With deep gratitude to you for your many helpful acts and for your gracious acquiescence in delivering your assessed portion toward our glorifying Bohemia and Przemysl Otakar II in his time of victory,
Smiricti Detrich
Counselor of Praha
by the hand of Frater Ulric, Hieronymite monk
1
“She did not come,” Rakoczy said to Hruther as he climbed into his personal quarters through the half-open window; the night was almost ended, and there was a stillness that marked the approach of dawn as much as the beginning activity in the city below them. Rakoczy stepped down from the window-ledge; there was dust on his huch, and his jaw-length wavy hair was in disarray; he held his liripipe in his hand.
“How long did you wait?” Hruther asked in Imperial Latin, putting the last of the books he had been stacking in place on the trestle-table next to the largest upright chest where two oil-lanthorns gave illumination to the room.
“From midnight until a short while ago. I wanted to get off the streets before the slaves and laborers were abroad,” said Rakoczy, a faint vertical line forming between his fine brows. “She chose the cellar of an old weavery this time, near the North Gate, where the butchers are. Not a very … prepossessing location.”
“Still it’s probably safer than the charnel house was,” Hruther remarked. “No monks or slaves about.”
“It stank of old wool-fat and mice. I wonder if she chose it to test me in some way.” His eyes were remote. “But to what end?”
Hruther studied Rakoczy. “Do you think she’s tiring of you?”
Rakoczy gave an abrupt sigh. “I hope so.” He went and pulled the shutters closed, setting the bolt in place before going on, “Tonight would have been our sixth meeting. That has been uppermost in my thoughts for the last eight days, and I am no wiser now than I was when she first sent me word of her most recent intentions. So our next contact—limited though it may be—is the sixth contact.”
“And that troubles you.”
“Of course it does: how could it not. I have no wish to bring a woman like Rozsa of Borsod into my life, but if she insists…” He looked up at the ceiling. “If I tell her what is coming when she dies, I believe she will think I am lying.”
“Are you sure?” Hruther thought he had not seen Rakoczy in such turmoil for more than three centuries.
“If she does not think me a liar, she will know I am something much worse—and then what? My life is in her hands, and she knows it. Anything that increases her power will please her.” He slapped his hands on the tops of his thighs. “The good people of Praha would have me bound at the stake if they knew my true nature.”
An unmelodious bell sounded from the floor below, the signal to waken the household.
“I’ll let Barnon attend to the household for now,” Hruther said to Rakoczy.
“You may want to put some distance between us, to be safe. I may become dangerous to know. Speak against me among the servants, to show you dislike your position.” He flung his liripipe across the room.
“You’ve been dangerous to know for the twelve hundred years I have served you,” Hruther said calmly. “I won’t malign you to the household unless it benefits both of us.”
Rakoczy suddenly shook his head. “I am churlish; pardon me, old friend.”
“You aren’t churlish, you are vexed, and not without cause,” Hruther said, thinking he had not seen Rakoczy so nettled by a woman since Csimenae had abused his gift five hundred years ago.
Rakoczy considered this. “You may be right,” he conceded.
“The lady’s circumstances may change shortly, my master, and there will be no occasions for her to make more demands of you,” Hruther said.
“So I hope,” Rakoczy admitted.
“Her husband will be here next month.” Hruther looked down at his folded, lean hands.
“I can only hope that she will not insist on more meetings before he comes.” Rakoczy clicked his tongue. “It is craven of me, but I do not want to have to explain to Rozsa about the hazards of undead life. At best she will view my warnings with mockery.”
“As to that—the word is that Konige Kunigunde has begun her labor; that may account for Rozsa’s absence.”
Rakoczy looked startled. “Tell me how—”
“A message came from Vaclav Castle three hours ago. Not from Rozsa of Borsod, from Pader Stanislas, that the Konige’s labor has begun. The news has been sent to all the great Houses in the city, and all the churches, so that all may pray for her safe delivery.” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table. “It is her time, isn’t it?”
“Very nearly,” said Rakoczy, a note of relief in his voice. “You are right: if the Konige is about to deliver, it is not surprising that Rozsa would not dare to leave Vaclav Castle. All her ladies-in-waiting must attend on her childbed.”
“It would be a reckless thing to do, leaving the Konige’s Court, even for her, at this time,” said Hruther. “And she will have to stay near Konige Kunigunde for the first month after the child comes, as all the Konige’s Court will.” He pressed his lips together, then said, “You will probably be summoned to sing for the Konige and her new child.”
Rakoczy nodded. “I and Tirz Agoston of Mures: he has made a new gittern for the Konige, to celebrate her safe delivery.”
“Assuming that she has a safe delivery,” Hruther cautioned.
“Indeed.”
“Of a son,” Hruther added, his lean face hinting at an ironic smile.
“They will celebrate a girl, for the sake of Konig Bela, but not as grandly. A girl can seal a treaty with a marriage, as Kunigunde herself has done.” He shook his head. “Hungary will expect some rejoicing.”
There was silence between them, an uneasy one. Finally Hruther returned to an issue that he realized was causing Rakoczy much consternation. “So you haven’t explained matters to her yet? to Rozsa? She doesn’t know what’s to come?”
“No.” Rakoczy paced the length of the room, then rounded on Hruther. “It is not that I do not want to tell her, I do not know how to tell her. She has turned aside every sally I have made so far, and short of tying her to a chair and demanding that she listen, I have no notion how to inform her. Not that I think tying her to a chair would work: she would very likely be furious and would upbraid me instead of hearing me out. And she might well denounce me to her Confessor.” This admission left him feeling discomfited; he frowned and made a gesture of hopeless frustration. “I know it is imperative she be prepared for what will happen before our next meeting, whenever that may be, and that she—” He stopped.
“What is it?” Hruther asked, reading dismay in Rakoczy’s countenance.
Rakoczy did not answer at once. “I wish I knew what she has told her Confessor.”
“You may be certain that she doesn’t tell him everything. Few people do.”
“Do you think she would not?” Rakoczy sighed again, this time sadly. “She might enjoy Confessing what we do, since it is not true adultery. She might have to do penance for lust, but she would not be in danger of being dishonored.” He tented his fingers under his lip. “If she tires of me, she will want to be rid of me, I suppose.” He looked around his room. “I would be sorry to have to leave here.”
Hruther was surprised at this. “I thought you aren’t—”
“I would be sorry to leave here because of the price Konig Bela would exact from my fief and my vassals if I did leave, and because, having done so much to make this mansion livable; I would prefer to enjoy it a while longer, at least until I can improve my understanding with Konig Bela, and can negotiate a kind of truce with him on behalf of my vassals. To have so much resting on Rozsa’s caprice…” He shook his head slowly. “Not that there is anything that worry can accomplish.” His single, self-deprecating laugh made Hruther wince. “You might as well leave me; I need to get some rest.”
“You should consider visiting one of the women you’ve—”
“Not
just now,” said Rakoczy, starting to yawn.
“Tonight, perhaps,” Hruther suggested.
“Yes; yes. You are right. I need nourishment. I can provide a sweet dream and gain sustenance from the satisfaction I provide: I’ve done it often enough.” Rakoczy loosened the front lacings of his huch. “That will be for later, when I have rested.”
“And if a summons comes from the Konige’s Court, what then?” Hurther asked in an off-handed way, knowing that Rakoczy was still deeply troubled.
“Wake me, of course,” Rakoczy answered. “I will need to make an appearance at the castle.”
“I will, if that’s what you want,” said Hruther. He picked up the liripipe. “Do you need anything more from me just now?”
“No, not just now,” said Rakoczy, feeling slightly distracted. He hung his huch on a peg on the side of the garderobe.
“Rest well, my master,” said Hruther as he closed the door. He went down the corridor to the stairs and descended to the main hall, taking note of the three servants raking the rushes. “Where is Barnon?” he asked the nearest of the three.
“In the bake-house, collecting the loaves for breakfast.”
“I’ll find him,” said Hruther, and went toward the kitchen and the door to the herb-garden. He stepped out into the early morning and the sounds of birds wakening as the sky lightened; a ragged chorus of cock-crows sounded from many parts of the city, well in advance of the bells that would greet the actual sunrise. As he stepped out through the garden gate, he saw one of the mansion’s cats hurrying along, something limp dangling from its mouth. “You do good work,” he murmured to the cat.
Barnon was standing in the bake-house door, his arms akimbo, his face turning red in the light from the oil-lamps that lit the stone room where the baker made the household bread; there was an odor of charred and decaying flesh in the room, and an air of conflict that was palpable. He pointed at the baker and raised his voice to a bellow. “If you knew this was a problem, why didn’t you inform me?”
The baker shrugged and gestured to the open oven. “We thought the bake-fire would burn the rats out,” he said as if this were an obvious conclusion. He was a large man, as soft and swelling as a mound of dough; his face was so rounded that it had only one wrinkle, and that was between his bushy brows.
“And now you have half-baked rats caught in the chimney.” Barnon reached out and struck the baker with his open hand. “You say you’re a master of your trade? You’re worse than a scullion. At least scullions don’t—” He fell silent as he saw Hruther standing beside him.
“Yes,” Hruther agreed. “Most scullions know to keep the chimneys clean; they fear fire as much as you do.” He gave his attention to the baker. “Tell me why you decided to risk a fire in the flue rather than ask for a day to have the chimney cleaned?”
Again the baker shrugged; he was unwilling to look at Hruther.
Hruther said nothing while Barnon and the baker waited uneasily for him to speak. Finally he took a deep breath. “All right,” he told them. “Barnon, send one of the servants to buy bread in the market today. Then bring the housemen here to clean the flue. Have the rushes swept from all the rooms that have them, and get rid of any mice and rats found nesting in them. Bring in the cats to help you kill them. Then have the floors washed; I’ll give you something to add to the water to rid the rooms of the smell. When the floors are dry, then wait a day before more rushes are put down, and use the time to brush the floors with camphor-water, let the cats have a night to hunt those rats we do not find today.” He looked at the baker. “Tymek, I will inform my master about what you’ve allowed to happen. He will decide what is to be done about you.”
“I’m ready to be beaten,” said the baker.
“But the Comes might prefer to impose some other punishment,” said Hruther, who had rarely seen Rakoczy do deliberate harm to anyone who had not attacked him. “Do you have a wife or children?”
“My wife is dead, and one of my sons. I have one boy remaining.” Tymek looked puzzled but ventured no question.
“And where is that boy?” Hruther watched the baker steadily.
“He is apprenticed to Nikula, the butcher in Sante-Hildegard’s Square.” He stared at the far wall.
“A butcher, not a baker?” Hruther inquired.
“My wife’s father is a butcher. He arranged it.” Tymek shifted from one foot to the other, his face clouded.
Hruther nodded. “Well, Tymek, I will report this to the Comes, and he will summon you to hear his decision in your regard.” He turned to Barnon. “Go and rouse the housemen and the scrub-women and tell them there is work to be done.”
A fanfare of crowing greeted the first rosy rays of the sun as they struck the highest points in Praha; Barnon crossed himself and whispered a prayer. “I go now,” he informed Hruther as he departed, his footsteps slapping on the courtyard flagstones.
“What shall I do?” Tymek asked, his hands flapping at his sides. “I can’t bake, and there is nothing for me to do in the kitchen.”
“Go to the servants’ hall and break your fast. Then return here to aid in cleaning the flue. The bread will be purchased in the market for today.”
Tymek blustered at this. “I am a baker, not a chimney-sweep.”
“The rats don’t know that, nor do they care.” Hruther regarded the baker calmly. “You neglected the oven, and it is for you to see it put right. Until the oven is safe, we will not use it. Be thankful that there was no fire.”
Tymek wadded his hands into fists but gave no other indication of having heard Hruther. He went toward the door as if dragged by a rope, then halted. “If you disgrace me, then you will be sorry for it.” He thrust out his jaw as if daring Hruther to do anything to oppose him.
“I may be a foreigner and the bondsman of a foreigner, but in this place, you will respect my position,” said Hruther, so coldly that Tymek took a step back. “Remember who you are, and what you have done, Tymek-the-Baker, and show proper regard.”
The baker tapped his foot, then left without another word.
Hruther took a little time to make a cursory inspection of the oven, wrinkling his nose at the odor of spoiled meat; then he set himself in the doorway, giving himself a short time to compose himself before going into the manse to be sure that the necessary chores were being done. He was on his way to the garden gate when he heard the first bells sounding, not a full, resplendent peal, but the repeated ringing of a single bell, soon echoed by other single bells. Hruther stopped to listen, and said to himself, “Konige Kunigunde has another daughter,” then went through to the plantations of sweet-smelling herbs.
“What will the Konig say?” Pacar demanded as he saw Hruther in the corridor. “Why has God given Otakar so much, but withheld the one thing that would protect all he has done?” He pointed to one of the scullions, who was filling the largest cauldron with water from the well beyond the garden. “You should find your comrades and go to church to offer prayers for the child.”
The scullion went pale. “If you tell me, I must. But I’m supposed to clean—”
The noise from single-note bells was now sounding all over Praha, and their clamor was deafening.
“You can clean after prayers,” Pacar said, raising his voice; he reached out to swat the side of the youngster’s head. “Be about it. Now! You will eat when you return.”
“How do you plan to serve the rest of the household?” Hruther asked Pacar as he watched the scullion run from the kitchen.
“Barnon will send the others to pray.” He gave a sidelong glance to Hruther. “Your master will want to go to the All Saints’ chapel in Vaclav Castle, won’t he? to be with the Konige’s Court.”
“I’m going to rouse him now,” said Hruther, favoring the cook with a slight nod. “And when are you going to pray?”
“When I’ve fed the household, of course,” said Pacar. “You mayn’t be so careful in Santu-Germaniu, but here in Bohemia, we know the way such things are done.�
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Hruther made no reply; he went to the main hall and the stairs beside the fireplace. He climbed quickly and went directly to Rakoczy’s private quarters, rapping twice before letting himself in, prepared to wake the Comes from the profound torpor that in those of his blood served as sleep. “My master,” he said in Imperial Latin.
“I am awake, old friend,” he heard Rakoczy say in that language as he came through the door.
“Then you know,” said Hruther in that language.
“The Konige has a girl again,” said Rakoczy, emerging from his sleeping-chamber with his hair tousled and a slightly distracted air that told Hruther that he had only just wakened.
“Yes,” said Hruther.
“I should dress and go to Vaclav Castle.” Rakoczy approached the garderobe. “I suppose the dark-red velvet huch and the black silk chainse, with the tall Hungarian boots,” he said, peering into its depths. “The day will be warm, but the occasion demands—”
“You will want the silver-link collar with the eclipse pectoral,” Hruther added. “As you say, the occasion demands it.”
“Yes, I will.” He rubbed the edge of his beard.
“I’ll set them out for you, my master,” said Hruther, and began on that task while Rakoczy ran his hand over his cheek and along his neatly trimmed beard again. “A good thing you were shaved two days ago.”
“Yes,” Rakoczy agreed. “There’s hardly any stubble yet.” He passed his fingers through his hair. “I wish there were time to bathe properly, but I will have to do with a basin and a towel.”
“I’ll have one sent up,” said Hruther, putting the black chainse on a peg before going to the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, aware that he was going to have a long day at the Konige’s Court. When Hruther was gone, he took his ivory comb from his small chest of personal items and pulled it through his hair until he could feel that the waves were neatened. He had long since learned to manage without a reflection, and no longer fretted about his appearance, knowing that what he did not notice, Hruther would. The constant chiming of bells was becoming annoying, and he spent a short while regaining his composure, for the sound would not end until sunset.
Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 12