his father and could not find them.

  He did find Mari, when it was almost evening, and flirted halfheartedly with her. She was thin. The bones of her shoulder jabbed through her dress. She said, “I had a baby, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said. “We will have more, Arpád and I.”

  “Mar
i . . .”

  Her eyes stared at him.

  “We will have more.”

  He took an armful of books down to Malencz, determined to escape the bad dream. He called to the warder in the dungeons to tell him that he was there. He whistled a little, watching the warder open the cell door, and said, “Good evening, Louis.”

  Malencz looked terrible, as if he had not slept. Denis said, “Are you well?”

  “I’m feeling . . . strange.” Malencz went to the cot. “Sit down. What have you brought?”

  “Tibullus and Sallust. More ink, paper.” Denis sat down and made himself comfortable. He took pens from his sling.

  “I had a dream last night,” Malencz said. He put his hands to his temples. “Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe I actually saw it.”

  “What was it?”

  “I can’t remember it all. Your brother means to kill me.”

  “Louis, he’s forgotten all about you.”

  “He forgets nothing. I remember in the dream he was watching me, waiting for me to sleep so that he could stab me. He was watching and laughing.”

  Malencz’s voice was perfectly normal. His face was hidden by his long hands. Suddenly he lowered his hands and turned the full baleful glare of his eyes on Denis, like a blow.

  “He means to kill me,” he said. “He has to kill me. Because I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “When the Turks take Vrath they will find me and question me. I know. He raised a devil to enter into the Sultan and killed him. I saw it, out in the hall. He was digging in the dirt and whispering.”

  “There is no dirt in the hall.”

  “That was how he killed my son. My son, Peter. He summoned up a devil. I saw that, too. I saw him drawing circles in the dirt and speaking strange words. The Gypsies taught him that, you know. He changed himself into a wild boar and ravaged the countryside and killed my son. When the boar attacked Peter it shouted in a human voice.”

  “Louis—”

  “At night he never sleeps. Devils don’t sleep, you know. They prowl around. He walks back and forth and snarls and hisses in the hall. Everybody knows that. He never takes off his boots because he has hoofs for feet. Once I had a vision that I saw him dead and I saw a little blue devil come out of his mouth. Everybody knows that. He threw a spell over all my men. He bewitched them all.”