Rakóssy

by Cecelia Holland

  Rakóssy nodded.

  Columbo’s daughter stood a moment in the firelight, her head turned slightly away from Venn. She looked at him swiftly from the corners of her long-lidded eyes. Venn, caught watching her, jerked his head away. Columbo’s daughter sauntered off, out of the firelight, headed for the low ground by the water.

  Rakóssy said, “I hope you don’t think me . . . lax.”

  Catharine started. “I hadn’t thought of it. Somehow it seems to be something you do to my sister but not to me.”

  Venn rose and went off up the slope.

  “Wait until we get to Hart,” Rakóssy said.

  “I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?”

  “That would be a serious breach of etiquette.” He drew his hand through her hair.

  “János, you’re stinking drunk.”

  “What I am I won’t confide into your shell-pink virginal ears.”

  “You’ll be very embarrassed in the morning.”

  “The hell. I’ll be angry.”

  “I’m embarrassed now.”

  He laughed and drew away from her. He drank from his jug and talked to Columbo. She heard them speaking of Malencz and the Turks.

  Columbo’s daughter came back, smiling. She sat down behind her father and said something in Rom. Columbo laughed.

  “She says that Venn is down by the water dreaming.” He thumped his knee. “She’ll have him yet.”

  Rakóssy looked over his shoulder at the girl. “He’s lucky.”

  The girl smiled. “Thanks, Magyar.” She lowered her eyes and looked quickly up at him again. “You have a wonderful horse.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if she would let me ride her.”

  Venn came up the hill. Rakóssy saw him and saw that the girl had seen him. He winked at her. He lay back on one elbow and said, “Oh, there’s a chance, little one.”

  Columbo looked around at them. He glanced at Catharine, at Denis, and at Venn. Venn came quickly toward them. Rakóssy, with his head almost in the girl’s lap, stared lazily up at Venn.

  Venn said something in Rom to the girl. She answered archly and shook her head. Rakóssy looked at Columbo. The corner of his mouth drew down. Venn stamped his foot and spat something at the girl. The girl sighed. She put her hand on Rakóssy’s shoulder. Rakóssy kissed it. The girl laughed and got up, shaking out her skirts. She went off and Venn followed her.

  Denis crawled around to sit next to Catharine. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Let me—”

  Rakóssy said, “Denis, take her to her tent. She’s half asleep.”

  Denis got up, helped Catharine stand, and took her off. He said, “Don’t mind him, Catharine. He’s just trying to hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  Denis lingered by the wagon. “If you want anything, call me.”

  “Thank you, Denis.” She smiled and went inside. She lay down and thought, I should have been gay and witty and flirted with him. I can just see me being gay and witty and flirting. He scares me to death.

  Denis went back to the fire and sat down. “You bastard,” he said.

  Rakóssy looked at him. He laughed. “The Devil,” he said. “I think my little brother has fallen in love with my wife.”

  “I have not. I’m just her only friend.”

  Rakóssy looked at Columbo and they both laughed. Rakóssy stood up, steadied himself, and walked between the fires toward the wagons. Denis started to rise. The Gypsy caught him by the arm.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Do you want to ruin her life? Stay here.”

  “Ruin her life?”

  The Gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Stay here and learn something. Go after him, and you’ll probably have all your teeth knocked down your throat.”

  Rakóssy vaulted into the wagon and slipped and fell. Catharine said, “Who’s there?”

  “Me.” He fought the nausea in his stomach.

  “Go away.”

  He stuck his head inside the tent. Her face, white and frightened, was only a hand’s span from his. He grinned.

  “I won’t come any farther than this.” He said. “Promise.”

  She moved a little and produced a long knife. “Don’t.”

  The eyes over the knife were steady. Her face was still very white.

  Rakóssy stared at the knife, rolled over onto his back, and howled with laughter. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  “Catharine,” he said. “Catharine.”

  “Stop laughing at me.”

  “Yes.” He rolled over again. “I won’t come in. That knife won’t do you any good. It’s dull. Take this.” He gave her his dagger. “Don’t cut yourself.” He folded his arms and put his chin on them. “I’m drunk.”

  “I can smell it. What is that?”

  “It’s something they make out of grain. It’s poisonous.”

  “What do you want?”

  “State my business and go?”

  “János, you’re so many different people I can’t keep you straight.”

  “I’m very drunk.”

  “So.”

  “I wasn’t really flirting with that girl. She wanted somebody she could throw up to Venn. I just cooperated.”

  She said nothing.

  “Denis is madly in love with you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Isn’t it.” He hiked himself up on his elbows. “That mole. It drives me crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a Turk poem about a mole.”

  “A poem?”

  “Don’t look so surprised.”

  “Tell it to me.”

  He recited it. She listened patiently. “Now translate it.”

  “I keep forgetting you don’t speak Turk.” He scratched his head. “ ‘O Belle of Shiraz, grant me but love’s demand, and for your mole — that clinging grain of sand upon a cheek of pearl — Hafiz will give all of Bokhara, all of Samarkand.’ ”

  “That’s pretty.”

  “It’s prettier in Turk.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Columbo said that gray-eyed women are cruel.”

  His fingertips were gently urgent, drawing her nearer to him. She shut her eyes. He kissed her. The smell and taste of the liquor repulsed her. His mouth was gentle. She felt herself relaxing. He kissed her eyes and her nose and her mouth again. His hands were buried in her hair.

  “Will you let me in?” he said against her mouth.

  “Un-unh.”

  “Why?”

  “You stink of that liquor.”

  He laughed. “Then you get no more kisses, free. Anyhow, I’m not prepared, according to Columbo.”

  He drew away. He was leaving. She put her head down. “Why?”

  “He says that I’ll have to wear full armor in bed with you.” He wiggled his way out. She heard him stand, curse, and jump to the ground. She smiled and shut her eyes.

  Five days later Catharine and Rakóssy rode up to a ridge and looked east and saw the mountains.

  Catharine cried out. Since they had left the Gypsies, there had been nothing but the plain, a few salt marshes, and little hills. Now suddenly there were mountains, mounting shoulder on shoulder, their rock arching above the timberline, harsh under the late sun.

  Rakóssy moved the black mare over a little. “You’re sunburned,” he said.

  “I feel like a Gypsy.” She lifted her hair in her hands and let it fall. The wind cooled her face, smelling of pine trees. “How do you find your way out here? Those mountains are wonderful.”

  “I grew up here.”

  “Are we that close?”

  “Come on.”

  He galloped off. She lashed at her horse. She wished she could ride the way he did, all loose and supple, not thinking. He reined up on the crest of the next hill and waited for her. She could feel the steepness of the slope through her horse’s muscles. The mountains reappeared the higher she climbed on the slope. She drew in beside him and he said, “Look.”<
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  She looked east. The mountains were stark under the brassy sky. She could hear the wind in the pines and smell the odor of the hills, like Austrian hills.

  “Those are the Transylvanian Alps,” he said. “We are two days’ ride from the Turks.”

  “The Turks,” she said.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I’m homesick.”

  “Homesick.”

  “They look like the Austrian mountains. Except that there are Turks behind them.”

  “Not behind them. In them. These hills are mine. The mountains are the Turks’. You didn’t see Hart.”

  He pointed again. She had missed seeing the castle. The mountains made it look smaller. She could only see part of it, half hidden behind a hill — a round of stone and a tower.

  “It’s different from Vienna,” he said.

  “Cliff’s Eye. That’s the name of the Turks’ fortress, isn’t it?”

  He reached over and pulled her hair. “Don’t be afraid.” He shifted his weight and the black mare burst into a gallop. They rode down the slope, turned south, and swung around a promontory of trees. The wind was rising and the murmur of the trees engulfed them. They rode around the foot of the hill. The flash of Rakóssy’s spur caught her eye and she glanced down at his heel. When she looked up, she saw Hart Castle directly above her.

  It was smaller than she had expected, more like a hunting lodge, except that it did have a tower. It perched up on the top of the hill, ugly and squat, without any decorations or statues or even any pennants except the banner of the Rakóssys flying from the tower.

  “This isn’t like Austria,” he said.

  “No.”

  “The original castle was down where the village is now. Poor planning, but closer to the water. I tore it down when I became baron and rebuilt it up there. It took four years. We dug a well, too. The Turks kept attacking us. I finished it the year the Turks took Belgrade.”

  She stared up at it and looked down at the village, a straggling line of low wooden huts surrounded by fences and gardens. A stream traced through the middle of the village.

  “Tonight,” he said, “we’ll sleep in a bed.”

  “I’m too tired for that.”

  “For sleeping in a bed?” He turned, looking back after the wagons. “Let’s go.”

  They rode up the dirt path to the gate. Rakóssy shouted. The gate opened. They rode into a little courtyard. In the middle of it a fat shaggy pony, hitched to a turnstile, walked a circle around the pump. The courtyard was full of people. She felt them all staring at her. She smelled bread baking. There was a crowd of women by an open door, all of them watching her with wide, curious eyes.

  “Imre,” Rakóssy said. “Come hold your lady’s horse.”

  He dismounted and dropped the black mare’s reins. “This place is a mess. As soon as I leave everything falls to pieces.”

  The people vanished. Catharine dismounted. The door where the women had stood watching slammed shut. Imre led her horse away. She looked up at the wall near the gate and saw a tall man standing there, stiffly at attention.

  Rakóssy glared around at the stone walls. “Ignorant, lazy, filthy pigs,” he said very loudly. “You all need a whip on your fat backsides. The Turks deserve you.”

  “János,” Catharine said, “there’s nobody here but him.” She pointed to the man on the walls.

  “They’re all within earshot. That’s Alexander, Arpád’s brother.” He took two steps toward the kitchen door. “Anna, you swine.”

  A towering fat woman opened the door. She had an iron spoon in one hand and a scullion in the other. “What do you want?”

  Three wishes, Catharine thought, and giggled. Rakóssy shot her a strange look and she clapped her hand over her mouth. He looked back at the huge woman.

  “I’m hungry. I want meat, wine, bread and apples, in my room, by the time I get there. Hop, you cross-eyed witch.”

  “Hop,” she said. “When your father was alive, God rest his soul—”

  “Get the hell back into that kitchen.”

  The door slammed. Rakóssy whirled and stamped off. He stopped a moment to inspect a drainage ditch, crossed the courtyard, and opened a small wooden door with iron braces on it. Catharine trotted after him. They came into a long, narrow hall. The sudden gloom blinded her. She stopped, waiting for her eyes to clear.

  “Anna was cook for my father during his declining years,” Rakóssy said. “She’d feed him milk pudding and broth so thick you could have walked on it. Finally she got to calling him Alexander. My father either didn’t notice or didn’t care.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “She was dead. This is the great hall. Not what you’re accustomed to.”

  “What are those?”

  “Old-fashioned halberds.”

  “That’s your badge, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. My great-great-grandfather a couple of times over made it up. The silver deer are from a Hun legend, and I think the red’s for blood, but I’m not sure.” He sat down. “You know, you’re looking very presentable.”

  “Oh. Thank you. What’s your motto?”

  He shrugged. “The original was in Latin or maybe Greek. It’s carved on the badge. It means ‘Forever,’ whatever it is.”

  “It’s Latin,” she said, squinting up at the badge.

  “Well, anyhow, my grandfather changed it to Magyar. ‘Forever Thus.’ So you can take your pick.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “I don’t use one. Come on, she’s had time to get our dinner up there by now.”

  He led her up to his room and opened the door. It smelled musty. He shouted for Ivo. Catherine sat down by the window. The food was laid out on the table there. The door opened and a young man and a girl came in. Rakóssy sat down and told the young man to open the windows and air out the room. The girl came over to Catharine and curtsied.

  “My name is Mari,” she said. “Jansci, does she speak Magyar?”

  Rakóssy drank wine. “Catharine, she’ll be your maid. If you don’t want her, I can get you another.”

  “Oh?” Catharine looked at Mari. “Do you usually call your master by his nickname?”

  Mari curtsied again. “A slip, madam. My lord, are the wagons far?”

  “No. They should be almost here.”

  “Mari,” Catharine said, “please find me a comb and some slippers. Thank you.” Mari left. “My father used to do that to the Queen, assign his mistresses as her ladies-in-waiting.”

  “She’s Arpád’s.”

  “But she was yours.”

  “If you want to be jealous of every woman I’ve ever had, you can be jealous of all the girls in Hart except Anna.”

  “What a braggart you are.”

  “Why don’t you take orders and become a reformer, like that monk?”

  “The prevailing opinion is that that monk believes in plural wives and concubinage. I’m sorry if I sound like the Grand Inquisitor.”

  “You do. Eat.”

  “What is this meat?”

  “Goat.”

  “It doesn’t taste like goat.”

  “Hungarian goats taste different from Viennese goats.”

  “I’ve never had goat before.”

  “Then how do you know it doesn’t taste like goat?”

  “It doesn’t taste the way goat should taste.”

  “It’s good meat. Eat it.”

  They ate in silence. Mari came back with combs, ribbons, slippers, and a fur robe. Rakóssy did not look at her until she rolled in a big wooden tub and put water on the fire to heat.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m drawing my lady a bath,” Mari said and curtsied. She called to Ivo to bring more water.

  Catharine said, “What a wonderful idea. I feel so dirty I should be peeling off in chunks. I’m finished eating.”

  “The wagons are here,” Rakóssy said.

  Mari came over and began to comb Ca
tharine’s hair. Their eyes turned steadily on him. He said, “I’ll be down in the courtyard.”

  Mari curtsied.

  “Quit that,” Rakóssy said. He went out.

  Mari laughed. Catharine said, “That was very kind of you, Mari.”

  “Thank you. Will you keep me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad. I was afraid maybe I had done myself out of it.”

  Rakóssy supervised the unloading of the wagons and had eight of the cannon ranged on the walls of Hart, hoisting them up in pieces by pulley and putting them together on the ramparts. All afternoon they worked, and when it got dark they lit torches and worked by that light. The rest of the cannon he had stored in the stable. He sent several of the men to take the powder and shot to a dry place. He thought of firing one of the cannon, and sent Denis three times for powder and shot, only to call him back each time.

  Finally he sent everybody off to bed. He saw Arpád walking with Mari, telling her wild stories. Denis had gone quietly away. Rakóssy went alone to his room.

  Catharine was sitting by the window, bundled to the ears in the fur robe. The room was clean and her trunks were piled up against the wall by the window.

  “Have your bath?” he said.

  “Yes. It was marvelous. I like Mari.”

  “So do I.”

  She looked at him. He sat down and called to Ivo to take off his boots. He sent Ivo to bed and peeled off his doublet and shirt.

  “Did you see the cannon?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  She poured herself a cup of wine and took an apple from the dish. She stretched out, curling her bare toes. “I feel like a bandit chieftainess. Can I have my own Turkish slave and a sword?”

  He went to the window and looked out. The corner of his mouth drew down. “I’ll fetch you silk to make a turban with and a dagger to carry in your teeth, if you want.”

  “Can I ride among the peasants with a whip, overseeing their labors in the fields?”

  “The peasants here are mostly herders, and you are not to leave Hart without an escort of at least five knights. Even if all you want to do is go down and swim in the lake.”

  “Where’s the lake?”

  “You can’t see it from here.”

  “That would be a scandal. The Baroness Rakóssy swimming with her escort of wild-eyed bearded Magyar knights.”

  “If you see any of my men with a beard, you can order him to shave it off. They can have mustaches.”