On the bed, Imbolya punched the mattress then flung back the bear-skin. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“There’s a fire,” said Rakoczy in Magyar. “I must go. And so must you. It isn’t safe here.”
She paled, the prospect of a fire gaining her full attention. “Yes. We must. It would not do either of us good if I were discovered here.” She got out of the bed, reaching for her clothes. “I don’t want to delay you.”
He was pulling on his bleihaut. “My personal servant will escort you to Sante-Zore. You may rely on him implicitly, Imbolya: I do.” He reached for his belt and secured it around his waist.
“I should thank you for sparing him to me,” she said, shivering. “How extensive is the fire?”
“I am going to find out,” said Rakoczy, then added quietly, “I apologize for this, Imbolya.”
She was tugging her chainse over her head, and as she emerged through the neck of the garment, she shrugged. “I came to you and we knew it would be brief.” She took her braccae and began to pull one on. “My solers—”
“Under the bed,” he told her, and bent to pick up her bleihaut, holding it for her.
“I see them,” she said, pulling on her other bracca.
“As soon as you are ready.” He offered her bleihaut to her.
“Just a…” She stood up, settling her chainse around her; she caught the cuffs in her hands and held up her arms to help him fit her bleihaut around her. “Don’t worry about the lacing. I can tie them well enough.”
“If you like.”
She blinked against the smoke in the room. “Best put the lid on the brazier.”
Rakoczy was already setting the tarnished copper in place. “Your solers.” He pointed to them.
“And your boots,” she said, bending over to don her footwear.
“Where is Barnon?” Rakoczy asked as he opened the door to Hruther.
“I left him organizing the men to carry buckets from the horse-trough to the fire. He’s badly frightened.” Hruther held a heavy soccus folded over his arm. “I think your companion would benefit from this.”
Rakoczy glanced at the old-fashioned Byzantine cloak. “Yes; thank you, old friend. The weather alone calls for it.”
Turning to Imbolya, Hruther said, “You will want to wear the hood up.” He ducked his head respectfully.
Imbolya, who was adjusting her gorget and wimple, stopped to look at the engulfing garment. “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed. “This is most welcome.” She seized the soccus and swung it around her shoulders, permitting it to fall about her before she raised the hood. “I will see it returned to you. It’s safer that way.”
Rakoczy laid his hand on her shoulder. “Be careful, Imbolya.”
“Your man will see to that,” she said, and stood in front of him, her face turned up toward him. “Will we have the chance to meet again, do you think? I won’t be at the Konige’s Court much longer.”
“I hope so,” he said, kissing her forehead. “If we can meet safely.”
“Safely,” she echoed disbelievingly, then pushed his chest. “You’d better go. Your servants will need you to command them.” With that, she turned away from Rakoczy and addressed Hruther. “I’m ready to follow you.”
“Thank you, Hruther,” said Rakoczy as he stood aside to permit Imbolya to pass out of the room to the stairs, then descended behind them. At the foot of the stairs, Rakoczy took the larger door and stepped out into the forecourt, one hand raised to keep the blowing rain from getting into his eyes; he did not look to see Hruther open the small warder’s door that led to the narrow alley that ran beside the wall to the craftsmen’s gate.
“Comes!” shouted Estephe as Rakoczy came around the eastern flank of the manse. “Where have you been?”
“Hruther found me,” Rakoczy answered promptly, looking at the billowing smoke that roiled up from the burning chimney, where flames licked at the sooty darkness, spreading heat along with fear. “When did this start? Does anyone know? Who saw it first?”
“The first flames were seen not long ago, but who knows how long they built up? You know how chimney fires can be.” He was rushing toward the horse-trough, a large bucket dangling from his rough-gloved hand. “Barnon has ordered us to throw water on the fire. Six of the household men are doing the task.”
One of the scullions rushed by, a bucket of water clasped in his hands and held high in front of his body.
“Illes of Kotan—is he helping?” Rakoczy asked, lengthening his stride as he neared the trough.
“He has taken the horses from the stable to the paddock, away from the flames; they were fretting in their stalls—one of the mules was kicking,” said Estephe, and crossed himself. “Should I summon him?”
“It is better for him to care for the horses,” said Rakoczy.
They were almost at the horse-trough, where Barnon was handing a full bucket to Kornemon while Ambroz lowered his pail into the water. “Make your buckets full and spill as little as you can.”
“Very good,” said Rakoczy, and reached for one of two wooden buckets standing next to the horse-trough. “Who is commanding the men at the bake-house?”
“Comes.” Barnon stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Helping to put out the fire,” he said, filling the bucket. “Who is in charge at the bake-house?”
“Pacar. He says he knows fire from the kitchen.”
Rakoczy nodded and hastened away toward the bake-house, his bucket balanced so that he would not lose much of its contents, calling out to Pacar as he came to the edge of the smoke, “Where shall I pour this?”
Pacar stood in the door to the bake-house, his face smirched with ash, his kitchen-smock pock-marked with burns from flying sparks. His voice was hoarse from shouting and breathing in smoke. “Throw it there,” he barked without looking at the new arrival, pointing to the maw of the fireplace.
“The fire is in the flue, not on the hearth,” said Rakoczy, and swung his bucket so that the water arched toward the chimney, hissing as it struck the bricks. Hot steam rose in pale clouds from the wet patch, getting lost in the black smoke hiding the ceiling. Rakoczy could see that some of the smoke was moving, and he realized that some of the ceiling had smoldered away.
Pacar turned, aghast. “Comes,” he gasped, ducking his head twice. “God and His Angels! Why are you here?”
“My property is on fire,” said Rakoczy.
“But you … you shouldn’t be fighting it. That’s servants’ work.” Pacar seemed truly distressed.
“Never mind that,” Rakoczy said. “The water must go onto the chimney, not into the hearth. The fire is at least eighteen hands up, inside the chimney.” He felt the heat on his hands and face like a desert wind.
“But it may break if the site of the fire is struck with water,” Pacar protested.
“It is ruined already, so you might as well get the fire out as quickly as possible; that way, the rebuilding will not require a completely new flue for the ovens and the hearth, the masons can build on the old foundations. Why should cracked bricks trouble you? Pour on all the water you can.” Rakoczy backed away from the fire, feeling more than seeing Timoty, the household courier, approaching with a large metal pail held to his chest.
Pacar hesitated as he became aware of Timoty. He sighed heavily and pointed at the chimney. “Throw it there.”
Satisfied that the fire would soon be out, Rakoczy went back for another bucketful of water; he could feel the sleet growing thicker as the wind tore at the clouds. He noticed that the men with buckets and pails were moving faster, but whether it was because the storm was worsening or because he was helping to fight the fire, he could not say. He set himself to working steadily, and soon the smoke rising from the bake-house was paler, and the hiss of water on the chimney was fading as the bricks grew cooler and wetter, and the mortar began to crumble. On his ninth return to the bake-house, Rakoczy took time to look up at the ceiling, and noticed the main beams were charred,
and in three places the roof had given way, leaving the bake-house open to the sky. “Is the bath-house damaged?” he asked Pacar, for the bake-house and bath-house shared a good portion of the chimney above the three tall ovens.
“No one has looked,” Pacar said, his voice barely audible. “The fire doesn’t appear to have spread that far.”
“Then send someone to examine the bath-house to make sure. I do not want the fire starting up again.” Rakoczy met Pacar’s gaze directly.
“If that is what you want of us,” Pacar said grudgingly. “It is in the Hands of God whether we shall all burn or shall be saved.” He crossed himself to make his point.
“Then why did you bother to fight the fire? Why not leave Mansion Belcrady to God?” Rakoczy asked, and spoke before Pacar could frame an answer. “God asks us to use His gifts to help ourselves once we are old enough to fend for ourselves.”
Pacar shrugged and bent over to cough. “It will take some days to clear away the damage. No baking can be done until the chimney is made whole again.”
“The central hearth cannot be used,” Rakoczy said, noticing how close the fireplace was to collapsing; a bundle of sticks lay under the chimney, black where they were not reduced to ash. “The ovens will have to be inspected as well. And the bath can’t be heated.”
Ambroz came and flung more water on the chimney. “Looks like it’s out.”
“Probably,” said Pacar.
Between the open door and the holes in the roof, the smoke was dissipating quickly; now drops of gelid rain added to the mess on the floor. The household men started to gather up their pails and buckets while Pacar leaned in the door, wheezing. Now that the danger had passed, they all wanted to be away from the bake-house.
“Comes, come away. Leave it to the bricklayers to fix,” said Estephe.
Only Rakoczy remained near the chimney, studying it in the half-light. There was a mass of cracks in the mortar a hand above his head, and the bricks bulged a little. Rakoczy shook his head, then looked down at the fireplace and the mass of twigs and strips of cloth, something like a rats’ nest. “But the chimneys have just been cleaned,” he muttered to himself as he crouched down to have a better look at the thing.
“Comes, it isn’t safe,” Pacar warned, shoving himself out of the door.
“Still,” said Rakoczy, picking up a blackened length of twine. He lifted it, sniffing it carefully, then rolled it along his fingers, studying the residue it left behind. “Wax,” he said in his own language. He picked up one of the remaining twigs. “More wax.” He slipped the twine and the stick into his sleeve.
“Comes,” Ambroz urged him.
“I am coming,” he said in Bohemian, and went to the door, thinking as he went that the fire in the chimney had been set, and the wax proved it.
* * *
Text of a letter of introduction from Frater Sandor, scribe to Konig Bela of Hungary, to Konig Przemysl Otakar II of Bohemia and the Counselors of Praha, written in Church Latin on parchment, carried by Royal herald, and delivered sixteen days after it was dispatched.
At the behest of Bela, Konig of Hungary, I send this message to Przemysl Otakar II, Konig of Bohemia, Moravia, Styria, Carinthia, Carinola, and Magna Dux of Austria, and the Counselors of Praha to present to you the following of Konig Bela’s nobles who will be joining the Court of Konig Bela’s granddaughter, Kunigunde of Halicz, Konige of Bohemia; this on the 20th day of February in the Lord’s Year 1270.
Kustansze of Lugoj, grandniece to Konig Bela and second cousin to Konige Kunigunde, to be one of Konige Kunigunde’s waiting-women, housed within the Konige’s Court; she is a widow of high repute and the mother of three children currently in Konig Bela’s service and care. Past the age of wiles and foolishness, she will provide a pious example to the Konige’s Court. She will be escorted by Padnagy Kalman, Dux of Oradea, and four of his officers.
Iliska of Szousa, second daughter of the Comes of Szousa, will take the place of Erzebet of Arad as one of the Konige’s Court; she will be escorted by her brother, Antal of Szousa, who will remain with his sister until harvest-time, when he will return to his father at Szousa. Antal of Szousa will have five men-at-arms with him, and bring ten slaves for Konige Kunigunde’s use. He will also be in charge of six mares from Konig Bela’s stables, a gift to the Court of his granddaughter. He will house himself and his men, so as not to be a charge upon the Konige, and to help to preserve the good names of the waiting-women.
Rozsa of Borsod will return to the Konige’s Court until Mid-Summer, when her pregnancy will require her to return to Kaposvar to await the birth of her child at the seat of his father, for surely God will give Notay Tibor a son. Rozsa of Borsod will be escorted by Milan of Gyula, master of Notay Tibor’s personal Guard, with six of his men. Rozsa of Borsod will become part of the Konige’s Court again, but her escort and his men will take lodgings in the city of Praha and will be responsible for their maintenance and the maintenance of their horses.
In addition, two Passionist monks, Frater Dubede and Frater Isdros, will travel with the company, to minister the Sacraments as they may be needed, and to hear the Confessions of the travelers.
May God yet send you a son, Konig Otakar, and may your wars spare you so that you live to rejoice in him.
For Konig Bela of Hungary
by the hand of Frater Sandor
Hieronymite and Royal Scribe
3
“I was sorry to learn of the fire at Mansion Belcrady, Comes,” the Konige said as she looked away from the four perfect egg-shaped blue sapphires lying in their ivory box to Rakoczy Ferancsi, who had presented them to her; around them many of her Court were gathered, vying for notice and favor. For this glittering occasion, where all her Court was charged with making a lavish and rich showing, the Konige had donned a long-trained double bleihaut, one of cloth-of-gold, and the other of parti-colored Italian velvet over a chainse of Mosul-cotton. Instead of gorget and wimple, she wore a chaplet of fretted gold and a tall necklace of topazes and pearls with three tear-drop diamonds depending from it in frames of rose-shaped gold. The reception hall of the Konige’s Court in Vaclav Castle was very grand, decorated with swags of evergreens, alight with such a vast array of candles that it was deemed brighter than the fading day beyond the shuttered windows. Fresh rushes were strewn on the floor, and odors rising from the kitchens promised a magnificent feast.
“Dear Royal is most gracious,” said Rakoczy with a deep French bow. As the occasion demanded, he, too, was elegant in his huch of black-red Damascus silk lined with a herringbone pattern of darkest weasel-pelts, the square, open sleeves lined in red satin and edged in rubies. His chainse was of black Ankara wool, woven to the fineness of Coan linen; his braccae were of supple Persian leather dyed dark-red, and his thick-soled Hungarian estivaux were black, reaching up his leg to just below his knee. The ruby-studded silver-link collar stood out against his clothing, and the pectoral of his eclipse device was magnificent with silver raised wings over a large black sapphire. His silver coronet shone on his brow.
“It is doubly duteous of you to have brought these jewels to me when you have more pressing matters demanding your attention,” she said, running her finger over the lid of the box. Her torpid demeanor and downcast eyes were at odds with the splendor of the Court.
“I am here in Praha to serve you, dear Royal.”
“You keep to your task quite well,” she approved, but in so flat a voice that he would not have been convinced of her sincerity had he not been aware it was her melancholy speaking. “My grandfather did well in sending you to me.” This was somewhat more persuasive. Her quirky smile was a bit more animated.
“He wished to see you resplendently adorned, dear Royal, as befits a Konige of such high degree,” said Rakoczy, thinking as he did how tedious court-ship could be. “If you and Konig Bela are pleased, what can I be but delighted.”
“What gallantry,” she remarked. “For someone from so remote a region, you have the conduct of a
Prince of the Blood.”
Rakoczy could not suppress a faint, ironic smile. “Dear Royal gives me much praise.”
She looked away, touching her necklace, her eyes distant. “How is it you do not give me pearls, Comes?”
Rakoczy had answered this question many times over the centuries, and said promptly and truthfully, “Among those of my blood, pearls are said to bring tears, which I would never wish upon you, dear Royal.” He assumed she would not pursue the matter; pearls were the one jewel he could not make in his athanor: he relied on Eclipse Trading to keep him supplied.
She considered his answer, her eyes distant, and finally said, “I will inform you when I have chosen the gift I wish to give the Konig through your generosity.”
“I await the hour,” said Rakoczy.
The Konige acknowledged his bow with a formulaic remark: “For your service you may be sure of my gratitude.” She waved him away.
Stepping back with a second bow, Rakoczy found himself next to Csenge of Somogy, whose magnificent bleihaut of peach-colored wool embroidered with colored silks and golden thread to show a vast array of flowers and birds almost concealed her air of deep fatigue. “Good evening,” he said to her, lowering his head respectfully.
She returned the greeting in an abrupt fashion. “Comes.” She glared at him, as if trying to break his composure; when she did not succeed, she relented enough to ask, “And how do you find the dear Royal this evening? She gave you a goodly amount of her time.”
“The Konige seems lethargic,” Rakoczy observed. “I had hoped she would be recovered from her delivery by now.”
“So has the Konig,” Csenge rejoined, looking about sharply to try to discover if she had been overheard. “She likes your gift well enough,” Csenge said in a tone that made it impossible to guess whether she meant the remark as a compliment or a recrimination.
“Then I am handsomely rewarded, but that does not lessen my concern for her,” said Rakoczy cordially, unperturbed by Csenge’s brusque remark.
Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 23
