When they were settled and wine was served, he offered a full goblet to the Turk, raising his voice as he spoke clearly enough for the entire room to hear.
"Take this delicious drink of sherbet and taste it, Selim, be my guest! Let us drink first to the health of your Padisah Murad and then, to the health of Emperor Ferdinand, long live them both."
The Turk drained the goblet and equally loudly replied. "Ha! The sherbet you bought, Hans, has turned into the burning liquid of the houris in paradise when you spelled the name of the great Sultan Murad. Give me more of this magical sherbet, Hans, my true friend, may Allah be praised for his miracles."
The few Saxon and Hungarian customers of the inn could see that the Muslim envoy was not committing a crime against his faith since he was offered sherbet. Yet, the Hungarians spat and turned away their heads. Some swords were rattled angrily when the renegade made his toast, but though every sane able-bodied man wore a sword in these times of danger, drawing a blade on each other was banned by Prince Rákóczi.
The dark-faced Turk and Hans continued chatting and drinking merrily until they spotted the only person in the tavern who paid no attention to them.
The strange man—rather a lad—was leaning above a big sheet of unfolded paper. He pulled out a pair of small spectacles and balanced them on his nose, folding the paper outward so that those who cared and could read English could read its title: The Grantville Times.
"Look what we have here, Selim. He is your countryman, isn't he?"
"Nay, his skull is shaven in the stupid Hungarian fashion. Faithless giaur dogs don't grow a decent long mop of hair to praise the Prophet, rather they leave an inch-wide ridge that grows from the forehead to the nip of their neck. Look, his blond mustache is waxed horizontally and not descending over his chest. He is a Hungarian pig, worse than that, he is a Szekler, I know this because of his grey coat, trimmed with those black braided fasteners."
"And now you think yourself very smart, my jolly friend, but you need to look more closely at him. As a clerk of a diplomat who had travelled much with my noble Lord, Maximilian Hoffe, I've encountered many weirder folks than you. You may have missed his blue and green maidenly skirt. This man right here is a Scot, no doubt about that."
They continued arguing the pros and cons and seemed to enjoy themselves enormously. Finally, they put out some gold coins to wager who was right and decided to investigate further.
Hans stood up, goblet in hand, tasted it and made a sour face, spitting and spilling the content all around him, as he shouted at the barmaid.
"What sort of wine is this that you poison us with, you Saxon witch?"
His words had hardly left his mouth when dozens of red wine drops rained down on the white pages the lad was studying.
Instantly a very angry cry emerged from the lad followed by a long and complex Hungarian curse. This proved the Szekler origin of the young man.
****
Selim pondered to himself that decent European folks stabbed each other for less and softly caressed his Persian scimitar's grip.
Clearly his German ally had no strong command of the Hungarian language for he was yet to be convinced, poking his sheathed rapier under the boy's plaid kilt and lifting it.
"And who do we have here...? A boy or a little girl perhaps? A nasty girl, with a rather bad tongue? Selim, what is under the skirt…? A Protestant Scottish arse or a pretty Szekler male-whore's member…?"
Selim had no time to warn his stupid companion that he had better not mess with a Szekler for everything happened in a blur.
A fist landed and a nose was bloodied. Chairs were kicked out and a basket-hilted sword was drawn on the German, who staggered back, wiping his face.
"Eat my sword, you peasant dog!" Hans shrieked and his long rapier slipped out quicker than one would expect, seeing how drunk the German was.
Selim hurled himself between the two and roared at the red-faced young man who was ready to stab Hans on the spot.
"Come out into the snow, and let me take your blood for insulting the Sublime Padisah, you coward Szekler or whatever you might be!"
The three men rushed out of the inn, along with the onlookers who trampled the snow outside and drew a circle around them.
Even the barmaid ran out with them, putting a warm shawl around her shoulders. She gripped an older guest, a strong Saxon in a butchers' apron and pleaded with him to help.
****
"Uncle Michael, please do something, we don't need the trouble we will get from the city guard if they kill the lad!"
He nodded at her in agreement and shouted out in German.
"You all slow down, damn it. Can't attack two on one—there are rules to dueling."
"You must fight one on one and only until first blood. Saber against saber or rapier against rapier."
"I am the first," the sobering Hans replied in German.
"Give this peasant's offspring a proper sword." He waited until someone offered an old rapier to the boy who put his Scottish sword aside.
The lad was steaming with rage and hefted the rapier, trying out its grip and balance. Saying nothing, he just stepped into the circle. he wore only his Szekler coat above his blue and green kilt.
He made the sign of the cross but gave no sound. Instead, he took up a low guard with his rapier and leaned forward.
Hans fleetingly wondered how this lowly creature seemed to have a knowledge of Fencing Master Meyer's art of the rapier…at least as far as his guards were concerned.
He then dismissed this as nonsense and carelessly dashed at him with his well-practiced master thrust that aimed at the neck but usually pierced the liver.
Not this time.
The strong thrust wasn't parried but was allowed past the defending blade. The momentum carried Hans forward, past the young man's left side and while struggling to steady himself on the slippery ground he felt a burning pain from behind. Then a kick that sent him sprawling on all fours.
"Remember, your German lordship, when you try to sit again that it was a Scot who made a second hole in your arse…" he heard the young lad cry out, and his words were accompanied by the loud laughter of the onlookers.
****
Selim was watching the fight solemnly and quickly assessed the boy's martial skills. He shrugged and exclaimed, "Bismallah! Let Allah's will be done."
The Turk was a man well into his thirties, and he not only knew the Szeklers' way with the saber, but he had also learned from the best Turkish masters of Istanbul and so knew much more than what the janissary schools would teach to an ordinary soldier. Besides, he trusted the thin chainmail shirt that was hiding under his kafthan.
The lad had already been given a broad-bladed Hungarian saber, a wicked cavalry weapon that, unlike rapiers, was usually used from horseback. Yet, each saber-wielding nation had their own way of fighting on foot. Szeklers were no different…Moreover, these ancient mountain folk preserved their age-old martial traditions that went back to the shadowy past—when all Hungarians were still Huns, using a runic alphabet and curved bows.
Selim knew all about this and the Szeklers' impulsive and hotheaded nature.
"Come, giaur dog, dare to attack the servant of the Padisha's envoy…" he said. They began the saber-dance anew; circling around each other to have a feel of their distance, while taking up the rhythms of war.
"Let dogs lick up your blood…" He kept talking as he watched the darkening face of his opponent, "Your mother was a whore who serviced a thousand mercenaries, wasn't she?"
A loud cry. A flash of light and a metallic clash, was followed by an excited murmur.
"Easy, my son…perhaps I am your real father…you might kill me!"
The boy's eyes shone like the prongs of pitchforks and he was gritting his teeth. Now they entered the second circle, drawing nearer to each other. Three rapid steps and one quick strike and parry. Circling on. It was just a game, for the moment.
The elegantly curved Persian blade turned aside th
e heavier sword with little effort yet all the while the Szekler was pressing Selim fiercely.
Now the Turk feigned a surprised face, as if he had slipped on the snow, and revealed an opening under his right armpit. The Szekler's saber took the offered opportunity and the lad's eyes shone triumphantly when the sword's edge cut into the green kafthan.
However, the rigid blade did not tear apart the Turk's ribs and lungs as expected. Instead, the sound of steel on steel rang in the street. The young man was confused and paralyzed for a moment and in the next instant the grinning Turk sliced at the boy's head, but not with a killing intent. He wanted to humiliate the lad first. Perhaps killing, too—but later.
Blood flooded the Szekler's head but he just shook the gore from his eyes. Instead of falling into a retreat he struck back as if nothing had cut his skull.
Selim wasn't expecting such a fast riposte, so he was caught unguarded and now his head was also bleeding. Angry, he wanted to finish the boy off.
It was a duel to death now, and both of them knew it. The onlookers tried to separate them but when Selim threateningly swung his scimitar towards them, they shrank back in terror.
****
There was no laughter anymore, and no one noticed the slender figure who ran away through the falling snow, her copper hair flying behind. Now she wanted to call the city guard before it was too late.
The fighters renewed their circling, but there were no more games. Blades flew rapidly back and forth, sometimes parried but sometimes not. Selim's kafthan was in tatters and the chainmail glittered through the gaps. The lad was entirely covered in red and was already stumbling from the loss of blood.
Usually saber duelists did away with each other by repeatedly wounding their opponents so as to weaken them—the constant jumping and moving literally pumped the blood out of the body during the few minutes while the fights lasted. The very same was taking place here and now, and all foresaw the outcome.
Selim didn't hurry to finish with the boy. He deliberately chose targets and struck with a deadly precision.
"You wretch," he said. "You disgraceful puppy. You underling. Take this for the Padishah. You swine. You wine-drinker. This for the True Faith. And this for Hans, you nameless…"
The lad feebly dealt with every second blow and then just stood, gazing forward.
"I am a Szekler and a Scot," he said. "My name is Bálint. Bálint Felföldi. You may kill me, but you will remain the pribék of your own land." With that he spat at Selim's eyes. With hatred and spittle clouding his vision, Selim raised his arm high to deliver the final blow. Shadows and torchlights were moving and voices cried around him when his slim scimitar savagely sliced downward.
Two halberds fell from the sky, blocking the deadly strike. Arms grabbed his kafthan and pulled the Turk back, while a shaft of a spear tripped him from behind. Suddenly Selim's sight was blocked by helmeted heads and angry voices filled the air as he lay in the befouled snow.
The city guards had arrived.
****
Gyulafehérvár, capital of Transylvania
January 23, 1634
"His name is Bálint Felföldi, he is a petty nobleman from Szeklerland," said Péter Alvinczi, the preeminent Calvinist leader in the country and advisor to Prince Rákóczi. Alvinczi was making his report to the Prince's chief spymaster, Gáspár Bojthi, in his office within Prince Rákóczi's palace.
The walls of the spacious and elegantly appointed room were decorated with paintings, and the grim faces of ironclad heroes were all peering down at the two men. The one who was tall and aesthetically thin was dressed in grey robes; the other, shorter and heavier, wore a dark red embroidered cassock known as a dolman.
Alvinczi went on, "His late father was, indeed, a Highlander, a lieutenant, and a piper, too. Yes, a follower of the Stuarts, a staunch Papist." Breaking from his dry recital of the facts, he inserted a passionate opinion of his own. "Our wrathful God is punishing our poor country, using the Turks' hand, for the sins of Catholics like this one!" But at a stern look from Gáspár, he reverted back to stating the requested facts.
"Yes, your Lordship, the English word highlander translates as Felföldi in Hungarian. This man's father served with the Scottish mercenaries who distinguished themselves defending Lippa and Temesvár castles in 1595. There were a hundred and fifty of them. A pity that only thirty of them survived the sieges, good soldiers they were. Later those few survivors mingled with the Szeklers. General Mikó knows more about them since he is the Szeklers' leader. Bálint's father was ennobled for his valiant deeds in 1611 by Prince Báthory. So it would not be wise to hang him. Beheading is more befitting to his position."
"Reverend Alvinczi, would you give away the life of this poor lad so lightly?" asked the spymaster, with a tired sigh. He knew of Peter Alvinczi's burning hatred against the Catholics and privately despised him. Alvinczi, the chief Calvinist pastor of the city of Kassa was infamous for having eagerly assisted in the execution of three Jesuits in Prince Bethlen's time.
Spymaster Gaspar had too many troubles since the sudden arrival of the small American town of Grantville almost three years before, and he really wanted this pastor out of his hair.
According to the Americans' encyclopedias, Alvinczi should die this very year, he thought to himself, but the bony man in his audience room looked very healthy and thirsty for more blood.
"Sir Gáspár," he protested, "he is a rogue. Would you risk the principality's fragile reputation for the sake of a criminal?"
"Certainly you don't want to give him to the Turks, do you, Reverend Alvinczi? Their ambassador wants to have him impaled. On the other hand, the Holy Roman Emperor's envoy, being a Christian, would simply send him to the gallows."
"Then, it seems we need a proper trial." Alvinczi sniffed. "We shouldn't waste more time with this issue when we have a large amount of information to evaluate. Sir, our enemy is devouring Europe with those devilish ideas and devices before our very eyes. We have no time for toying around," he snorted.
"There will be no trial, I say," Sir Gáspár said decisively. "Reverend Alvinczi, do you know the details of the incident at that tavern?"
The pastor made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"A hotheaded young drunk insulted the men in service of the Turkish and the Austrian ambassadors and dared to wound them with his sword, violating the ban on duels at the same time."
"Clearly you don't know that they asked for trouble? That the Turk was a pribék?"
"Sir Gáspár, you should know best that we also use informers who sell secrets for money…"
"The Turk was drinking wine and violated the rules by doing so…"
"Sir, he says it was his friend who bought it, and he was offered the drink as a sherbet. There are witnesses to it. He says it must have been the barmaid who turned it into wine by using witchcraft. You should rather put her to the question about that, though…"
"Reverend," Sir Gáspár frowned "it seems after all that you know more about the details than one would have thought. Do you also know what the lad was doing before their argument?"
When there was no answer, Sir Gáspár pulled out a sizable sheet of paper and presented it.
"He was reading The Grantville Times, the newspaper that is being printed and distributed by those people who have turned the world upside-down."
The thin man of faith was quick with his reply.
"Now I see, Sir Gáspár, why you don't want a trial. You have caught an agent! Very well, we don't need to give him up, we can have our ways with him to make him speak."
This was too much for Sir Gáspár Bojthi. His head felt the tension building up in him. He jumped up from behind his richly carved desk and snatched up the newspaper on it. Then he held the broadsheet in front of the sour-faced reverend's nose.
"Read it! Read it out loud!" His hand was shaking.
Alvinczi went pale and said nothing.
"Can't you read it, damn it? No? But he can! Tell Professor Pál Keresz
túri Biró to put the lad on our payroll immediately as a teacher of English and interpreter. He is assigned to work on the materials Count Csáky had sent from Grantville. The lad is not to leave the palace and must swear the same oath as the rest of the scribes. And I make you personally responsible for his well-being as well as for his quick recovery from his injuries. Now be off with you." With a wave of his hand, Sir Gaspar dismissed the pastor from his presence and his thoughts.
****
Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania
February 12, 1634
It was late night when Bálint sank down on his knees before going to bed in a small servants' room in the southern wing of the palace. Finishing his prayers, he carefully eased himself to the mattress, placing his aching limbs to rest. The stitches held but his wounds were burning…all eleven of them.
Had Mary not run after him when he was taken away, he would have perished in the dungeon of the city hall. She had sewn him up the best she could and seemed to have shed a tear for each drop of his blood. When she left in the morning, she had appeared unsure if he would make it. Yet, it was her silver that bought him fresh clothes and drier cell. She sent around the city barber-surgeon to visit him twice a day to replace the bandages, and every morning there was a new basket of food filled with bread and cheese, the good Saxon sausages, and the heavy red wine of Eger. He saw her no more—but she was in his prayers every evening. She was a fixed point where his exhausted mind could gain some rest after the days when his head was spinning and full with hundreds of new words and pictures.
****
Some ten days after the duel, a visitor appeared in front of his bed—no less a personage than Chief-Pastor Péter Alvinczi.
Bálint recognized him at once from a picture that had been circulated on a pamphlet that had portrayed Alvinczi as the executioner of the martyrs of Kassa, the three Jesuit priests who had died for refusing to recant their faith. Now that the minister has moved to Transylvania, he was close to the staunchly Protestant prince's ears and was one of his most influential advisors.
Grantville Gazette, Volume 69 Page 7