Lord of the Eyrie

PART ONE

1

The Return

August 1440

Hunyad County, Southwestern Transylvania,

Kingdom of Hungary

Sándor wiped the sweat from his sunburnt face. The midday heat made the horses pant and the knights curse under their breaths. But they were almost home now. He pressed his legs against the palfrey’s flanks, urging him to go faster.

Halfway down the mountain pass, the horse shied. What is it, boy? Sándor said, stroking the animal’s neck. The iron smell of blood hit his nose. He peered ahead. About twenty paces away, in the middle of the path, a body lay splayed on the rocky ground. Flies swarmed about it, their buzzing amplified by the stony silence.

His knights approached from behind. Sir! one called. 

Sándor halted them with a raised arm. Shh!

Was it a trap? He lifted his gaze. Covered with large rocks and thick bushes, the sloping sides of the pass made the perfect spot for an ambush.

He signalled to the men to spread out and search while he warily drove his palfrey forward. He leaned over to survey the body.

The dead man’s colourful clothes and leopard-skin jacket were drenched in blood. An Akinji, an Ottoman border raider. His horse was nowhere to be seen, but his band could still be in the area.

Sándor sat back in the saddle and waited. He twitched at the slightest of sounds – a bird flapping its wings and flying away, a squirrel scuttling in the bushes, a dislodged pebble rolling down the slope. If only he had not left his armour with the baggage train, a long way behind. The Akinjis were keen archers. His light surcoat would not protect him from their arrows. At least, he had his trusted horseman’s axe in his hand. The curved, sharp edge of its blade and the long spike on its other side had made many an enemy suffer. His fingers clenched around the haft. After years of fighting and an arduous journey in the height of summer, the last thing he wished for was another skirmish with the Ottomans. But if he had to protect his land, he was ready for the challenge.

The knights returned. No sign of the enemy.

They must have raided already, Sándor whispered. His face went cold as if drained of its blood. Had he arrived too late? There was only one way to find out. He re-sheathed the axe and took hold of the reins. Go! He spurred on his horse so hard that the animal jerked into a frantic gallop, sending small stones and clumps of earth into the air.

As he came out of the pass, his ancestral home, Sasfészek, appeared in the distance – in all its glory. Like a true Eyrie, the proud hilltop fortress dominated the family estate of Szentimre with its lofty curtain wall and red-tiled pointed rooftops reaching into the milky-blue sky.

When he rode farther down onto the expansive plateau below the castle hill, the breath caught in his throat. The countryside was littered with overturned carts, burned haystacks, torn sacks of grain, people’s possessions strewn on the dirt, broken weapons, arrows and pieces of armour. Carrion birds were feasting on the flesh of dead sheep, horses and dogs. Although no fire was visible, the smell of smoke lingered in the air. In one of the fields, five men were digging near a pile of Ottoman bodies. As the riders approached, the workers paused, holding their shovels in one hand and shading their eyes against the bright sunshine with the other. The sight of the Szentimre banner, carried by one of the knights, must have put them at ease because they waved and then recommenced their work.

Sándor had seen worse destruction caused by war and raiding countless times before. But this was his land and his people. As he passed through the first village on his way to the castle, he slowed his horse’s pace to a walk. His heart ached upon watching the frightened figures of men, women and children, who wandered like lost souls or wept in each other’s arms outside farmhouses and barns with blackened walls and smouldering roofs.

A line of gloomy-faced people – many of them with their livestock in tow – trickled out of the entrance to the walled town, which lay at the foot of the hill. Sándor and his knights squeezed their way in, only to be confronted with more suffering and despair as well as utter confusion. Dozens of peasant families from the estate’s villages had found shelter there. The ubiquitous smell of smoke blended with the stench of too many people and animals crammed in a small area. The main square had been turned into an infirmary for the victims of the attack. Dead bodies lay on carts, covered with bloodied sheets of rough cloth. Men and women were crying beside their wounded loved ones: some treating the injured, others shouting in Hungarian, Wallachian or Saxon; dogs barked; children ran around shrieking; and dispirited priests, with clasped hands, interceded for the dead and pleaded for the living. A handful of soldiers tried to maintain order, but without success. Those villagers and townsfolk who recognised Sándor, either from his looks or his banner, paused and bowed their heads.

Hastening ahead of the knights, he weaved his way through the crowd – his palfrey almost tripping over clucking chickens that scurried across its path – and followed the steep, narrow grey riband-like road towards the fortress. He crossed the gate under the raised portcullis, entered the cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted in the shadow of the imposing building of the castle keep, leaving his horse with a skinny, pimple-faced adolescent groom.

A brawny armoured man with a large moustache and long, greying black hair greeted him at the steps of the keep. Welcome home, Lord Szilágyi. I am László Balog, the new castellan.

Sándor acknowledged him with a nod. What happened?

The Turks attacked at dawn, sir. They were not many, and we repelled them, thanks be to God. But your sire was badly wounded in the fray. He lowered his head as he continued, The priest has administered the last rites.

Sándor looked at Balog in disbelief. Why on earth had his old and ailing father been involved in the fight? Despite his stiff legs – from the continuous riding over several days – he hurried into the family residence and climbed the stone stairs two at a time, his gilded rowel spurs jangling with each step.

2

Grief and Guilt

The chamber stank of blood, sweat, incense and Communion wine. Two men stood in silence by István Szilágyi’s bed: the physician and a dark figure lurking in the shadows, partly concealed behind the half-drawn green curtain of the bed canopy.

Sándor took off his feathered hat and approached slowly. His father lay with eyes closed, his face ashen. His shirt and hauberk had been rolled up and his braies and joined hose lowered, exposing a large area of dark-blue skin around a grave wound. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from his abdomen, its metal end lodged deep inside him.

Sándor’s hat fell from his hand. The ground moved under his feet. He held on to the bedpost. He knew all about this kind of battle injury: nobody ever survived. The spear had delivered its mortal blow. Pulling it out would rip his father’s insides apart, causing massive bleeding and instant death. Leaving it in would lead to slower death from internal bleeding and failure of vital organs. And judging by his father’s state, that fatal moment did not seem to be too far away.

The physician gave Sándor a disconsolate look. My lord, there is nothing more I can do. I shall leave you now to say your last farewell.

The dark figure stepped out into the light of the arched window: a scowling youth, lips pressed into a thin line and nostrils flaring. He was wearing a mishmash of mail and plate armour, soiled with blood and dirt and held together so badly that it would make a professional soldier raise an eyebrow. The prodigal son has returned, he spat.

Miklós, Sándor acknowledged him coldly. His younger brother had grown up, but he was still a seventeen-year-old boy, desperately trying to look and behave like a man.

You only came back to claim your inheritance.

Sándor winced at his brother’s words but chose not to respond. He had hastened home as soon as he received news of his father’s sudden illness, hoping to spend some time with him; perhaps look after him and help him recover if that were possible. But now… 

Kneeling at the bedside, he took the old man’s hand in his and kissed it. The skin was cold as ice and dry as leather.

I beg your forgiveness, Father. I’m sorry I was not here. I’m so sorry.

István’s arm twitched. His eyes opened slowly, tears trembling in their corners. He gasped, trying to say something, but no sound came from his mouth. His body convulsed. Then his head tilted lifelessly to the left and remained there, frozen forever.

Sándor covered his face with his hand. Sharp, burning pain ran through him while his heartbeat pounded in his ears. If only he had arrived a day earlier!

He remained on his knees for a little while until the sound of the door opening made him turn around.

She brought the sunshine with her when she entered. Margit? He blinked several times. No, he was not dreaming. It was, indeed, Margit. She could not be more different from the fragile and puny fourteen-year-old bride that he had left behind. She stood straight and proud in her floor-length, dark-blue velvet gown. Even the bunch of keys and canvas purse hanging from her brass-studded leather girdle added to her air of elegance and authority. Her face radiant and flawless; her straw-coloured hair partially coiled under a jewelled hairnet, the rest of it hanging loose behind her shoulders. She could be easily mistaken for Heaven’s most splendid angel. In her hands she clasped a small Book of Hours.

Sándor rose immediately. He took a few steps towards her, drawn by an irresistible, hypnotising force. He bowed his head. My lady.

She curtsied in return. And lifting her head, her bright blue gaze met his. Welcome home, my lord. It has been a long time.

Her voice flowed like the pure water of a mountain spring. Sándor’s heart stopped for a brief moment… but then he shook his head. How could he let himself be carried away and think of his own gratification while his father lay dead in the same room?

Gracefully gliding away from him, Margit approached the bed. She regarded the lifeless body of her father-in-law. He is gone now, she whispered and crossed herself. With a gentle and respectful movement, she closed the dead man’s eyes.

She turned towards Sándor. Did he see you at all?

He nodded.

I am sorry. May God rest his soul. She opened her book and read a prayer for the dead.

With bowed head and closed eyes, Sándor listened silently until his brother’s angry breathing became too loud to bear.

Miklós pointed at their father. This is your fault. He had to go out there and fight despite his illness and his advanced age. He had to defend the estate because you were not here.

Why did you not stop him? He was ill and frail. You should have kept him safe. Sándor glanced at his brother from head to toe. But what am I saying? You cannot even wear your armour correctly.

Shame on you both! Margit interjected. Bickering like foolish little boys while your father’s body still lies warm.

Sándor stepped back in surprise, but Miklós ignored her and continued his verbal attack. You left us all at the mercy of the Turks – your father, your wife, me. You were far away soldiering while your family needed you.

How dare you? You know very well it was Father’s wish that I serve the Holy Crown as he and our ancestors did before me. Sándor squared his shoulders. He had done his duty, and he was proud of it. He was not going to let anyone question him. Our family banner has known only glory on the battlefield. And I greatly honoured our name once again when the Royal Council chose me as one of the knightly escorts of our new king, Władysław of Poland, at his coronation last month.

Miklós snorted. Yes! The ‘hero’ of the family. Always occupied with ‘important’ matters. And Father adored you, worshipped you like Mars. His warrior son. Since the moment he was wounded today, the only name he kept calling was yours. He held on as long as he could, hoping to see you.

Sándor raised his hand. Enough!

Let us go, Miklós, Margit said calmly and led him by the arm out of the room.

***

Sándor spent the rest of the day in a daze, detached from reality, like the spectator of a heart-breaking drama in which he was also the main actor. A single thought tormented his mind: perhaps his brother was right; perhaps it was his fault. He had let the sirens of glory and adventure lure him away from his home, his land and the people who mattered to him the most. How could he live with the dark spectre of guilt looming over him now? Even when he slept that night, his dreams were grim and frightening.

The next day, after his father’s funeral mass, he leaned on his wife’s arm and allowed her to lead him away. A large group of people had gathered outside the chapel, waiting to speak to him. Their muddled voices felt like hammering in his head. He would have turned around and run back into the chapel, but Margit grabbed his hand firmly and spoke in a loud and decisive voice, The lord needs time to mourn. He will arrange a public audience when he is ready.

The crowd went silent and parted to let them pass. Still grasping his hand, she guided him across the courtyard and then into the house.

Sándor stood in the entrance hall and took a deep breath. Finally, some peace and quiet.

My lord, you must rest awhile, Margit entreated. Your counsellors will be here after vespers. I shall call for you when –

He silenced her with an abrupt movement of his arm. All he craved was to hide from everybody and drown his grief and guilt by drinking himself into oblivion. Bring me wine, he ordered a passing servant.

Wearily, he climbed the stairs and locked himself in the study. The previous years of continuous training and fighting weighed on him now like armour made of lead.

He settled at the walnut writing desk, breathing in the old, familiar smell of books, paper and ink. That small room had been his father’s sanctuary, and Sándor had felt so privileged when he was allowed in. He would spend countless hours there, even at the expense of learning his duties as a future landlord. By the age of sixteen, he had read every book on the shelves, mastering Latin and the art of official letter-writing as much as he had mastered sword fighting. He could have served the king either as a soldier or a scholar. His father made the choice for him two years later…

***

A knock on the door woke him up. He slowly opened his eyes. The world looked distorted through the empty glass beaker in front of his face. The last light of the day shone through the window, spreading a warm glow around the room.

My lord! Margit called from the other side of the door. Your counsellors have arrived. You have duties to attend to.

Leave me in peace, he mumbled.

He reached for the wine flagon, but his arm fell limp on the writing desk. He cursed, lay his head down and closed his eyes.

Darkness had fallen when he woke again. He called the servants in for more wine and then staggered towards the window. Sweating heavily and barely able to breathe, he flung it open. The cool, fresh mountain breeze hit him in the face. He stood there, inhaling as deep as he could until everything about him stopped being a blur. What on earth was he doing? If his father watched him now from above, he would be very displeased. He grunted, turned around, grabbed the flagon and hurled it against the wall.

A little later, he was in his bedchamber, immersed in a wooden tub filled with cold water while a male servant stood close at hand, holding a clean towel.

The iciness tingled his skin and stirred his blood. Weariness and daze faded away. He threw more water on his face and rubbed his temples, cheeks and jaw. The prickling sensation of stubble reminded him that he had not shaved for days. He closed his eyes, leaned back and let the servant take care of that.

3

A New Life

Margit was still awake, sitting on a cushioned folding stool and absently running a comb through her hair in the flickering light of the candles. Her husband’s behaviour thus far had not provided the comfort and reassurance that the people of the estate needed. If only he came out of his gloomy mood and fulfilled his duty! Szentimre needed a competent new master. Miklós was too young and unsuitable for the task; he did not show much interest either. It was she who always helped her father-in-law in the administration of the estate’s business.

And there was the threat of the Ottomans too…

The door creaked open. She jumped to her feet, dropping the comb to the floor. No one ever entered her private bedchamber except for her young maid, Erzsi, who always knocked first and announced herself.

Sándor walked in. He was only wearing his nightshirt. His damp, shoulder-length copper-red hair glistened in the candlelight. You are right. I have duties to attend to. I shall meet with my counsellors tomorrow. And now, I shall start by doing my duty as a husband.

He came so close to her that his breath warmed her forehead. He touched her face with the back of his hand. His dark-green eyes twinkled. Take off your chemise, he said softly but still in a commanding voice. At last, you are a real woman now. I wish to see you.

A tingle went down her spine. Her heart was racing, her cheeks on fire.

Very well. I understand you may be a little shy, so I shall take mine off first. With a quick move, he threw off his shirt and stood naked in front of her.

Margit gasped. Long, angular and heavily freckled, his face was far from charming. But his height and his well-built and hard-trained body, marked with a few battle scars here and there, compensated for it. She was not a child any longer, yet the top of her head barely reached the base of his neck. She stared at his shoulders and then his chest but did not dare look any lower.

He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. His kiss was as firm and as demanding as his grasp, the muscles of his chest and stomach as solid as the castle walls.

When he let her go, she was out of breath. Her whole body trembled, gripped by a strange and unknown sensation.

Her mind flew back to their wedding night. She had arrived at Szentimre a week late because of the bad weather. The ceremony had been rushed. A small, slight, exhausted and frightened orphan, alone in the world, she had cowered at the edge of the bed, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Sándor had taken pity on her and had not touched her. The next morning, he had left for the king’s court.

She could not avoid him this time. She was older, stronger and braver now, and she understood her duty. He was her husband. She had to submit to him. At least, he was young and healthy, and the smell of his freshly washed skin pleased her. But he was much bigger and heavier than her. He could still hurt her.

How much longer must I wait to have what is mine? he jested, dragging her out of her deep thoughts.

She slowly raised her hand and undid the laces on the front of her chemise. She then pushed the garment towards the edge of her shoulders and let it slide off.

*** 

Just like her face, Margit’s body was so perfect that it put to shame all those Greek and Roman statues that Sándor had seen in Italy. He was ready to take her right at that moment, but he did not wish their first time together to be a quick and forgettable experience.

With his mouth slightly open, he took some time to admire every aspect of her rare beauty: her skin as pure and unblemished as fresh snow; the pale-yellow stream of hair flowing down her shoulders and back; her breasts, waist and hips created as if by the most skilled master…

She put her hands in front of her womanly parts.

What’s the matter? Are you afraid? he asked.

She nodded.

Don’t be. You must trust me and forget about everything else.

He swiftly lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. He lay beside her, leaning on his elbow, and kissed her again. This time it was more prolonged. He wanted to absorb as much of her taste as he could. But there was no response from her. She just lay there as rigid as a plank of wood and with her eyes shut tight.

Let go of your fear. I promise I shall not hurt you, he whispered in her ear while his thumb traced the outline of her lips.

Margit held her breath momentarily. Her eyelids quivered, and her face reddened. She must have liked that, he thought, smiling.

Encouraged by her reaction, he slid his hand down her body, exploring every inch of it – starting from her face and continuing to her neck, shoulders, breasts, belly and then lower. Little by little, her skin warmed, and she softened.

He gently pushed her legs apart and lifted himself over her. Slowly and lingeringly, he placed a trail of kisses on every part of her, moving lower and lower. She moaned, softly in the beginning and then a little louder, while she held his head between her legs.

Sándor stayed there until he could taste her readiness. He had pleased many women before, but none of them mattered to him as much as Margit did. None of them was so perfect; none of them belonged to him or was meant to give him an heir.

After drawing a long breath to subdue the forceful fury of his racing heart, he entered her body. She trembled at first, but her initial whimpers of discomfort soon turned into deep and quickening breaths. Her legs pressed tightly on his hips; her fingers dug into the skin of his shoulders.

As soon as she arched her back and moved her body together with his, the release came instantly. He let out an intense moan. It felt as good as victory on the field of battle.

Exhausted, he moved away from her and lay on his back. Staring at the intricate and colourful patterns embroidered on the bed canopy, he slowly caught his breath. He turned towards her.

She was looking at the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, quietly but with a smile still playing faintly in the corner of her mouth.

Sándor propped himself up on his elbow. I’m glad that you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Margit sucked her lower lip.

I must warn you, he continued. I shall not leave you in peace until I have ten sons.

She looked at him with wide eyes and mouth agape. Ten?

He chuckled. I jest. Three would be enough.

As soon as he lay his head back on the pillow, a wave of sweet lethargy swept over him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

***

Leaning on the stone parapet at the end of the small terrace, Sándor took a deep breath, soaking up the beauty of nature that surrounded him. It was that time between darkness and light, a magic-like moment when night and day exist together. Straight ahead, beyond the fields, the bronze colour of dawn had just appeared on the horizon while behind him and the lofty towers of the castle, the dark cloak of night was gradually receding.

Margit stood by his side, wrapped in a blanket but still shivering in the cool morning breeze.

This is my land. I am home, he said.

How had that calm and peaceful place been the scene of so much destruction and death only two days earlier?

At the foot of the hill, below the fortress and its walls, stood the small town of Szentimre, still quiet in a grey haze, with only a faint light here and there in the houses. At its centre, the steeple of the church of Saint Imre towered above the surrounding buildings. And beyond the town’s defences, the seven villages and hamlets of the estate’s tenants lay scattered across the vast farmland.

The dark mass of a mountain range protected Sasfészek from behind like a giant shield. Pine and fir trees clung to its steep slopes, which extended as high as the eye could see. Real treasures lay hidden in its heart: gold and silver. Some fifty men worked the mine, their village nestled on the side of a narrow valley along a rocky, babbling stream.

Within its walls, the fortress included several buildings: the four-storied old stone keep, which now served as the family residence; the long, rectangular great hall attached to the side of the keep; the warehouse and armoury, the timber-framed chapel, the smithy, the stables and the barracks.

Even though five years had passed, on the surface nothing had changed – everything was exactly as he remembered. But at the same time, everything was different. The future was uncertain, and he was completely unprepared for it. If only he had paid more attention to his father’s wise advice and instructions all those years earlier...

Margit withdrew her hand from inside the blanket and rested it on his shoulder.