Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Hruther tapped on the door, then came in bearing a basin of steaming water. “Pacar has a large pot on the boil. It’s hot.”

  “I will bear that in mind.” Rakoczy used a thick square of boiled wool to shield his hands.

  Hruther retrieved the huch and calf-length braccae of embroidered black leather. Next he got out the boots from the chest of footwear and set them on the bench that fronted the hearth. “If you don’t need me for anything more, there are problems in the bake-house…” He clicked his tongue.

  “Problems?” Rakoczy repeated as he tugged his nightrail over his head, turning away from Hruther as he did.

  “The flue has a rats’ nest in it.” He paused. “Tymek decided to bake them out rather than have the flue cleaned.”

  “Ah.” Rakoczy took a cotton cloth and dropped it in the basin of hot water.

  “The mess will have to be removed. And all the chimneys scrubbed, as well.”

  Rakoczy nodded. “I will not keep you.” He gestured to his clothes. “I can manage this.”

  “Then I’ll await your return this evening.”

  Rakoczy heard the door close; he wrung out the cloth and ran it over his naked body. It was a cursory wash, but, he reminded himself, it was more than most of the Konige’s Court would do. First he pulled on his simple breechclout, and after it, his braccae; then drew the chainse over his head, smoothing it as the heavy silk settled on his shoulders. Taking the huch from its peg, he opened the lacings at the neck and wriggled into it, adjusting the hang of the wide, rectangular, open sleeves before tightening the lacings and reaching for his belt. When he had finished buckling it in place, he took his silver-link collar and eclipse pectoral from his jewel-case. After he had set it in place on his shoulders and chest, he donned his high, thick-soled, black-leather Hungarian boots; his native earth in the soles was almost as restoring as sleep. Opening his jewel-case again, he took out a tear-drop-shaped pink zircon and a large, straw-colored topaz. These he slipped into his wallet, then flicked his comb through his hair one last time before he chose a soft, red-velvet Florentine hat to complete his ensemble. He took care to lock the door as he left.

  At the gate to Vaclav Castle, Rakoczy joined a line of nobles, churchmen, Guild Masters, and foreigners of rank, all of whom had answered the summons of the bells. They were all dressed with the grandeur the occasion required, and some of them were bearing packages and little chests with gifts for the Konige and her new daughter. Rakoczy passed through into the wide forecourt of the castle, then turned toward the south wing of the sprawling stone building and the entrance reserved for Konige Kunigunde’s courtiers. He was admitted promptly, along with Sorer Zuza, who was charged with caring for the Konige’s linen; the elderly nun was beaming.

  “God has given Bohemia another Royal daughter,” said Sorer Zuza as she and Rakoczy climbed the stairs to the main floor; Rakoczy said nothing. “God must have a great plan for the two daughters: with wise marriages—and these girls will make great marriages—Bohemia could be tied to all the Royal Houses from Roma to Poland, as it deserves.” She crossed herself. “God will give the Konige a son in His good time.”

  At the top of the stairs there was an antechamber, where they were met by Csenge of Somogy and Teca of Veszbrem, who directed them to the Konige’s Chapel. “There will be a blessing of the birth by Episcopus Fauvinel, and then you will be allowed to see the Konige briefly, to present your gifts and to see the child.” Csenge stared at Rakoczy, a stern purpose in her dark-hazel eyes. “You will inform the Konige’s grandfather that you have seen Konige Kunigunde well, and that her daughter is whole. He will have the letter from Pader Stanislas, of course, and Episcopus Fauvinel, but he will want confirmation from you and other Hungarians here at Court.”

  “If that is the Konige’s pleasure, it will be my honor to inform Konig Bela,” said Rakoczy, ducking his head before following Sorer Zuza to the Konige’s Chapel, where more than forty people were already gathered.

  “I am glad to see you, Comes,” said Rozsa of Borsod as she came up to him, resplendent in a sweeping bleihaut of rust-colored silk, a chainse of ivory linen, and a veil of dark-red Mosul-cotton; her green eyes were unusually bright. “You will give the Konige comfort, I think. She is very low-spirited.”

  “For the sake of Hungary, I hope I may comfort her,” said Rakoczy, trying to read her inscrutable expression.

  “It must be so. All Hungarians will comfort her.”

  “For the birth of a second daughter?” Rakoczy asked.

  “That, and last night, her lady-in-waiting Erzebet of Arad collapsed and now lies in a stupor that—” She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. “Say nothing of this to anyone, not now. It would be an ill thing to speak of death with a birth not yet sanctified.” She indicated the benches where they would soon sit. “You, and all the Hungarians sent to be in the Konige’s Court, will be allowed to sit toward the front. And you will be permitted to visit the Konige before the Bohemians.” There was a glint of satisfaction in her green eyes. Then, mischievously, she added, “Did you get any sleep, Comes?”

  “Very little,” he told her.

  “You were awake, then?”

  “Most of the night,” he said. “The bells roused me not long after dawn.”

  “As they did all Praha.” She looked directly into his face, her feline expression both satisfied and anticipatory. “It is hardly surprising. Every church in the city is sounding the news,” said Rozsa as she ducked her head before going to greet Gazsi of Raab and his apprentices.

  Hovarth Pisti of Buda and four of his apprentices were already seated in the second row of benches. He raised his hand. “Comes. Well met. A happy occasion.”

  “Certainly,” said Rakoczy, noticing that the tapestry-weaver was wearing three impressive rings, gifts from Konige Kunigunde, as well as a gold chain-and-pendant given him by Episcopus Fauvinel.

  “So restrained,” Hovarth Pisti murmured to Geza, who sat immediately beside him. “Exile, as you recall. But he is richer than most of the nobles of Praha put together.”

  “He paid for our hostelries on the road,” Geza said, just a little louder.

  “Without complaint,” added Bartal.

  “For the pleasure of Konig Bela,” said Rakoczy, not raising his voice, but making certain that Hovarth could hear him. “It is my honor to serve Konig Bela and his granddaughter.”

  “And now you serve two Konigs; which of them benefits the most—Bela or Otakar?” Hovarth said. “An expensive business, even for you.”

  “Why be troubled with such concerns on this happy day?” Rakoczy could sense the rancor in Hovarth and was determined to difuse it.

  “Yes, why, when you have a rich gift to give, and the thanks of the Konige for your trouble.” He motioned to his apprentices. “Our tapestry will take until spring to complete, and we will have to labor well into the night until it is done. It is a large project, and a complex one: an allegory of faith triumphant.”

  Rakoczy was glad that the jewels he would present to the Konige were safely in his wallet; he nodded to the tapestry-weavers. “Your gift will be the more treasured for the effort you expend to make it. Your skills are well-known and your work is highly regarded everywhere. Your tapestries will adorn Vaclav Castle for all ages to come.”

  “Unless they are ruined. Jewels don’t become ruined.” He scowled. “How long do you think the Episcopus will be with the Konige?”

  “I have no idea,” Rakoczy said with utter candor. “Our thanksgiving Mass will begin soon enough.” He turned away from Hovarth Pisti, and was surprised to see Kravar Jurg, Pan of Kravar, motioning to him; he had met the young nobleman no more than three times, and this sudden show of bonhomie struck Rakoczy as strange, but he moved toward the Pan in the blue-and-red cotehardie. “A happy day for Bohemia.”

  “It could be happier,” said Kravar Jurg, moving aside to give Rakoczy some room among the benches. “The Konig was expecting a son.”

  “A shame that he mu
st be disappointed,” said Rakoczy.

  “Do you think so? that he must be disappointed?” The young man chuckled, then stopped. “I forgot, you’re one of the Hungarians, aren’t you?”

  “Not precisely; I am from the eastern end of the Carpathians, where my fief is located,” said Rakoczy. “Mine is a very old House.”

  “I thought your accent isn’t quite like the rest of them.” He looked toward the door. “Monks are coming. We’d best be seated.” He took the end of the bench where he had been standing. “Join me, Comes?”

  Becoming more curious at Pan of Kravar’s geniality, Rakoczy sat down next to him and prepared for the coming Mass.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu, at Praha, Bohemia, to Frater Sandor, private scribe to Konig Bela, at Kalocsa, Hungary, written in Latin code on vellum and carried by private courier; delivered sixteen days after it was written.

  To the loyal and upright Hieronymite monk, Frater Sandor, the greetings of Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu, on the ninth day of September in the Lord’s Year 1269, with the trust that all information in these pages will be imparted to Konig Bela as promptly as circumstances will allow.

  To the most excellent Konig Bela of Hungary,

  It is my duty to tell you that Konige Kunigunde has, on the 5th day of September, been delivered of a daughter to be named Agnethe of Bohemia, who will be presented to the people of Praha tomorrow, and her name entered in the role of Bohemia’s royal lineage. I have seen your granddaughter twice and I can assure you that she is properly formed and active in her movements. She has been given to the Konige’s wetnurse, and all of the Konige’s ladies have been given their orders for watching over the infant.

  The Konige’s older daughter, Kunigunde of Bohemia, because she is little more than four, is unhappy to have to share the attention of the Konige’s Court with her new sister, and has taken to behaving objectionably toward the Court ladies. She struck her body-servant yesterday and was given stale bread for her supper. Children are often jealous in this way, and in time the rancor will pass, but for now, you may expect reports that single out the Little Royal’s bad behavior. If a companion could be found for her—her own age or a little older—most of her antics would likely cease. Perhaps one of her cousins could be spared for the task? If not a cousin, then the child of one of your vassal-lords?

  All this is favorable, but there are two matters that are not: first, your granddaughter has been struck with melancholy, which sometimes comes upon women after giving birth, but this shows no signs of lifting, and may be deepening. Her labor was long, but she has rested from that. She has yet to show any sign of concern for her new daughter. As much as she wanted a son, her distress is known, and I am troubled that she is not willing to hold her newborn namesake. I have spoken with Klotild of Jilish to see if there are any herbs that might lessen the Konige’s misery, but she has nothing to recommend. If it pleases you, Konig Bela, I will ask Episcopus Fauvinel to say Masses for her restoration, or seek any other service that you would want performed on your behalf.

  The other information I have to impart is cause for grief and distraint: your kinswoman Erzebet of Arad died yesterday evening after falling into a profound lethargy that could not be ended, although there were several attempts made to bestir her. She had been declining for some time, wracked by pain in her guts and joints, by failing appetite, and, in the last month, rashes on the skin. She had become so pale that she seemed translucent, and her eyes were sunken in her head, but were luminous. Frater Lovre, who attended on Erzebet in her illness, declared it was heated guts due to bilious humors that killed her, but I must tell you that I fear she has been poisoned. For that reason, I urge you to provide more protection for the Hungarians at the Konige’s Court, for if one of the Konige’s Court can be murdered, so others might be. May my fears be groundless, but since I have them, I am duty-bound to tell you of them. If you would like me to send a report to Frater Morcs so that he may assess the factors of Erzebet’s death and submit his conclusions in its regard, I will do so. As an apothecary, Frater Morcs is familiar with the nature of poisons and can therefore lend his knowledge to Erzebet’s case, and his advice must be given full regard. If he finds that I have no cause for alarm, I will bow to his wisdom.

  I have acquitted my charged obligation to you, Konig Bela, and will continue to do so for as long as it pleases you that I should. All I ask is that you not forget that all you have required of me in Praha thus far I have done to the limits you have placed upon me. For the sake of the pledge you have made to Santu-Germaniu, I implore that you recall your good-will and your probity on behalf of my land and my vassals.

  Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu

  (his sigil, the eclipse)

  2

  Where there was sunlight there was warmth, but in the shade the first whispers of winter lurked, their chill brushing shivers onto skin and snapping color into the faces of the members of the Konige’s Court; in the waning afternoon the shadows lengthened, deepening their touch, and the Konige’s courtiers began to struggle to stay warm. Four elaborate pavilions stood in the broadest swath of light, with dozens of men and women wandering between them; in the space at the center of the four a large fire was being laid, and cooks were preparing to spit-broil the game that had been killed that day, while a group of musicians played just outside the closed silken door of Konige Kunigunde’s pavilion. Three Trinitarian monks hovered near the entrance to the pavilion, seeking alms for the poor and the Church.

  “She has been weeping most of the day,” Csenge of Somogy said to Rakoczy Ferancsi in Magyar as he tuned his new Frankish lyre; they were in the alley between the Konige’s pavilion and the one of Pan Kravar Jurg. “I hope you can provide her some relief. Something must be done before the Konig arrives.”

  “And I, as well, hope that my efforts can help her,” said Rakoczy, testing the bass string for a third time, then twisting the tuning peg to bring it up to pitch.

  “Sing her Hungarian songs, ones she’ll know. I think she’s been homesick. You could help her to—” She gnawed at her lower lip before flinging out her hands in a show of helplessness. “If only she had had a son, she wouldn’t be so downcast. Who can blame her, though? Married almost eight years and only two daughters to show for it!”

  “The Episcopus says her daughter is God’s Will.” Rakoczy plucked at the other eleven strings, taking care to tune them sweetly.

  “Then God has been cruel to her, and the Episcopus knows it. The Konig must feel betrayed, to have a second daughter.” She shuddered. “Not even the Konige is proof against his ire. She has failed him in the most dreadful way a woman can fail a man.” She took the hem of her sleeve and wiped her eyes.

  “Surely adultery is a greater failure,” Rakoczy said. “Konige Kunigunde has faithfully given him this child. That she is a daughter may disappoint Konig Otakar, but it is hardly a failure: Agnethe is alive and properly formed. She feeds well, and her cry is hearty.”

  “But the Konig needs a son.”

  Rakoczy bit back a question that buzzed in his mind, for expressing more approval of the Konige above that of the Konig in these circumstances would be dangerous sentiments, especially for an exile. He looked at the large, red pavilion and said, “How many are with her?” It was a question often asked these days, and Csenge thought nothing of his inquiry.

  “Three ladies-in-waiting, two dwarves, and six slaves, and those she has invited into her presence; how many of them are with her now, I have no idea,” she replied. “There would be four ladies, but Rozsa of Borsod has been sent for by her husband, and the Konige has released her to go to him. If she doesn’t return, she will have to be replaced, as will Erzebet of Arad. Two new ladies in the spring—it will be difficult until then, without Erzebet and Rozsa. The Konige misses them both.” A faint flicker of supposition shone in her eyes, fading rapidly when her announcement got no more reaction from Rakoczy than a shake of his
head. “As do we all.”

  “It is sad that Erzebet of Arad is dead and will never return here,” he said carefully. “For Rozsa, it is probably better to travel now than later in the autumn. The rains will start shortly, and then it will be too hard to be abroad. Muddy roads make for trouble.” He touched his lyre and this time was pleased with what he heard.

  “As the Konig knows; the army will leave the front shortly.”

  Imbolya of Heves walked by, resplendent in a bleihaut of pale-green Damascus silk worked in a pattern of acanthus leaves, a large pitcher of honied wine in her hands; she nodded to her cousin but said nothing.

  “And Rozsa’s husband will be at Kaposvar before the Konig comes to Praha.” Rakoczy waited for Csenge to speak.

  “Rozsa won’t be able to return until spring, when her husband once more follows the Konig into battle.” This time her scrutiny was pronounced. “She will not be here before the Equinox. Unless she becomes pregnant, which will probably result that she remain in Hungary at Kaposvar.”

  “Among her own people, who will care for her,” he said, more because it was the prudent response than because he believed it.

  “Would it bother you if she became pregnant?” Csenge asked, her eyes fixed on his.

  “Why should it?”

  “The rumor is that you might care,” Csenge said as pointedly as she dared.

  “For Rozsa’s sake, certainly,” he agreed. “But you imply more, do you not?” His tone was light and sardonic.

  “And if a child should come in the spring, what then?” Csenge lifted her chin in triumph. “She boasted that she had the sweetest lover in all the world.”

  “Then she is a fortunate woman,” said Rakoczy and struck a chord, listening to its harmony with satisfaction.