Rakóssy

by Cecelia Holland

  Arpád came behind Rakóssy and said, “We’re ready.”

  Arpád was a head taller than Rakóssy, broad-shouldered and thick-boned. Denis had always been a little afraid of him. Seeing him now, in the doorway of the library, he began to tremble. Above his huge, drooping mustaches Arpád’s eyes were carefully blank. Denis thought he saw contempt in Arpád’s eyes.

  Rakóssy turned and said, “Go down and wait for me in the courtyard, Arpád.”

  He looked back at Denis, waiting until Arpád had gone. He said, “You’ll come raiding. If I’m ever killed, somebody has to be here to give orders. These sheep will follow but they won’t lead. You’re the only one who can tell them what to do, if I die.”

  “If you’re ever killed. If you die. You’re human, János. You could die today. Where are you going?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Nothing is ever my business until you want me to do something for you. If I’m supposed to take over when — when you die, maybe it should be my business.”

  “All right. Malencz has sent a hundred knights to garrison the old wooden fort by Etzel’s Well. I’m going to drive them off and burn the fort.”

  “Etzel’s Well? Isn’t that on Malencz’s land?”

  “Yes. But it’s too close to mine. I don’t want him there.”

  “You don’t want him there. That’s no reason to attack him.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Zoltan’s right, then. You are plotting against Malencz.”

  “You stay away from that damned priest. You wanted to know, and I told you. Now you don’t like it. I take it back. I never told you. Sin in ignorance, brother.”

  “I’m not going to let you.”

  “Just how are you going to stop me?”

  Denis sucked in his breath and started toward Rakóssy. He put his hand on the dagger in his belt. Rakóssy side-stepped calmly and slapped Denis across the face. Denis reeled back. Rakóssy went slowly after him. Denis tried to rush by him, and Rakóssy hit him in the pit of the stomach. Denis fell, retching.

  “Would you rather I dragged you out into the courtyard and beat you up in front of everybody?”

  “I hate you, János.”

  “That’s Christian of you. Don’t get up or I’ll hit you again.” Rakóssy backed away. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

  Denis gathered himself and lunged for Rakóssy’s legs. Rakóssy dodged easily and kicked him in the head. Denis cried out. He lay still.

  Rakóssy watched him. He was surprised that Denis had gone for him the second time and he had not meant to kick him. He saw a tear on Denis’ face, just above the scrape on his cheek.

  “I don’t think I can stand it,” Denis said. “I wish I were dead.”

  Rakóssy bent and picked him up. “Don’t cry, for the love of God. If you were a girl, everything would be different and better. Denis, don’t cry, damn it.”

  Denis lifted his eyes slowly to Rakóssy’s. Rakóssy said, “I want nothing from you but obedience. I don’t care if you hate me or if you burn with brotherly love. All I want is obedience. If I say you are going to raid, little brother, you will raid. And stay away from that priest.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You’ve already said that.” Rakóssy gave him a little shake. “Stop crying. Sit down. Read something.” He turned and went out. Denis put his head down and wept.

  Rakóssy stood outside the library door, listening. He looked down at his fist. He wished it were all over, everybody safe and the Turks beaten and Malencz finished, and he older and Denis back in Italy, going to school. He unclenched his fist and went out into the courtyard.

  They reached Etzel’s Well at sundown and found Malencz’s men already in the wooden fort. Rakóssy had brought only seventy-five men with him, but they all had bows. He set up a camp at the gate of the fort and ordered bonfires lit. There was no moon that night. Rakóssy kept half his men on sentry duty while the other half slept, changing the guard at midnight. Rakóssy did not sleep at all.

  At dawn a man under a white flag came from the fort. Rakóssy rode alone to meet him.

  “I am Sir Martón Vidor,” the man said. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I want you and your men out of this fort by noon. Go back to your master and tell him not to try it again.”

  “You must be mad. This is my lord’s land.”

  “Possibly.”

  Sir Martón spat. “The King will hear of this.”

  The left corner of Rakóssy’s mouth drew down.

  Sir Martón turned and galloped back to the fort. Rakóssy jogged to his own lines and dismounted. Arpád came over. “I’ve got ten men with longbows making fire arrows.”

  Rakóssy nodded. He looked at the sun. The sky was slowly clouding over.

  “Are you worried about your brother?” Arpád said.

  “When I want to tell you my problems, you’ll know about it.”

  Arpád said nothing. Rakóssy stamped by him, watching the fires.

  “That damned brother of his has him worried,” Arpád said to Alexander.

  “Not him. No sheep like that can bother him.”

  “What would happen to us, say, if he died?”

  “Why—”

  “The brother would be baron, and we’d be right back where Papa was when old Alexander was baron. Yes, my lord, No, my lord. Malencz coming to visit, and half of us out hunting some other way to keep fed.”

  Alexander looked for Rakóssy and saw him standing slouched by one of the fires, watching the wooden fort. Rakóssy glanced up at the sun and back at the fort.

  “Remember when he became baron?” Alexander began to laugh. “Rode right over to Vrath and demanded his knights back.”

  “And had us rebuilding Hart before we were even out of mourning.” Arpád turned too and looked at Rakóssy. “He was a silly-looking little brat, wasn’t he?”

  Rakóssy came toward them. He looked toward the fort every other step.

  “Do you think they’ll leave?” Arpád said.

  “They’ll leave,” Rakóssy said. “One way or another. Get the crossbowmen up closer to the gate. It’s almost noon.”

  Arpád went to move the crossbowmen. Rakóssy stared at the fort. He turned to Alexander.

  “If they attack us, nobody gets mounted. The bowmen can cut them down to size.”

  Alexander nodded. Half the crossbowmen jogged up past them and knelt, their bows unwound, talking. Rakóssy called the other men up and ordered them to a place three or four hundred feet from the first group and about the same distance from the gate. He paced nervously back and forth between the two groups. He told them all not to shoot until he gave the order.

  He hoped that Vidor would surrender without fighting, but he knew that he would not. He watched the gate for a while, looked at the sun, and sat down on his heels.

  The gate opened and he jumped up again. Horsemen galloped through the gate. He lifted his arm, waiting. When most of the horsemen were out the gate and charging, he dropped his arm.

  In the first volley of bolts, the front rank of horsemen hurtled down. Horses kicked and screamed and ran wildly back toward the fort, plunging through the ranks behind. Some of the fallen men got to their feet and ran toward Rakóssy’s men with their swords raised, awkward in their armor. Rakóssy said, “Keep shooting.”

  His men shot as fast as they could crank up their bows. They knelt to steady their aim and shot into the spreading mass of the knights. The bolts riddled the oncoming horsemen. Rakóssy, standing, saw them pitch to the ground and lie still, crawl, or get up and try to run. From the fort came the shrill blast of a horn. The knights wheeled and rode or ran on foot back to the gate. Rakóssy looked at his own men. Not one of them had been touched.

  A white flag appeared at the gate. Vidor rode out toward them, alone. Rakóssy walked slowly out from between his lines, watching Vidor. Vidor sat stiffly in his saddle the prescribed distance from the gate, scowling. Rakóssy passed a body and glance
d at it. The man was not dead. A bolt’s wooden fletching thrust up from his belly.

  Vidor said, “We will leave. This is against all honor.”

  “Take your dead and wounded with you.”

  “There is no dishonor in being beaten by a trick,” Vidor said loudly.

  “Well, you could have saved twenty or thirty men by giving up without a fight,” Rakóssy said. “They probably all feel better knowing that they are still honorable. Get going. Don’t try anything dishonorable. We’ll be watching you.”

  Vidor spat. “Scum.” He wheeled his horse and rode back. Rakóssy smiled.

  Vidor and his men spent until late afternoon patching up their wounded and collecting their dead. They left just before sundown. Rakóssy took six men to burn the fort. They built bonfires against the walls and lit them. The wood was old and hard. It caught fire in sluggish ripples. Rakóssy felt the heat growing. Suddenly the whole wall was burning. His men backed away, weeping from the heat. Rakóssy stared at the flames. They leapt up roaring, high above the top of the wall. The black mare quivered and he put his hand on her neck. She jumped sideways, moving away from the fire. Rakóssy wheeled her and rode off.

  As soon as Rakóssy had left for Etzel’s Well, Denis went to find Zoltan. The priest noticed the scrape on Denis’ cheek, but he did not mention it. They talked for a while, both of them nervous. Denis wanted to ask Zoltan about the new heresies, but Zoltan was not interested and Denis did not press him. Finally Zoltan said that he was tired and wanted to sleep, and Denis left him.

  He went down the corridor toward his room, passed his brother’s door, and after a moment turned back and went in. When Rakóssy had rebuilt Hart, he had left it exactly as before, on the inside. This had been their father’s room. It was the same as it had been the day the old man died, but for the new clothes and the litter of János’ personal things on the top of the chest. And the absence of books. It had been a shock to come home and find Hart on the top of the hill. But here, it was almost the same. He sat down on the foot of the bed and looked at the huge portrait of his mother. He remembered the picture much better than he remembered her.

  I do look like her, he thought. And I have the Greek name. I was hers, when I was born, and János was Father’s. Strange. János was . . . what — three? — when I was born. Not old enough for Father to know that he wasn’t the son he wanted.

  When I was a little boy, I would come here every afternoon. His father would read to him, one finger following the words so that Denis learned to recognize them. One night he remembered especially. Father was reading in Latin, explaining and tracing the words, and I was on his lap. Mother came in, dressed the way she did when she rode. It was dark out, I remember that. He remembered that his father had been worried about his mother.

  “When did you get home?” his father said.

  “Just now.”

  She came farther into the room to hang up her cloak, and Denis, safe on his father’s lap, saw that János was at the door. He had been hidden before by his mother in her heavy cloak.

  “You took him with you,” Denis’ father said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, he’s too young to go riding all day long and doing God knows what out there, growing up like some Slav peasant’s brat. János, come here.”

  János looked at his mother.

  “Don’t look at her. Come here.”

  His mother stood there, watching his father, tall and blond, beautiful. The boy János, like some troll or changeling, came softly across the floor, his hands behind his back.

  “What did you do today, János?”

  “I rode in the mountains.”

  Denis sat on his father’s lap and watched János. His brother’s black eyes stared at him, not seeing.

  “What else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come, come, you must have done something.” Denis’ father looked up at the woman. “What did you do, Theo? Whom did you see?”

  She smiled. “Nothing, as he says.”

  “Well, János, would you like to read?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve forgotten everything I taught you, haven’t you?”

  The stony black eyes, lifting, stared at Denis’ father. “Everything.”

  “Go to bed.”

  János turned and went out of the room.

  “What have you done to him?” Denis’ father said.

  She smiled. “I? Nothing.”

  “You’ve ruined him. He’s a stupid lout of a boy. A dull brat without obedience or kindness or gentleness.”

  “Perhaps if you spent more time with him?”

  “I can never find him to spend time with him. When I do find him and try to teach him something, you take him off and teach him to forget it.”

  “He rides wonderfully, Alexander. He jumped his horse over a windfall today that must have been as tall as he is.”

  “I thought you said that you did nothing.”

  “If he didn’t want to tell you, why should I?”

  “It’s dangerous. Why do you let him jump something that high? He’s only nine years old. He might have been killed.”

  “Not Jansci.”

  No, the older Denis thought. Not Jansci. But it was wonderful, then, when Father was alive. A home full of books and laughing people, when János and Mother were the ones who were wrong. And after Mother died, there was only one left to bother us. He did not remember that János had been lonely. When their mother died, János hardly marked it. He certainly did not act as if anything were different; he was fourteen, and he simply stayed out of their father’s way. The old man was increasingly sick in those days and rarely left his room — this room. János took care of things. Even old Alexander had to admit that he did it well. Denis rarely saw János in those days.

  He stood up and walked around the room. The litter of little things on the top of the chest was what a child might collect. There was a small wooden thing, like a toy cart with two wheels, on one side of the chest, and he picked it up to look at it. János never changed. He was the same when I came back as when I left. After six years. No change at all. I’m certain there was a change in me.

  An arrow on the chest, and a little blackened coin, and the buckle from a spur strap.

  Of course, János had never been the intractable boor their father had thought. The old man had been terribly disappointed in the way he had turned out and had exaggerated everything. Why did a boy turn into something exactly wrong? Especially an older son. It wasn’t only Mother. She was only his accomplice. Denis thought, It must have been deliberate. Yet — once their mother had said, “Jansci is all Magyar, without an inch of Greek in him.” But János, just the other day . . . A sort of atavism, maybe, throwback instincts dormant through generations, lighting finally on one unsuspecting child in his cradle to curdle up the gentle, cultured blood in his veins.

  János still carried certain marks of his father, of course. And really his ambitions and his cold-bloodedness were more modern than atavistic, like one of the Italian princes who so delighted in mazes. Giangaleazzo and Cesare. Denis had heard great tales of such men in Italy.

  When he thought about it the wicked János of his daydream bore very little resemblance to the real János, and he gave up trying to decipher him. He knew he was trying to punish János for kicking him. He left the room and went into his own and slept.

  Rakóssy stayed near the burned out fort for several days, waiting to see if Malencz would come. He did not. Rakóssy thought, when I get back there will be a formal protest and a threat to have me summoned to Buda. He rode slowly home. Perhaps the Turks were raiding. They had been quiet for a while — Mustafa was probably working out a gigantic scheme. He would use that as an excuse not to go to Buda.

  Alexander rode up to him, when they were almost to Hart, and said, “Arpád thinks you’re worried about your brother.”

  Rakóssy rolled sideways in his saddle and brought his eyes slowly up to A
lexander’s. “I’m touched at your concern. You tend to your brother, and I’ll tend to mine. The Devil take you. You’re turning into meddling women.”

  Alexander shrugged. He rode beside Rakóssy, saying nothing.

  Rakóssy turned again. “Get the hell back with the rest of them.”

  Alexander fell back obediently.

  Rakóssy looked straight ahead. He had almost forgotten about Denis. He would have to do something about him. He remembered the child Denis sitting on their father’s lap, reading. Denis, blond, grave, reading along. His mother had disliked Denis, but Rakóssy remembered being fascinated by him and wanting to take care of him and play with him. Once he had even asked Denis to come with him and their mother off to the mountains, but Denis had said no.

  Probably they were all like Denis in Italy and France. The young men were like that in Vienna. Denis would love Vienna. Catharine would love Denis. They were about the same age. Catharine always seemed so much older.

  She learned fast, too. He had taught her Magyar. Until he met her he had never believed that a man and a woman could be friends.

  That was before I found out I’d be marrying her. Instead of Carlotta. He thought of Carlotta and laughed.

  They reached Hart, and Rakóssy took the black mare to the grazing land and let her go. Walking back to Hart, he thought of finding Denis to apologize for kicking him. He decided against it. It made him angry to think about it. He went up to the great hall, got out a map, and studied it, planning his next raid.

  What’s Mustafa like?” Denis said.

  Rakóssy looked up. “You’ve met him.”

  “I mean, what’s he like to know?”

  “Oh.” Rakóssy leaned back. He called in a servant to clear away the dishes, put one foot against the table, and rocked the heavy chair gently back onto its hind legs. “He’s . . . very interesting. You might get to talk to him someday. He never talks Magyar, so you’ll have to learn Turk. He has this . . . odd way of talking. He always says things in three times as many words as he needs.”

  He grinned. He was not looking at Denis, and Denis thought he had almost forgotten his presence.