Lord of the Eyrie, page 1
part #1 of Medieval Hungary Series Series
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
GLOSSARY
PART ONE
1: The Return
2: Grief and Guilt
3: A New Life
4: From Soldier to Leader
5: The Attack
6: An Unwanted Alliance and a Dark Secret
7: Janos Hunyadi
8: What God Gives He Can Take Away
9: Scheming
10: Betrayal
11: Regret
12: The Ottoman Invasion
13: Blood on the Ialomita
14: It's Good to be Home
15: God's Soldiers
16: Fields of Death
17: Ghost
18: Blood is Thicker Than Water
19: Time to Rest
PART TWO
20: The Dark Clouds of War Gather Again
21: Under Siege
22: A Dark Twist of Fate
23: A Father's Plea
24: Heroes
25: Head-to-Head
26: The Biggest Fight of His Life
27: Facing Reality
28: A Surprising Turn of Events
29: Serious Problems and Desperate Solutions
30: The Price of Loyalty
31: Surprise
32: Civil War
33: Suffering and Salvation
34: A Short Break
35: Surprising News
36: Love and Pain
37: Into the Darkness
38: An Old Familiar Face Appears Again
39: The Contract
40: Endgame
41: Out of Darkness Came Forth Light
The Szilágyi of Szentimre (fictional) coat of arms.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND THANKS
APPENDICES
Lord of the Eyrie
KATERINA DUNNE
HISTORIUM PRESS
U. S. A.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations and events in the narrative – other than those clearly in the public domain – are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. Where real historical figures, locations and events appear, these have been depicted in a fictional context.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means or used in any manner without written permission from the author, except for the use of short quotations in a book review.
For more information:
www.facebook.com/Katerina-Dunne-Writer-107262811794150
Contact: katerinadunnewriter@gmail.com
Book design by White Rabbit Arts
Original cover artwork (illustration and borders) by Paddy Shaw
HISTORIUM PRESS
Macon GA 31211 U. S. A.
www.historiumpress.com
First paperback edition January 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Ekaterini Vavoulidou
(under the pen-name Katerina Dunne)
ISBN 978-0-578-35545-0 (eBook)
GLOSSARY
In Hungarian all letters in a word are pronounced. They have the same pronunciation no matter where in the word they are. For example, the i is always pronounced as in sit, the e always like in get and the g always like in give.
Angyalom (awn-dyaw-lom): my angel
Barátom (baw-ra-tom): my friend
Édesem (eh-de-shem): sweetie (literally: my sweet one)
Erdély (er-dee): the Hungarian name of Transylvania
Huj! Huj! Hajrá! (hooey, hooey, hawee-rah): an old Hungarian battle cry, roughly translating as Hey! Hey! Go! Or Hey! Hey! Forward!
Kedves barátom (ked-vesh baw-ra-tom): my dear friend
Kedvesem (ked-ve-shem): my dear
Kincsem (kin-tchem): my treasure
Preot (Romanian): priest
Sasfészek (shawsh-feh-sek): eyrie (literally: eagle’s nest)
Szentimrei (in Latin - de Szentimre = of or from Szentimre): The ending -i after a place name is used in Hungarian to show where a person comes from. In medieval Hungary, where actual surnames were rare, it was commonly used by the nobility to denote the estate or area they possessed. Eg. the name Hunyadi means that he comes from Hunyad County
Szent László! (sent las-low): medieval Hungarian battle cry, in honour of the 11th century Knight-King Saint László, who was canonised in 1192. He was particularly venerated in the border areas of medieval Hungary and the Székely land
Úristen (oo-rish-ten): Dear God!, My God!, My Goodness! (literally: Lord God!)
Vihar (vi-hawr): storm – in the novel, this is the name of Sándor’s warhorse
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.”
