An Embarrassment of Riches (18 page)

Becoming more curious at Pan of Kravar’s geniality, Rakoczy sat down next to him and prepared for the coming Mass.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu, at Praha, Bohemia, to Frater Sandor, private scribe to Konig Bela, at Kalocsa, Hungary, written in Latin code on vellum and carried by private courier; delivered sixteen days after it was written.

To the loyal and upright Hieronymite monk, Frater Sandor, the greetings of Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu, on the ninth day of September in the Lord’s Year 1269, with the trust that all information in these pages will be imparted to Konig Bela as promptly as circumstances will allow.

To the most excellent Konig Bela of Hungary,

It is my duty to tell you that Konige Kunigunde has, on the 5
^th
day of September, been delivered of a daughter to be named Agnethe of Bohemia, who will be presented to the people of Praha tomorrow, and her name entered in the role of Bohemia’s royal lineage. I have seen your granddaughter twice and I can assure you that she is properly formed and active in her movements. She has been given to the Konige’s wetnurse, and all of the Konige’s ladies have been given their orders for watching over the infant.

The Konige’s older daughter, Kunigunde of Bohemia, because she is little more than four, is unhappy to have to share the attention of the Konige’s Court with her new sister, and has taken to behaving objectionably toward the Court ladies. She struck her body-servant yesterday and was given stale bread for her supper. Children are often jealous in this way, and in time the rancor will pass, but for now, you may expect reports that single out the Little Royal’s bad behavior. If a companion could be found for her—her own age or a little older—most of her antics would likely cease. Perhaps one of her cousins could be spared for the task? If not a cousin, then the child of one of your vassal-lords?

All this is favorable, but there are two matters that are not: first, your granddaughter has been struck with melancholy, which sometimes comes upon women after giving birth, but this shows no signs of lifting, and may be deepening. Her labor was long, but she has rested from that. She has yet to show any sign of concern for her new daughter. As much as she wanted a son, her distress is known, and I am troubled that she is not willing to hold her newborn namesake. I have spoken with Klotild of Jilish to see if there are any herbs that might lessen the Konige’s misery, but she has nothing to recommend. If it pleases you, Konig Bela, I will ask Episcopus Fauvinel to say Masses for her restoration, or seek any other service that you would want performed on your behalf.

The other information I have to impart is cause for grief and distraint: your kinswoman Erzebet of Arad died yesterday evening after falling into a profound lethargy that could not be ended, although there were several attempts made to bestir her. She had been declining for some time, wracked by pain in her guts and joints, by failing appetite, and, in the last month, rashes on the skin. She had become so pale that she seemed translucent, and her eyes were sunken in her head, but were luminous. Frater Lovre, who attended on Erzebet in her illness, declared it was heated guts due to bilious humors that killed her, but I must tell you that I fear she has been poisoned. For that reason, I urge you to provide more protection for the Hungarians at the Konige’s Court, for if one of the Konige’s Court can be murdered, so others might be. May my fears be groundless, but since I have them, I am duty-bound to tell you of them. If you would like me to send a report to Frater Morcs so that he may assess the factors of Erzebet’s death and submit his conclusions in its regard, I will do so. As an apothecary, Frater Morcs is familiar with the nature of poisons and can therefore lend his knowledge to Erzebet’s case, and his advice must be given full regard. If he finds that I have no cause for alarm, I will bow to his wisdom.

I have acquitted my charged obligation to you, Konig Bela, and will continue to do so for as long as it pleases you that I should. All I ask is that you not forget that all you have required of me in Praha thus far I have done to the limits you have placed upon me. For the sake of the pledge you have made to Santu-Germaniu, I implore that you recall your good-will and your probity on behalf of my land and my vassals.

Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu

(his sigil, the eclipse)

2

Where there was sunlight there was warmth, but in the shade the first whispers of winter lurked, their chill brushing shivers onto skin and snapping color into the faces of the members of the Konige’s Court; in the waning afternoon the shadows lengthened, deepening their touch, and the Konige’s courtiers began to struggle to stay warm. Four elaborate pavilions stood in the broadest swath of light, with dozens of men and women wandering between them; in the space at the center of the four a large fire was being laid, and cooks were preparing to spit-broil the game that had been killed that day, while a group of musicians played just outside the closed silken door of Konige Kunigunde’s pavilion. Three Trinitarian monks hovered near the entrance to the pavilion, seeking alms for the poor and the Church.

“She has been weeping most of the day,” Csenge of Somogy said to Rakoczy Ferancsi in Magyar as he tuned his new Frankish lyre; they were in the alley between the Konige’s pavilion and the one of Pan Kravar Jurg. “I hope you can provide her some relief. Something must be done before the Konig arrives.”

“And I, as well, hope that my efforts can help her,” said Rakoczy, testing the bass string for a third time, then twisting the tuning peg to bring it up to pitch.

“Sing her Hungarian songs, ones she’ll know. I think she’s been homesick. You could help her to—” She gnawed at her lower lip before flinging out her hands in a show of helplessness. “If only she had had a son, she wouldn’t be so downcast. Who can blame her, though? Married almost eight years and only two daughters to show for it!”

“The Episcopus says her daughter is God’s Will.” Rakoczy plucked at the other eleven strings, taking care to tune them sweetly.

“Then God has been cruel to her, and the Episcopus knows it. The Konig must feel betrayed, to have a second daughter.” She shuddered. “Not even the Konige is proof against his ire. She has failed him in the most dreadful way a woman can fail a man.” She took the hem of her sleeve and wiped her eyes.

“Surely adultery is a greater failure,” Rakoczy said. “Konige Kunigunde has faithfully given him this child. That she is a daughter may disappoint Konig Otakar, but it is hardly a failure: Agnethe is alive and properly formed. She feeds well, and her cry is hearty.”

“But the Konig needs a son.”

Rakoczy bit back a question that buzzed in his mind, for expressing more approval of the Konige above that of the Konig in these circumstances would be dangerous sentiments, especially for an exile. He looked at the large, red pavilion and said, “How many are with her?” It was a question often asked these days, and Csenge thought nothing of his inquiry.

“Three ladies-in-waiting, two dwarves, and six slaves, and those she has invited into her presence; how many of them are with her now, I have no idea,” she replied. “There would be four ladies, but Rozsa of Borsod has been sent for by her husband, and the Konige has released her to go to him. If she doesn’t return, she will have to be replaced, as will Erzebet of Arad. Two new ladies in the spring—it will be difficult until then, without Erzebet and Rozsa. The Konige misses them both.” A faint flicker of supposition shone in her eyes, fading rapidly when her announcement got no more reaction from Rakoczy than a shake of his head. “As do we all.”

“It is sad that Erzebet of Arad is dead and will never return here,” he said carefully. “For Rozsa, it is probably better to travel now than later in the autumn. The rains will start shortly, and then it will be too hard to be abroad. Muddy roads make for trouble.” He touched his lyre and this time was pleased with what he heard.

“As the Konig knows; the army will leave the front shortly.”

Imbolya of Heves walked by, resplendent in a bleihaut of pale-green Damascus silk worked in a pattern of acanthus leaves, a large pitcher of honied wine in her hands; she nodded to her cousin but said nothing.

“And Rozsa’s husband will be at Kaposvar before the Konig comes to Praha.” Rakoczy waited for Csenge to speak.

“Rozsa won’t be able to return until spring, when her husband once more follows the Konig into battle.” This time her scrutiny was pronounced. “She will not be here before the Equinox. Unless she becomes pregnant, which will probably result that she remain in Hungary at Kaposvar.”

“Among her own people, who will care for her,” he said, more because it was the prudent response than because he believed it.

“Would it bother you if she became pregnant?” Csenge asked, her eyes fixed on his.

“Why should it?”

“The rumor is that you might care,” Csenge said as pointedly as she dared.

“For Rozsa’s sake, certainly,” he agreed. “But you imply more, do you not?” His tone was light and sardonic.

“And if a child should come in the spring, what then?” Csenge lifted her chin in triumph. “She boasted that she had the sweetest lover in all the world.”

“Then she is a fortunate woman,” said Rakoczy and struck a chord, listening to its harmony with satisfaction.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” Csenge challenged.

Realizing his risk, Rakoczy took a chance, asking calmly, “Did she say I was that lover—by name?”

“Of course not. But we know. ‘A man from my own country who is not brute, who gives me the pleasure I seek,’ whomelse could it be?”

“There are a good number of Hungarians in the Konige’s Court,” he reminded her. “Have you considered them?”

“Most are artisans and Guildsmen: the rest are monks and priests—not to say that all of the clergy are chaste. You are the only Court noble who is not on campaign with the Konig. You are the one who is an oddity.” She sounded slightly less sure of herself.

“Mightn’t one of the others be the person she praised? And might she have misled you about her lover—if she truly had a lover.” His demeanor was so calm that Csenge began to doubt her own convictions.

“The Konige would not tolerate having a lady-in-waiting who disgraced her husband,” she said thoughtfully.

“Did she say that she disgraced her husband with her lover?” he countered, wondering what Rozsa had told the other ladies-in-waiting; how much had been boasting and how much had been simple truth? He thought back to Sophronia in Byzantium, who boasted of her multitude of lovers, often in great detail, and never had any. “Sometimes lovers are more dreams than flesh.”

“No; she said that he—”

He held up his hand. “It is not appropriate for you to tell me her confidences. You are her confidante.”

“Even priests gossip,” Csenge said, her eyes narrowed. “But if you aren’t interested—” She shrugged. “We will see what we may, in the fullness of time.”

“If she becomes pregnant—if she delivers in the autumn next year there will be no question of her fidelity, which will still all the salacious rumors, and will restore her good name,” he said calmly. “If she is delivered about this time, or in early October, there will be no doubt.” He nodded as if to end their confrontation. “When we will all wish her a healthy, sound child.”

“She said she wants to come back to the Konige’s Court, which she won’t do if she has an infant,” Csenge said, looking away as a shower of sparks rose from the central fires.

“If her husband wants a child, and it arrives next autumn…” He let the rest of his thoughts go unspoken, wondering as he did what was uppermost in Rozsa’s mind: her dislike of Notay Tibor of Kaposvar or the power having a child would give her? A son would enhance her prestige and importance to her husband that she presently lacked, and that might be sufficient to keep her at Kaposvar, or would her enjoyment of Kunigunde’s Court outweigh her yearning for position within the Notay House?

Csenge sniffed. “As you say, if her husband wants a
legitimate
child…”

In the ensuing silence he ducked his head to Csenge. “I should go to the Konige.”

“So you should,” Csenge said, stepping aside to allow him to pass.

The flap of Kunigunde’s pavilion held a large embroidered golden sun upon it, a reminder of Bohemia’s wealth as well as a token of hope for the Konige’s improved happiness. Inside there were three braziers providing light and perfumed smoke for the nine people attending on Konige Kunigunde, who lay on a Byzantine couch, a soft goat-hair blanket thrown over her legs. She was dressed in a dark-blue silken bleihaut over a peach-colored linen chainse; a collar of gold studded with jewels lay slightly askew on her chest. Her gorget was white and her veil was a muted shade of red. Wisps of dark auburn hair escaped from beneath her veil, slightly damp and clinging to her forehead and cheeks, accentuating the look of fatigue that had taken hold of her. She gave a negligent wave to Rakoczy as he went down on one knee to her.