To my most estimable daughter, Imbolya of Heves, the greetings of your father, Zenta Laszlo, Dux of Heves, on this, this first day of October in the 1269th year of Grace,
My dear child,
In February you will be fifteen, and it will be time for you to be married. Mindful of my duty as your father, I have made inquiries of many Hungarian nobles with sons who would look kindly on an alliance with the House of Heves and the senior House of Zenta, which you embody. I have narrowed the possible husbands for you to four, and in the next months I will be at pains to determine who among them will most advance you in the world.
You may prepare for marriage to take place not more than a year from now, unless the fighting grows more extensive, in which case it may be a year and a half at most until you are a bride. I am determined to see you bearing a child before you are sixteen. I will bring you back to Heves at the end of May so that you may participate in the arrangements for your nuptials. If you would like to spend a month at Santu-Antonia to pray for your happiness and many children, I know the Priora will be willing to have you visit; she has praised you for your learning and humility during the four years you lived there. At the time, I was thinking that you might turn nun, but I see now that God had another plan for you. Certainly there are nobles in Hungary who will see the advantage of a wife who reads and writes.
If only your mother had lived to see this day. Your sisters and brothers have been informed of my intentions and their suggestions for worthy bridegrooms sought. Olya has already recommended her husband’s brother as a one to be considered, and I have pledged to pursue the matter, although Konig Bela does not approve of too many alliances among two families, for fear they might take up arms against him. Still, I will present him with a reasonable list and I will be guided by his wisdom in whom I choose. Once I have secured the Konig’s consent to two of my recommended sons-in-law, I will contact the families and determine what they would want to endorse the union. When we have agreed, I will inform you which man you will marry. You should know by Easter unless the winter is long and so hard that travel is slowed to the point of stopping.
I pray you will conduct yourself honorably at Konige Kunigunde’s Court, and that no scandal will attach to your name, for such calumny—as calumny such repute must be—could ruin any hope of a worthy husband. Young though you are, you are as sensible as a woman might be. You are aware of what you owe your family, and what advantage you can bring to our House. That you are a lady-in-waiting to Konige Kunigunde speaks well of you, but I urge you not to taint your duty at Praha. In these war-like times, securing noble husbands is not readily done, and we need to preserve the most laudable reputation for you so that you will have the best opportunity to marry well.
With my most affectionate greetings and my fatherly blessings, I ask you to make ready to leave Praha at the end of winter. I will, myself, inform Konige Kunigunde of these coming changes so that she will not be left without sufficient ladies-in-waiting to support her and her Court. Be grateful that God has favored you in this way, my daughter. May you have many healthy sons to bring honor to our House for generations to come.
Zenta Laszlo
Dux of Heves
(his mark and his seal)
by Frater Tonku, Hieronymite scribe
3
Counselor Smiricti stood in the middle of the main hall of Mansion Belcrady, nodding his approval. “Very fine. Very fine. Comes, you have done very well. All that’s lacking is a mirror, like the Konige has. The sprays of pine-boughs over the doors are a good touch; the Episcopus will approve, if he sees them. Any noble in Praha would be proud of such a Nativity display. The Konig will be gratified that you show him such distinction.” He straightened the front of his marten-fur-lined huch and rubbed his gloved hands vigorously as he strode to the fireplace, where two large logs were blazing away. His boots were wet, and the front of his soft cap, but the rest of his garments were dry.
“You are most kind to me, Counselor.” Rakoczy followed a few steps behind him, elegant in a dark-blue woolen bleihaut over a cream-colored silken chainse. He was curious about the reason for the Counselor’s visit, for usually he did not call unannounced, but he knew better than to ask directly; with a little bow he said, “Be welcome, Counselor Smiricti.” He clapped his hands, and when Barnon came, he asked, “Is the withdrawing room ready for our guest?”
“Pacar is finishing heating the wine; it will be ready shortly,” said Barnon, ducked his head, and withdrew.
Smiricti heard this. “The delay is unimportant; I came unexpected, and so must be satisfied by whatever you give me. Yet I’m pleased to be out of the wet. The first rain of the autumn! What a miserable day; it isn’t yet noon!” He made a sound between a laugh and a cough as he began to pull off his gloves. “It’s a pity it turned cold so quickly. October is only nine days old and it’s as if it were November. I was sure we’d have another month of cooling before this kind of—” He gestured toward the shuttered windows, and the rush of sleet against the wood. “This is likely to slow the Konig’s return. The army cannot move far in such rain.”
“It does seem that he will be detained because of it,” Rakoczy said in his most neutral voice, “assuming the rain has spread through all Bohemia.”
“We were going to send a civic escort out to meet the Konig and his men a day’s ride from the city, and bring them back with buisines and tabors, but in this weather, it’s impossible. The musicians would surely get lost, and the water would ruin their instruments.” Smiricti chuckled. “Not even your lyre could brave this storm.”
“Have any couriers arrived to tell you when Otakar might be here?” Rakoczy inquired, anticipating the answer.
“Not for six days, and then the weather was fine. At that time the courier said it would be ten days until he reached Praha. But now, who can say it will be four or six or eight days?” He stared at Rakoczy and shoved his gloves into his sleeve. “Have you had any word from your fief? Any news of how things are on the roads?”
“Not for some while,” he said, being deliberately vague. “Besides, the Konig is more to the south; my fief is more to the east. Any report I might have would be many days old, and in the wrong quarter of Hungary.”
“Surely there is rain in Hungary as well as in Bohemia,” said Smiricti.
“Probably, but there is no way to know how severe the storm is away from here. What is a downpour in Praha may be a mizzle in Pressburg,” Rakoczy said. “At least there is not likely to be much snow except on the highest peaks. That will allow travel to continue for a time.”
“How long do you think it will be until travel stops for the winter?”
“You know as much as I do: what do you think?” Rakoczy replied, again feeling that the Counselor was evading.
“Oh, you know more than I, Comes, being a foreigner with interests in other lands. You deal with traders and traveling scholars—we all know this of you. You know what they have done, why they have been here, and where they have gone. What have you heard from them?” Smiricti asked. “The farmers at market yesterday said that there are more travelers abroad just now, and they were expecting the weather to hold.”
“That was yesterday,” said Rakoczy. “This came up last night.”
“How could no one have known it was coming?” Smiricti stamped his foot. “Not even the monks expected it, nor my wife’s mother, whose hands hurt her before the weather turns.”
Rakoczy considered his answer carefully. “This storm must have traveled more rapidly than most do, and so the signs came at almost the same time as the torrent we’re having just now. High winds—they pass quickly.”
“The wind damaged the roofs of some of the older houses in the old part of the city, and ruined a few of the hovels outside the walls.” He scowled toward the windows again as if he could see through the wood to the slanting, biting, icy rain. “May it end soon so that the damage can be repaired before the Konig arrives.” He clicked his tongue as if he had a new idea. �
��You wouldn’t know anything about the weather coming up, would you?”
“The last trader I’ve had business with arrived the day before yesterday, and he said he had encountered rain three days since, to the north of here, which might not be part of this storm. He is staying at the sign of the Golden Ram, if you wish to talk with him.” The Polish trader had carried heavy woolen cloth as well as twine and thread in his train of four mules; he had offered to trade for medicaments. “He said the weather had been windy, but made no mention of encountering rain since he left Erdna. I haven’t spoken to a traveling scholar in over a month.”
“It won’t be necessary to ask the trader; he was here when the storm arrived,” said Smiricti. “Let’s hope it passes rapidly and fair weather returns.” He extended his hands to the fire and rubbed them. “Episcopus Fauvinel has asked all Praha to pray for better weather and the safety of Otakar and his men.”
“Better weather, and good hunting. The civic feast will need deer and boar as well as sheep and hogs and cattle.”
“Amen to that, Comes. At least we had a fine harvest.” Smiricti sighed. “Which has only increased the number of rats in the city.”
“Where there is grain stored, you will have rats,” said Rakoczy, thinking how busy the twenty cats on the Mansion grounds had been of late. He had seen the same in Egypt over the centuries, at the temple on the Irrawaddy where the rats raided rice paddies without fear, in Natha Suryarathas where the rats were treated as sacred, in Tunis where he had slept among them while he was a slave, in the Polish marshes where he had sought refuge …
Smiricti cleared his throat. “It would displease the Counselors to have the Konig see rats when he returns to Vaclav Castle.”
“I can understand their concerns,” he said, thinking that the Counselor had finally arrived at the purpose of his visit, but aware that it would be rude to ask outright.
He shifted uneasily, coughing nervously. “I understand from your staff that you have methods to keep rats away from—” He waved his hand to take in the main hall. “You have the old rushes swept out and new rushes laid once a month. That is trouble and expense, but you do it. Is that one of your ways to keep down the number of rats?”
“It is. The rushes are swept out, the floors washed, oiled with rosemary, and a dozen or so cats are brought in to catch what they can.” He would have preferred to have no rushes at all, but that would have given rise to more questions about him, as well as the disapproval of his servants. “The cats have run of the place at night.”
“Would you be willing to give your methods to the Council so that we may be free of rats when the Konig comes?” He tugged at his ear, a sure sign of nervousness. “The Council is willing to pay you for—”
“There are several methods I use; you are welcome to them all, at no cost to the Council, but I should warn you that one of them requires the use of a poison.” He read the ambivalence in Smiricti’s face. “What is wrong about that?”
Smiricti looked even more uncomfortable. “The Episcopus says it is vanity to take such life, and a sin to attack any of God’s creatures; he himself does not eat meat except for lamb at Easter. He says that God gave us the task of ruling over all creatures.”
“Does that mean that the Episcopus thinks that rats are answerable to God? If they are so dear to God, then surely they would be more prominent in Scripture, and there would be verses to explain their merits.” He shook his head. “I have heard the Pope say that rats are a plague of Satan’s doing, and that they must be purged or devils will come to work upon men.” That the Pope who had said it had been dead for five centuries he kept to himself.
Smiricti considered this. “I will inform the Counselors on this point, and the Episcopus as well. The suit of the Beggars’ Guild is still unresolved. None of us wants to act against Episcopus Fauvinel, but surely so many rats as now run in our streets and houses are a danger to the city.” He took a long breath. “So you know something of poisons. How much do you know? Or would you rather not say?” He would have asked Rakoczy more, but went silent as Barnon came in with a tray on which stood an earthenware jug and cup as well as a small loaf of bread, sliced into three pieces. “Ah. Most kind; most kind.”
“The front withdrawing room, Comes, or the rear?” Barnon asked.
“The front. It is warmer,” said Rakoczy. “And when you are done here, will you find Hruther and ask him to come to me?”
“Of course, Comes,” said Barnon, going toward the front withdrawing room, his tray held high. “Will you want a meal for the Counselor?”
“Not this time,” said Smiricti, speaking directly to Rakoczy, as if the Comes had asked the question. “I am expected home shortly, to dine with my family. On another occasion, it would be my honor.”
“We will arrange it,” said Rakoczy, leading the way to the withdrawing room
“I will put the tray on the low table,” Barnon announced, and set action to his words.
“Thank you, Barnon,” said Rakoczy, and noticed that Barnon no longer winced at this unusual courtesy. He nodded to the upholstered chair. “If you would sit, Counselor?”
“Most gracious,” said Smiricti.
“And let me offer you some wine,” he went on, taking the earthenware jug and pouring out a good measure of hot, spiced wine into the cup.
“It’s a pity you don’t drink. Your wines are delicious,” said Smiricti as he took the cup and drank. He smiled as the warmth went through him.
“I thank you for your satisfaction,” said Rakoczy. He went to poke the log in the fireplace that served both withdrawing rooms; sparks danced in the billowing smoke that rose from the log. “The chimney wants cleaning,” he said to himself.
“Better to clean in the summer than the winter,” said Smiricti. “There’s better weather and the fires aren’t needed, so the cleaner can take his time.”
“The chimney might not wait so long to catch fire, given how poorly it draws.” He thought of the bake-house flue with the rats’ nest inside it. It had taken the smallest of the scullions to get the mess cleaned out, and the boy was ill for a week afterward.
“Half the chimneys in Praha smoke like yours,” said Smiricti, his words muffled by the section of bread he had popped into his mouth.
“Is there someone you can recommend?” Rakoczy asked, coming back to the table and sitting in the X-shaped chair across from Counselor Smiricti. “I would rather not subject one of my servants to the task.”
“Ahil is known to be reliable, for all he’s Bulgar; I’ve had him clean the flues in my house and they smoke much less now. He has two midgets who have worked for him many years; they know what they’re doing,” said Smiricti, chewing vigorously. “You can find him at the Artisans’ Market.”
“Thank you,” said Rakoczy. He regarded Smiricti for a short while, trying to discern what more the Counselor wanted from him, for clearly he was circling another question. “I will prepare a list of the various ways I deal with rats and have it carried to your house this afternoon. Employ those methods you like.” He paused, then took a chance. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“The Konige will be pleased that you have contributed so much to the coming festivities. And it is her intention to see that you have citation for your many generous gifts.” Smiricti finished the wine in his cup, and made no protest when Rakoczy rose and filled it again. “She has remained melancholy, in spite of all we have done to help her to regain her spirits. Neither musicians nor jongleurs can brighten her heart for very long. The Episcopus himself has exhorted her for her lack of trust in God, yet she remains despondent.”
“She was hoping for a son,” Rakoczy reminded him.
“But God gave her a daughter. Undoubtedly He has reason for what He has done. The Episcopus and Pader Stanislas have pressed her to embrace Agnethe.” He shrugged philosophically. “It would do her a world of good to bow to God’s Will. The Episcopus is right about that. She must not continue to languish as she has done. Th
ere should be something that will restore her to her former spirits.” He took another section of the bread and began to chew it, more slowly than before.
“It is unfortunate, particularly for the Konige,” said Rakoczy.
“If there is something—someone—who could alleviate her misery, you would tell me who or what that is, wouldn’t you?”
“If I did know, I would.” Rakoczy felt more guarded.
“Pader Stanislas has recommended she drink the blood of merry animals—lambs and puppies, or perhaps songbirds. The Episcopus is considering it.”
“That could be risky,” said Rakoczy, his manner deliberately thoughtful. “Merriment is not the only virtue of those animals, and what the Konige takes could have results that would not please her or the Konig.”
Smiricti nodded, then asked, “What kind of poison do you use on rats?”
Realizing that Smiricti would say nothing more about Konige Kunigunde, he answered, “I use wolfsbane and syrup of poppies mixed with grain and formed into cakes, which I put into boxes with holes in them to allow the rats to enter. They die with little pain. Their bodies must be disposed of quickly, to keep the dogs and cats from eating their deadly flesh.” He spoke readily enough, though he could see suspicion in Smiricti’s eyes. “It is best to put the boxes in places where rats gather—closets and cupboards and granaries. If you put the cakes where dogs or ferrets can find them, the animals may eat the cakes and die.”
“Why not just put the cakes inside the rat-holes?” Smiricti’s curiosity kept Rakoczy alert. “Why go to the trouble of a box?”
“I use the box for the same reason that I place them prudently—so that no other creature, except perhaps mice, will eat the cakes and die of them, inside the box,” Rakoczy told him. “And any creature who might eat a dead rat will not be able to do so, and perish from it.”
Unexpectedly, Smiricti grinned. “The Episcopus should approve that, if he approves killing the rats at all.” He looked around, his eyes shining with speculation. “Is there such a box in this room?”
Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 15