by Alma Boykin
“Crown and Land supports the Royal Party.”
Josef Meciar stood and called out, “The Protestant Workers support the Royal Party.” A susurration of murmurs and furtive whispers filled the chamber. Really? That’s a surprise. I could have sworn that they’d side with the MSP as the loyal opposition. Apparently not, and István wondered why. Well, he’d find out later, since Meciar served as his ears in the lower chamber.
The rest of the session proved remarkably uneventful, and István let his attention drift once more, admiring the decorations and paintings in the chamber. It had not been completed yet, but the chandeliers of Bohemian and Austrian glass and crystal, and the murals portraying the conversion of the Magyars and the presentation of the Golden Bull met his approval. He’d read something back before the war, during his brief flirtation with reading the law, that had called the Golden Bull the “Magna Charta” of Hungary. The idea still made him wonder if the author had read either document. Well, both had served to check the power of the king, that much held true, but István thought the English nobles had been a bit wiser. The Hungarians had left too many spaces for kings to wiggle through. Of course, the Turks had made much of it moot, and the defeat after 1848 finished it once and for all.
But nobles still had duties, he sighed. After the session adjourned, he caught up with Zoltan Széchenyi. “A moment of your time, my lord Széchenyi?”
“Who?” Széchenyi turned around. “Oh. Yes?”
“Your pardon if I am direct, my lord. Does your House own the farms near Monor?”
Széchenyi thought for a moment or two before shaking his head. “No. Why?”
Wary of listeners, István said, “Oh, one of my foresters’ children got in a little trouble while working on a farm in that area. I merely wished to see if perhaps you might have an interest as well.”
“Law trouble or otherwise?”
“Otherwise. The ways of youth.” István shrugged. “Thank you, my lord Széchenyi.”
Knowing looks and half-smiles from the men in the passageway met his words, and István suspected there’d be some reminiscing about farmers’ daughters and other low-ranking women over the next few hours.
“You are welcome. Imre Lovász might be of some assistance, perhaps.”
Someone coughed. “He’s from Temesvar. Probably not much help unless you need someone talked to sleep.”
István smiled just enough and eased out of the group. A lawyer was not what the young lady needed.
By the time he finished listening to Marie Novak’s story, and her lover’s halting German-Russian version, István needed headache powders and a stiff drink. The farmer, a dour, wrinkled man, who reminded István of a twisted oak root, glared at all of them from the corner of his best room, muttering about Russians and stupid women and what he’d do if she were his daughter. The stove in the corner gave off no heat, although István’s temper had warmed quite well.
He took a deep breath and looked at the stocky, red-faced young Russian man. “To make certain that I understand,” István said slowly, first in Hungarian and then in Bohemian, which the man seemed to understand, at least a little. “You, Ivan Denisevich, want to marry Maria. You are Russian Catholic. You do not want to return to Russia. And you are willing to work for her family, of which I am the head.”
The young man nodded. “Yes, most gracious Lord Stipan. I marry Masha, go to her house, stay in Hungary. Am Catholic, Russian Catholic, swear to Pope not to Tsar.” István had lowered his shields and he did not read any obvious lies in the man’s projected thoughts.
“And you, Marie, you want to marry Ivan, of your own free will, even knowing that it will cause . . . difficulties.”
The young woman put one hand on her belly and gulped. “Yes, my Lord István. Ivan is a good man, and he works hard, and he was kind to me wh—”
“That is enough.” István had a sudden suspicion about the situation and the child, a terrible suspicion. Marie sniffed and stepped back a pace, moving closer to Ivan as she did. The young man eased toward her, as if to protect her. “What of your sister?”
“Catherine?” Marie looked over István’s shoulder, to the farmer glowering from the corner of the room, and gulped. “She approves, my Lord István.”
She lied. Not about her sister, not exactly, but something rang false. István took the risk of dropping his shields and stalking up to her, standing between Marie and the farmer and blocking her from the other man’s view. He reached for the House, straining for contact, and felt it answer. Without the help of the Matra he could barely make contact at this distance, but he didn’t dare ask another Power to work within Pannonia’s territory.
“Marie Anna Barbara Novak, tell me the truth.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and locked eyes with her. “To the best of your knowledge, is Ivan the father of your child?” He leaned on her through the House, forcing her to look at him.
“I... I... I do not know, my Lord Eszterházy. I hope so, I pray so.” He had to strain to hear her words, which was just as well.
“And your sister?”
She shook her head, terrified, unable to speak, but pointed toward the farmer.
István released the pressure and took his hands off her shoulders. “Very well. You are aware that your father will not, can not, give his permission for you to marry?”
“Yes, my Lord Eszterházy.” She twisted the rough cloth of her apron with her hands and lowered her eyes and head, until all he could see was the faded red kerchief covering her dark hair. “But Ivan is a good man. He’s tired of the war.”
So are we all, my child, so are we all. István took another step back. “Very well. Since your father is legally incapable of granting permission, and your mother has already agreed to any decision I might make, you are free to marry Ivan Denisevich, provided the banns find nothing amiss.”
Ivan must have known enough Hungarian to parse what István said, or he read Marie’s smile, because both young people dropped to their knees. Ivan took István’s hands and kissed them in the Russian fashion, embarrassing István. “Thank you, my lord, thank you,” the man babbled. He might not be so grateful once he saw his new home, and after all the headaches the army was going to give him and his new in-laws about bringing a Russian POW into a Hungarian family, István sighed. He freed his hands and rested them on the couple’s heads. “You have the permission and blessing of the House.”
“Now get out of my house and go back to work, both of you,” the farmer snarled, pointing at the door with a twisted finger. Ivan grabbed Marie’s hand and hurried her out, bowing as he did, and keeping his body between her and the other men.
Now what is going on, hmm? István turned to face the farmer, Mr. Fránk.
“You’re going to pay me what they owe, Colonel Eszterházy.” Fránk waved the finger at István and spat out his rank. “Colonel, your light-skirt cost me the strongest man the damn army’s offered me yet.”
“What do they owe, aside from his contract money, Mr. Fránk?”
“Room, board, clothing points, what do you think?” He picked up a handful of papers and waved them. “Little light-skirt’s been nothing but trouble since she came here, and she owes me for the loss of labor and for what she and her bastard brat have eaten.”
István inhaled to answer but stopped himself as he felt a flare of warning and fear through the House. He turned to the side door, leading to the kitchen, and caught a glimpse of an old woman dragging Marie away. No, it wasn’t Marie, it was Catherine! “Release her,” István ordered. His army voice caught the old woman by surprise, and the girl broke free, running to throw herself at István’s feet.
“Take me, please my lord, take me, don’t let him hurt me, please my lord, please, in the Virgin’s name I beg you help me.”
Fránk rushed forward, trying to push István out of the way as he grabbed the sobbing girl by the hair to drag her away. “You bitch! Who let you out, you nasty—”
István seized the farmer’s wrist
and twisted, trying not to step on Catherine as he wrenched the man’s arm back.
“Argh! You have no right, you bastard, noble or not! Attacking me in my own house, claiming my property—”
István kept his voice low and cold despite the red that was starting to cloud his vision. “The women you hired are workers, not slaves or serfs. I am taking Marie, Ivan, and Catherine with me. If you keep your mouth shut, you and your wife, and swear to me that you will drop all claims and complaints, I will not tell the army or Her Grace Archduchess Ursula about what has happened here.” István took a deep breath and smelled a hint of fear under the man’s body fug. “But if you do complain, I will come back, with the army inspectors, and Her Grace’s men, and the men of my household, and we will thrash you until you envy the wheat crop, because there is no chaff to tell us when to stop beating a man.” István leaned on his captive, as well as pulling his body back, until he moaned from fear and pain. “Do you understand me?”
“Ye— yes my lord Colonel Count Eszterházy.”
István released the farmer with a push, spun on his heel, grabbed Catherine by the shoulder, and heaved her to her feet despite the warning pain in his back. “Come.” They had to get out before the farmer recovered or went for a shotgun.
As soon as they cleared the threshold, István ordered, “Get your clothes, find your sister and her man, and meet me by my carriage.” Fear gave her feet wings, and the girl gathered her skirts and fled, returning before Jenö had finished untying the horses. “We need to leave now, and quickly. The three are coming with us,” he explained to the driver.
“Aye, my lord.” Jenö wasted no time climbing into the driver’s seat. István held the carriage door open, and the three young people scrambled in. As soon as he got into his own seat, István grabbed for the inside handle as the horses spring into a trot. The carriage lurched back and forth on the rough farm track, but Jenö kept them upright and fast until they reached the main road to Budapest. Marie clung to Ivan and wept into his shoulder. He patted her awkwardly, very aware of the great man watching them. Catherine buried her face in her apron and cried silently, bent almost double.
“Catherine, I must know,” István said, as calmly and with as much warmth as he could put into his voice. “Are you with child?”
“Yes my lord.”
“Is it the farmer’s child?”
She looked up, tears cutting tracks in the dirt smearing her round face. “Yes. He never let the other men near me after he... after he,” she rocked back and forth. The words burst out, “After he ruined me.” She bent double once more and sobbed even harder.
István almost ordered Jenö to turn around so he could kill the farmer. Instead he looked out the glass of the carriage door and counted backward from a hundred in Bohemian, then again in Latin, until the red haze dissipated and he knew he could keep from terrifying the children. Shit. They are my children as far as the House is concerned. He was only, what? Ten years older than the sisters? And he had failed to do his duty to them.
Crushing weight settled onto his shoulders. István’s back and leg ached, and he felt a tingling into his foot, warning that he’d pinched something again. He could barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion. The strain of reaching so far for the House had drained any reserves of energy he’d had. And he had to deal with the three young people and everything they brought with them, including requesting permission for Ivan to stay and marry. Dear God, give me strength, and St. Joseph give me wisdom to deal with this family.
Family was not the only thing he discovered he had to deal with in Budapest. Dobroslov and Luka took charge of the Novak girls and Ivan Denisevich. Judging by the looks Dobroslov gave Ivan, István suspected that the HalfDragon guard had ideas for the young man’s future, ideas that might not include a career as a forester. Apparently once he’d learned how to use a flush toilet and discovered indoor running water, Ivan cleaned up very well, according to Ferenk, the butler and general servant at the town palace. István was too busy trying to decide if he could rejoin the army under an assumed name or if seeking sanctuary with the Cistercians would be the better option. Because an all-too-familiar seal graced a card on his desk.
His Grace Archduke Rudolph would be in Budapest later that week. Did Count Eszterházy have perhaps an hour in his schedule? István tapped the card against his desk, stared at the wallpaper, and wondered if somewhere his father was laughing at him and counting off his revenge for all the scrapes and scares István had given Janos through the years. “I wonder if House Brixen needs help fending off the Italians?” he mused aloud. “It might be quieter.”
“Aye, my lord, it might be,” Dobroslov agreed from the doorway. He bowed a little. “But with all honor and respect, my lord, her ladyship and Lord Mátyás might object to your prolonged absence.”
“Indeed they would, Dobroslov.” He waited.
“My lord, about young Ivan?”
István nodded and gestured for the older man to continue.
“He’s not quite what he seems, my lord.” Dobroslov crossed the room in two strides and lowered his voice. “I suspect his mother or a grandparent was a HalfDragon, from one of the Jewish Houses. He’s more Ruthene than pure Russian, from what I can tell.”
“Interesting.” István considered the man’s words. “But he himself is not a HalfDragon.”
“Not enough to show on the body, but . . .” Dobroslov turned one hand palm up and made a familiar sign. István nodded.
Dear Lord, but please may the baby be his, St. Ann hear our prayers, blessed Lady add your intentions to our prayers, please of Lady of Mercy. “Encourage him, please, Dobroslov. And I have a meeting at the Palace the day after tomorrow, ten a.m.”
“Very good, my lord. Shall I tell Jenö?”
“Yes.”
That afternoon, István shooed Szombor out of his suite and did all the exercises and stretches for his back that he had been neglecting. The pain and tingling eased, although the aches warned that he’d better get back into the habit of stretching and work unless he wanted Mistress Nagy to scold him again—or to lose the use of his legs. Then he took a very long nap. He slept until five the next morning, leaving him groggy but in a better mood than he’d enjoyed in some time.
The mood lasted most of the day and into the next. Only when he made his way into the palace atop Buda Hill, knocking the early snow off his worn-thin boots and feeling shabby in his pre-war coat and hat, did the good feeling fade. The palace felt chill, and not because of the lack of physical heat. Something not-quite-right floated in the air, and István wondered about it. Was there an illness in the imperial family? No, it didn’t have that sense, as best he could tell. He gave his hat and coat to one of the footmen and waited, trying to be subtle about sitting as close to the warm stove as he dared. The pink-and-green porcelain tiles radiated a lovely heat.
“My lord Count.” István rose with a touch of reluctance and followed the footman down a familiar hall. A second footman opened the door and announced, “Colonel Count István Eszterházy, Your Grace.”
“Send him in.” István walked into the somewhat warmer blue-and-gold room and bowed. “You may rise.”
Rudolph looked tired. Not ill or excessively worn, and he seemed to have put on a little of the weight he’d lost over the past years, but still tired. The light brown eyes, almost tan, seemed a little glazed. Then the archduke shook, like a cat fluffing its fur, and came fully to himself. “Come, sit.”
István took the seat facing the desk. The two men weighed each other, and István broke gaze first, as usual.
“How fares House Eszterházy?”
That is not the House name? Or is it? What is going on? “It fares well, Your Grace. The land and people are healthy, and the House is able to meet the needs of its members.” A stab of guilt pierced István and he looked down at his hands, turning the signet ring on his right index finger. The House was able, but its Head had failed in his duties.
“And how is the
Matra?”
“It is well, Your Grace. Although,” István thought about the past few weeks. “It is uncomfortable with the situation to the north. And to the northeast, Your Grace.”
Rudolph played with an ivory and lapis letter opener. “Galicia. And Poland?”
“Not Poland, Your Grace, but Brandenburg.”
“Ah.” Rudolph’s eyes closed part way, and when they opened, the color had shifted to the brown-red of dried blood. “Interesting. I was not aware you were that sensitive, Little Stephen.”
“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but I am not. The Matra is, and is wary. It devotes more energy to defense than in the past, Your Grace.”
“Ah.” István felt something shifting. “You reached past your bounds three suns ago.” The new timbre in Rudolph’s voice warned István as to what spoke through the Emperor’s buffer.
“Yes, Your Grace, I did, to protect two, soon to be five, members of House Szárkány-Kárpátok.” He sat straight, ready for whatever Pannonia said or did.
“Such trespass will be tolerated, this time. Next time . . .” The threat hung in the air. István did not try to smooth the hair on his neck, which stood at attention. Pannonia looked at him, weighing him. Then it pulled back, leaving Rudolph to catch himself with both hands on the desk at the abrupt release. He shook again. “Ow.”
“I am not inclined to disagree, Your Grace.” Now István smoothed the little hairs and told his heart to calm down before the men standing beside the windows behind the archduke heard the pounding and began to wonder what had transpired.
“Disagreeing with Pannonia is not wise.” Rudolph shifted to telepathy. «I dearly wish, should the Lord grant it, that some day the ambassador from the United States is in the room when Pannonia makes its appearance. The terror on his face might be the last thing I see, but just now I believe that I would die smiling.»