An Embarrassment of Riches (29 page)

“Why was I invited?” Rakoczy asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You have helped us to be rid of the rats. The Counselors would like to thank you for your deadly little cakes, and where better than at the burning of poisoned rats? But you may prefer that not half the city know that you are skilled with poisons, being an exile and one of the Konige’s Court.” He saw Barnon in the door with a tray in his hands. “You’re always the gracious host, Comes. Very much to your credit. Some of our Bohemian lords could take a lesson from you.” He sat forward in his chair. “Sausages!”

“Of veal with cardamom, boiled in wine,” said Barnon, putting the tray on the round table; he glanced once at Rakoczy, then devoted his attention to Smiricti.

“Your master provides well for his guests,” said Smiricti, reaching for one of the finger-sized sausages. “Still hot. Good.” He popped it into his mouth, chewing energetically.

“Tell me, Counselor,” Rakoczy said while Smiricti ate, “why is such a burning of rats afforded so much attention?”

Smiricti looked at him, surprised. “Rats are the bane of the city. Since the Episcopus has granted that killing them is allowed, even on days of the Peace of God, it is just as well to make such an act a grand one, so that all the people can see that they need no longer suffer the creatures to infest their houses, where they do Devil’s work.”

“We have few rats here,” said Barnon. “The Comes sees to it.”

“That’s good of you to say,” Rakoczy told him.

“The Comes keeps an orderly household,” Barnon said with more emphasis. “He sees to the welfare of all his vassals.”

A number of questions roiled in Rakoczy’s mind, but he kept them to himself, not wanting to draw Smiricti into his private business. “Barnon, has Minek been attended to?”

“Yes, Comes. He has.” He ducked his head and left the withdrawing room before Rakoczy could ask for more information.

“These sausages are delicious, just delicious,” Smiricti enthused as he bit into a second one.

“I am pleased you find them so,” Rakoczy said, sitting down across the table from Counselor Smiricti. “Whom else have you invited to this … festival?”

“The Konige and her Court, of course, and the Episcopus. The Masters of all the city’s Guilds, and all visiting merchants within the walls, since they have often complained of damage done to their goods by rats.” He broke off a section of bread from the oblong loaf he had been given. “The Beggars’ Guild plan to light their bonfire at sunset. You will want to be in place ahead of that hour.”

“So I might,” said Rakoczy, “if I come.”

“But you must. There are those who will see your absence as a slight.” He drank more beer. “You can’t want that, can you?”

“No,” Rakoczy answered, his attention on his small hands. “But I have had nothing from the Konige informing me that my presence is required.” He considered his situation again. “Konig Bela has laid restrictions upon me, as you know, and without an order from Konige Kunigunde, it would violate the terms of my exile to attend so public an event.”

“I shall send a messenger to the Konige, then, and have him deliver her decision to you. That should prevent any delays.” He bit into the wad of bread he held, and his next words were muffled. “The Beggars’ Guild is happy to have this chance to show Praha what use it can be.”

“Killing rats is a great service,” said Rakoczy with no hint of sarcasm.

“So they say.” Smiricti took another sausage.

While the Counselor munched his way through his food, Rakoczy got up from his chair and paced the length of the withdrawing room. The fire was beginning to blaze again, lending its heat to the chamber, and Rakoczy moved away from the flames. He went to the shuttered window, wanting to throw it open, but mindful of the snow beyond, he left the window closed. “How long do you expect the bonfire will last?” he asked Smiricti.

“As long as there are rats to burn. The Episcopus has said that he would allow the gathering to last until Vigil begins.”

“So long,” said Rakoczy in surprise, for he had not often seen the Episcopus endorse any street celebrations that continued so long after sundown. He had been told that Easter celebrations could go on all night, but for such an occasion as this one the Episcopus most often insisted that strict limitations be imposed, to lessen the chances for public crime and lewdness.

“The Episcopus has rats in his cathedral. He has given the Beggars’ Guild the task of killing and collecting them all.” Smiricti chuckled and pulled another hunk of bread off the loaf.

“So the bonfire is a reward for the Beggars’ Guild,” said Rakoczy.

“As much of one as they will ever receive from Episcopus Fauvinel, who has said that the Guild, for being a Guild, has put its members beyond the Church’s charity,” said Smiricti. “I would count it a favor if you would be willing to attend.”

“And the Konige—what of her decision in that regard.”

“If she tells you that you mayn’t attend, that will be the end of it,” Smiricti declared through a mouthful of bread. “She has said that your natal-day gift to her older daughter was the handsomest of any the child received, and for that reason alone she is kindly inclined to you. She may look forward to another display of your generosity.”

“What do you recommend I do if she makes no decision at all?” Rakoczy inquired; he wondered whether or not the Konige would want him to be at such a function, where public unruliness would likely be rampant.

“Oh, I doubt she’d do that. She’s unlikely to leave her preference in doubt.” He picked up the last sausage. “These are really very good, Comes. I thank you for providing them.” He began to eat the sausage. “You wouldn’t consider providing more of these for the celebration tonight, would you?”

“If I am permitted to attend, I will gladly bring some with me,” said Rakoczy.

“Of course,” said Smiricti, “if you’re permitted to attend.”

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Frater Purvanek at the Monastery of the Holy Martyrs three leagues from Praha on the bank of the Moltava, to Episcopus Fauvinel at the Royal Court in Praha, written on vellum and delivered by private Church courier.

To the greatly pious, most reverend Episcopus Fauvinel, this letter from the hand of Frater Purvanek at the Monastery of the Holy Martyrs on this, the 9
^th
day of February in the 1270
^th
year of Grace,

Most excellent Episcopus,

It is my duty to tell you that the Fraters here have done me the honor of electing me to succeed the former Abbott Varengara, who has gone on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. It is the Abbott’s hope to die in that most holy city and as his illness is worsening, he has departed so that he will have time enough to reach the Holy Land. To that end, I am taking it upon myself to write to you to inform you of conditions here.

Since it is now my duty to see to the monks and the maintenance of this monastery, I apply to you for what help you can provide us. The storms of the winter have left the cow-barn with a badly damaged roof, and the creamery with water standing on the floor. We will have to be rid of all the cheeses ripening there because the damp has made them unfit to eat, according to Frater Miloslav, who is in charge of the creamery. Without cheese, we will be able to tend to fewer travelers, which will lessen the donations upon which we depend, and without help from you and the city, some of our monks are likely to starve before the damage here is repaired. I beseech you to provide us as much assistance as you can.

Let me ask you to come to the monastery to see for yourself how we are suffering. It would restore the hopes of many of the monks here if they were certain of your attentions in this hard time. God may send us many tribulations but He also sends us you, our Episcopus, to shepherd us through the trials of this world, so that we may join in the celebration of Resurrection on April 13
^th
; for without your help and succor, we will surely by that day be awaiting the Last Trumpet in our graves. We implore you to aid us as if we were your children, for surely your rank puts you in the position of a parent, for we are all vassals of the Church, and we receive Grace from your offices. God has laid His hand upon you, and entrusted many souls to your keeping; ours are among them. With the Devil abroad in the land, we call upon you to help us restore our faith in His Mercy and the protection of the Church.

With my devotion and prayerful submission to our Rule,

Frater Purvanek

Abbott of the Monastery of the Holy Martyrs

Benedictine

2

“Where does your cousin think you are? Surely you did not sneak out of Vaclav Castle, did you? Your note said only that you would be coming here clandestinely: how does it come about?” Rakoczy asked Imbolya as they hastily climbed toward the warder’s quarters in the gate-house, he leading but facing her, so that he moved backward up the dimly lit spiral staircase. They were making as little noise as possible, for although outside the gate-house freezing rain buzzed on a gusty wind, rattling the slates on the roof and hooting smokily down the chimneys of Mansion Belcrady, they knew someone might well be listening for any unusual sound.

“I am on a mission for the Konige,” she said, trying not to giggle; her hair was damp and drops of rain spangled her face in the light from the gateway torch.

“Truly?”

“Yes. As the Konige’s messenger, Csenge has sent me to the Sorers at Sante-Zore to secure their agreement to participate in the festival planned when the Konig departs to resume his campaign in the south. Csenge doesn’t like going out in the wet, and decided to send me in her stead. The Konige doesn’t interfere with Csenge’s decisions. Besides, my cousin can’t read, so she chose me, because I can. Right now, I’m the
only
one of the Konige’s ladies who can.” She tossed her head. “It’s good to speak Magyar again. I get tired of Bohemian. There’s nothing like my native tongue in my mouth.” She chuckled at her joke.

“I agree,” he said, uncomfortably aware that he was the last surviving speaker of his native language.

“So you give me two pleasures while I attend to my mission, one of the flesh and one of the ear.” She was becoming a little breathless as much from anticipation as from their rapid climb. “I yearn for them both.”

“I suppose it would not be wise of me to thank Csenge of Somogy for assigning you the task,” said Rakoczy sardonically.

“No, it wouldn’t,” said Imbolya, halting in her upward rush and regarding him worriedly, frowning as she looked at him. Then her countenance lightened and she pushed at his arm in feigned reprimand. “Oh. You’re teasing me.”

“Not successfully,” he said, a trifle chagrined. “What about the festival?” he inquired as they resumed their climb.

Imbolya lifted her skirts to enable her to move more quickly. “Ordinarily the festivities would be held at Easter, but since that won’t come until the middle of April, the Konig is determined to be under way by the end of March, so I’m charged with asking the Sorers what they would be willing to do to help send the army on its way with God’s blessings and the blessings of His servants before the Resurrection Masses.” She saw him nod, and went on, “The Sorers keep stringent Hours; I would have had to wait for some time to speak to Mader Svetla, and that seemed to me to be unnecessary, especially in this weather, and so when I was left at the gate to the convent, I sent my escort to the tavern and I came here—I didn’t say where I was going. And you’re only two streets away from Sante-Zore; it’s not as if I’ve been wandering about the city unprotected.”

“A prudent explanation,” he said. “I am glad you decided to come here.”

“And I’m glad you got my message in time to admit me yourself; I only realized later that you might not get the note in time.”

“The terms of my exile keep me here, inside the walls,” he said. “If I am not where the Konige orders me to be, I am here.”

She nodded. “I remembered that just before I reached your gate, thank God and Sant Persemon.” She crossed herself. “I might not have sounded the bell if I hadn’t recalled that; it would have been awkward explaining my presence to a servant, who would be certain to remember that I came here, and might report me to his Confessor, who would report to the Episcopus, which would be harmful for both of us. Fortunately, nothing bad transpired.” She grinned, still a little out of breath, as she burst into the cold room above the gate; it was a spartan chamber, with a bed, a chair, a chest that also served as a table, and a brazier, with pegs on the wall for clothes. A simple wooden crucifix hung on the door. The rushes had been swept out, and so the floor was bare and cold. “When will your warder return to his post? He must still be recovering if he isn’t here in his quarters.” She wrenched off her gorget and wimple, tossing them on one of the pegs.

“He will be back here in a few more days,” said Rakoczy. “He has not put on much flesh since he became ill, and that worries me a little; his tainted lungs have left him depleted and unable to strengthen himself. He needs someone to keep an eye on him, and he needs to stay warm. I have ordered him to remain where he is until he is less gaunt. If his appetite strengthens, it will be no more than five days before he is back here.” As he spoke, he went to the brazier in the middle of the room, removed its tarnished copper lid, put a handful of kindling into it, added three branches of rosemary, and used flint-and-steel to strike a spark. “This won’t give much heat, but it will be better than nothing.”