“I’ll open the door.” Father moved away from the window. “Mugur, Horia, hide in the next room, and stay ready, just in case.”
I breathed deeply, nodding to him. Father took out the heavy piece of wood that was blocking the door, and we went out together.
“Lady Jara, Sir Cernat,” Mohor saluted – he was an elegant Seigneur. The tall Knight said nothing.
Impolite… I thought, annoyed by his behavior, and there was something quite brutish in the way he was assessing me, as if to say, only my body counted for him.
I tried to anchor Mohor’s tone to our previous encounters in my castle – when I still had one – and I could not hear anything alarming, but he was a cautious and introspective man, well able to hide his thoughts. “Mohor,” I said with a calculated dose of effusiveness in my voice, staring into his eyes, and father saluted him too. “Long time no see. We were thinking to visit you one of these days, but arranging the house has eaten up all of our time.” We had an agreement, father and me, that in troubled times, with no physical challenges in sight, I should lead the conversation with men of certain value, and Mohor was not a brute; it was one of the few hard times when it was helpful to be a … woman. “Please follow us inside,” I invited him, forcing a charming smile onto my lips; it was already clear that he had no violent intentions, and even if we were unable to appreciate the situation, he would be an easy prey inside the house.
I entered, followed by Mohor and my father. The arrogant Knight arrived at the door too. “Yes?” father asked, in a casual tone, giving a clear message that he was not invited.
“I apologize,” Mohor said. “I should have made the introductions before. Aron, my Spatar,” he pointed to the man. “Would it be possible for him to join us?” Being the chief of the army, the Spatar competed with the Secretary for the highest position in any Seigneury. It all depended on the quality of people occupying the position and the troubles of the times.
“Of course your Spatar is welcome in our house,” father said, underlining that the position and not the man was invited. “It was just difficult to realize that he was a Spatar from his silent courtesy.” Father was good at putting people in their place with gracious politeness.
“How is Senal?” I asked, just to stop the arrogant man speaking. He was obviously annoyed, biting his lip in search of a devastating answer. It was also a way to renew some links with Mohor; Senal had been his secretary for many years, and always involved in our negotiations. When the two left our castle, six months ago, we were almost sure that Mohor would join our alliance against Orban, yet something happened, and a month later, we received a letter that he would remain neutral. Was this Spatar the cause?
“Getting older,” Mohor answered, with both concern and fondness in his voice. “He sends his greetings to both of you, and we all feel sorry for everything that has happened.” Once seated, Mohor had a brief look around, and after some mandatory comments about how nice everything looked, he stated what was troubling him. “So, you just moved here,” he said in a thoughtful tone, as if we had not realized it yet. “Very close to Severin.”
“In our lands,” Aron interjected, with his peculiar arrogance.
“We can see your large castle from here, and I hope that you will find us pleasant neighbors.” I smiled, ignoring the brutish man, and the castle was not so large, but why should I not make Mohor feel good?
“There is no doubt about that,” Mohor added quickly. “It’s just that we might have a small political inconvenience from this neighborhood thing.”
“Orban,” the arrogant Spatar added.
“And what would that be?” I asked innocently, ignoring Aron again.
“Your relations with Orban are not the most cordial, and he is now a … much more powerful Grand Seigneur,” Mohor said politely, but there was a not so hidden firmness in his voice.
“Yes, Orban is more powerful now,” I agreed. “He could have been in a much lesser position, but Fate decreed otherwise. We had almost enough soldiers to win…” I left things in suspension; it was just a slight hint that with Mohor’s military help Orban would have been history now. And Malin still alive… I suppressed my thoughts, staring at Mohor, trying to put as much pressure as I could on him.
“Orban may act in some awkward ways, hearing that you’ve settled here.” Mohor’s voice kept its calmness; it was difficult to say if my words had any effect on him.
“You think that Orban may dare to send his soldiers here,” father interjected, trying to force an explicit statement that Mohor was not happy to give – no one feels at ease recognizing the fear of his land being invaded, for whatever reason.
“He might stir some trouble,” Mohor again avoided a straight answer.
“Would this help to alleviate the situation you are worried about?” I asked, going to the cabinet then handing Mohor the treaty father had signed with Orban, where he recognized our title over the house and the three hundred fifty hectares of land we owned here, while we renounced in his favor anything else we had. That at least kept us Knights – at least two hundred hectares were needed for Knighthood. Our settlement was also agreed, ‘by the consent of both parties’.
“In theory, yes,” Mohor half-agreed. “And for the time being, you are safe here. That may change,” he added in a soft voice, to cover his tough words. “In that case, I am ready to make a good offer for your…” he made a gesture with his hand, pointing in general at the house and whatever else we owned in his lands.
“You are very kind, Mohor,” I said. “But we hope to be your long-term neighbors.” There was an intended slight displeasure in my voice, just to underline that we were expecting a more open reaction from him. I must make him understand that we still have some cards to play.
He made an indefinite gesture that in an optimistic assessment could have been taken as approval.
“We may have some long-term common interests,” I added. “In theory,” I used his own words, “you are at peace with Orban, but you never know with him. The Dukes in the north just signed a three-year armistice treaty. That ties Orban’s hands for the moment, and he still has to digest all the lands conquered by our defeat. But his hands will be free again, and he wants to become a Duke. The north is not an option for him as the Dukes are too strong, the east and west are hard to take too, and that leaves the south. You and the Mehadins. Any of you has enough land to make him a Duke, and just three years to...” I left my phrase unfinished, allowing their imagination to fill it with their own fears.
“Orban is a difficult, ill-tempered man,” Mohor agreed, in an indirect way.
“Ill-tempered, indeed,” I repeated, just to make him uncomfortable. “Two months ago, when his vassal Cerbu did not agree to ‘donate’ the fortress of Abrud, Orban killed him and all his family. Even his newborn daughter, and he started the killing with the children, letting the parents see everything, just to give a lesson to those who may be interested.” I glanced at them to see the impact of my news. They had no idea; their bodies reacted slightly, yet in different ways. There was a dose of irritation in Mohor, while the arrogant Spatar seemed to have an interest in such abject exercises of power. You are missing many parts of Orban’s miserable life… “When the neutral city of Desa did not capitulate fast enough, he convinced them by boiling all the prisoners in front of the gates. Desa capitulated, and all its people were killed as punishment: eight hundred of them. Desa is now a ghost city. So you see? There is no such thing as neutrality in hard times, and being Orban’s vassal can be as dangerous as being his enemy. We know the north well, Mohor.” That’s our value… And you need allies, like we needed them once. You may understand now…
“You may be right,” Mohor spoke again after a long break. “After you’ve made all your arrangements,” he used the same gesture toward the house with his hand as before, “and have enough time, you are welcome to visit my castle.”
Well Mohor, you just started to ‘see’. “Thank you,” I said, and everybody seem
ed to agree that there was nothing more to discuss for the moment.
Leaving, even the Spatar saluted, yet there was a malicious gleam in his arrogant eyes: we did not belong here. You will make problems for us…
“It was a good start,” father said from the door, staring at the departing riders. The sound of their horses’ trotting was decreasing in a metronome-like cadence. “But I wish Mohor were a more powerful Seigneur. Anyway, as you said, we have three years left to prepare our last fight. Orban will not allow us to run again, and no one will shelter us.”
Down in the valley, Severin castle was the sole proof of Mohor’s power; it wasn’t much.
“Three years,” I repeated unconsciously, the fading trotting was mesmerizing me. The sound of moments ticking away. “We win or die, father. There is no other choice. I don’t want my children in Orban’s hands.” Veres will be killed fast, but Saliné and Vio...
Ah, how I wish Malin were here.
Chapter 4 - Codrin
“Get off our land!” The shout was in Silvanian, even though I was now in Livonia, but I did not have time to wonder.
A woman’s voice. Not very close… I turned cautiously, leaving the halter free, touching the hilt of the sword. My movement was deliberately slow, swift moves attract swift reactions. I did not feel much danger – you do not shout when you want to kill, it is the other way around, you kill then you shout. Three people were standing in front of me, at a safe distance for all of us: a woman, in her late fifties, yet sturdy and moving at ease, a thin boy of around twelve, and another one about my age, with the same sturdy stock as the old woman. Armed, so to speak – they had only hayforks, but what’s the difference to you if you are killed by a fork’s spike or a sword? Tense, and filled with wrath, they stared at me. All wounded, I realized. Nothing very serious.
“I mean no harm,” I said, raising my arms to calm them. “You were attacked.” A short statement, in a gentle tone, telling them that I both realized it and felt sorry.
“Some bastards on horses. Just like you.” The woman’s voice was bitter, yet my feeling was that somehow I had passed a first test. A curse may sometimes be just the needed release of tension before dialogue can start.
The grave, I suddenly remembered. It was fresh. “There is nothing bad in having a horse. Evil can both ride and walk.”
Frightened by something I could not understand, the young one jumped forward, attacking me. The other two followed just because they had to cover him. Twelve-year-old boys are both unstable and easy to defeat. I grabbed the hayfork from his hands and parried the attack of the elder one with it, moving behind him with a pirouette, releasing the fork, my knife pressing at his throat.
“I mean no harm,” I said again, staring at the old woman who was moving slowly, the hayfork tense in her hands. The youngest one hid behind her, grabbing a stone. “I will release him, if both of you drop the forks. And the stone.” Our eyes met. She was gripping the hayfork, her eyes fixed on me. She is unsure... “He could be already dead,” I gestured with my head toward the immobilized boy who was breathing hard, with my knife pressing on his throat, giving her more time to decide.
The moment the hayforks hit the ground I released him, stepping back, and he jumped forward to reach the other two. The young one still had the stone, his hand ready to throw it. “Drop it,” I said, and the old women forced him to let it fall.
“What do you want?” she asked, still nervous.
“I am looking for a place to sleep and eat,” I gestured to the old painting with the inn’s name. For a night or a winter. “Payment is not a problem.”
“The inn is no more, but you can stay overnight in the stable.”
“If the riders come back I can help,” I said gently, forcing her to rethink.
“They may come back,” she agreed. “They killed … my husband, and we killed one of them. Why would you stay and help?”
“You help, I help. My companions were killed too, and I need a place to stay over the winter.” My reaction was a surprise for all of us, yet it looked a good trade to me; for some unknown reasons, I trusted the old woman. “I may be young, but I am good with the sword. Or the knife,” I reminded her how easily I defeated the boys.
“Let’s eat first,” she said, undecided, but leaving the door open.
Two months later, my birthday came with the first snow in the vale, but I kept it to myself. The only celebration I could mentally afford was to climb a small peak overlooking the valley. In that white, silent beauty, I mourned again, as I had every other day until now. At sixteen, you are no longer a child, but not a man either.
I stayed all that long winter with the old woman, Gran, Pintea, the young boy and Vlad, the older one. We traded housing, safety and skills. I learned Livonian – at borders, people know two languages – and how to be a farmer and to cut wood. The boys learned to fight. Vlad was strong and a promising swordsman, and after five months, I thought him good enough to honorably defend their house against robbers.
Sometimes, during the long nights, my twin sister, Ioana, appeared in my dreams, her lovely face illuminated by a bloody moon, and each time she was just staring at me in silence with her large green eyes. And each time, I woke howling at the red moon still shining in my head. I could no longer sleep those nights, memories of better times haunting me: riding with her, climbing trees together, her reading in my arms. There was no one in the whole world closer to me than Ioana, and nothing could replace her.
With the first warm wind from the south, I prepared to leave, but a surprising setback delayed me: my ring-mail, gathering dust in a corner of the room, no longer fitted me. I always was tall, thin and skinny, a bag of bones and sinews, as Tudor liked to joke. Slender like a rope, my body always made me fear that I would never be strong enough to become a good fighter. Yet, when I probed the mail, my shoulders no longer fit well inside. Speed was my first ally in a battle, and tight armor my enemy. Checking whatever parts of my body I could see – there was no mirror in the inn – I had the impression that my limbs were thicker, and for sure, my shoulders were broader, the unfitting armor proved it. An encouraging sign, but without armor, the road could be deadly. I have to cut it. Here and here, I mentally marked some lines from my neck to my elbow. And under my armpits too… There were many tools for handling iron in the inn, the remnants of better times; it had a small smithy for horse shoes among other things. In the enlarged cuts, I put some old, hardened leather – not as good as the iron rings, but better than nothing.
“Tudor, don’t go, stay with us,” Gran said, using the fake name I gave them, when she heard my decision to leave. I don’t know why, from all the names in the world, I had chosen my tutor and friend’s name; maybe just to keep a link with an old life that had vanished. “You have a safe place to stay, and we like you,” she encouraged me.
Tempted, I avoided a final answer for a few days, but in the end, I could not see my future in the old inn. There was nothing to help me return in Arenia and take back what was mine by right. I left Vlad my brother’s sword, and the horse that was not mine – Zor was now completely healed.
I went directly to Hateg, the Livonian capital, where caravans from many parts were arriving; the Spring Fair was about to start. The roads were generally unsafe everywhere, but a total disaster in the former Frankis Kingdom, and I hoped to be hired as a caravan protector, as planned with Tudor a year ago. It took me six days to get there.
Even from the name, it was clear that the Caravans’ Inn was well placed for merchants from the caravans or the people dealing with them. It must be expensive. I entered, moving slowly, marking everyone’s place, armed or unarmed, looking at me or not; a vagrant, and even more so one as young as me, had to learn to observe. Satisfied, I went to the man who seemed to be the innkeeper, composing the hardest face I could gather, my hand resting ostentatiously on the hilt of my sword. It did not work; he glanced at me and chose to ignore the annoying boy who looked heavily armed only by mistake.
&
nbsp; “I need a room,” I said, dryly.
“And how do you want to pay?” he was half-interested; I still did not look like his usual rich customers.
“Money,” I shrugged. “Isn’t that what all innkeepers want? One week, breakfast and dinner.”
He measured me again, calculating how much he could extract from an inexperienced lad. “Four galbeni.”
“I did not ask for room service and women,” I played the sarcasm card.
“Women?” His eyes squinted, slightly amused, trying to guess my age, but it passed fast. “For that it would be eight galbeni.” He was unmoved, and in a better position to negotiate.
At that moment, a large man, well soaked with alcohol from the smell of his breath, hit the counter with his fist. “Damn you, Movil. I want another bottle of wine and I will get it. You can put it on my slate.”
“Your slate is already too long,” Movil, the innkeeper, said in a careful tone. “But I can add a half-bottle,” he conceded, seeming to know well the disruptive potential of the massive man, and he tried to turn to reach the wine barrel.
“We did not finish,” I pointed to Movil, reminding him that we were still in some sort of negotiation.
“I will finish you,” the large alcohol sponge growled, turning to me, his huge fist prepared to smash my head.
My right arm sprang aside, and the lateral, hardened part of my palm hit his throat. A move that Tudor made me repeat ten thousand times and more until it became instinctual.
“You don’t think through fights, consciousness is slow. It’s the unconsciousness you need, your primal mind. Touch something hot and your hand reacts before you can even think about it,” Tudor told me over and over. Now that the fight had ended, my mind claimed supremacy over my instincts again, and his words flowed inside me, leaving a heavy trace of sorrow.
Errant Page 4
