Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania
January 15, 1634
Later they said it all had happened because of the good looks of copper-haired Mary.
Pretty she was and kind, as a daughter of a Saxon innkeeper should be. The generous way she cast her eyes from below her light copper hair was attracting the thirsty folks to this place better than the much-diluted Solymos wine from Transylvania's famous vineyards.
The evening had fallen early, and only a few gloomy guests were sitting around the drinking room where Mary had just spread fresh straw on the floor. It was a small tavern near the town's wall edge where poverty colored the streets with dirt but her father kept the floor clean all the same. The girl was wiping the tables and dreamily peering through the window into the swirling snowflakes that had imprisoned the city in a cold grip.
There was a loud bump as the door opened, and two dark shadows were silhouetted against the snow-bound street, letting in a draft of cold wind and sleet. The two figures merrily thumped the mud and ice off their boots and their hearty laughter betrayed the fact that they were far from sober.
It could be seen from their clothes and lofty airs that they were gentlemen, not often seen in a lowly place like this. The first man looked like a German in his fine thick cloak and broad-brimmed hat that sported a golden ostrich feather. He carefully shook the snow off the brim and turned his long face decorated by a goatee beard toward his companion. In badly-accented Hungarian he said, "My friend Selim, this is the tavern that sells wine to Turks like you…and she is my extra 'treat'. . ." and he nodded and grinned at the young maid with visible lust.
The tall man he addressed had finished brushing the snow from his expensive fur coat and undid its gilded straps. When he removed his fox fur hat, it was clear he was a Turk as his head was almost fully shaven, with a long tuft of hair left on the top that came down to his shoulder. His long black moustache also fell in Eastern fashion down almost to his chest. He darted his quick small eyes to his partner and grumbled something incomprehensible.
At that time it was not a small thing to see a Muslim drunk in public. In the prince's town it was even forbidden to sell wine to the Turkish traders or the envoys of the Padisah, so as to not offend them.
Beside his thirst for wine, the fact that Selim used the Hungarian language was a telling sign that he was a renegade, a pribék as the Hungarians degradingly spoke of those who traded their faith and fortune in exchange for a better faith and fortune. Knaves and traitors, they were cast out even from Transylvania, not just from the borderland of Royal Hungary. When caught, they were mercilessly and painfully put to death. In King Ferdinand's country anyone, even a peasant, had right to kill them in broad daylight.
However, he was at ease and strutted confidently to an empty table where he dropped his heavy outer garments carelessly onto it. His green velvet kafthan and bejeweled fingers showed off his high position in the service of a Turkish envoy. Turkish delegations were not uncommon in the town of Gyulafehérvár or "Erdel Belgradi" as they called it.
"You, my beauty, just give me some wine and two goblets." The German fished a coin from his purse and flipped it at her. "And take this double thaler for your smiles."
Both grinned as they watched the girl trying to catch the silver coin. It eventually fell before their legs, and Mary had to scramble to find it among the straw.
When they were settled and wine was served, he offered a full goblet to the Turk, raising his voice as he spoke clearly enough for the entire room to hear.
"Take this delicious drink of sherbet and taste it, Selim, be my guest! Let us drink first to the health of your Padisah Murad and then, to the health of Emperor Ferdinand, long live them both."
The Turk drained the goblet and equally loudly replied. "Ha! The sherbet you bought, Hans, has turned into the burning liquid of the houris in paradise when you spelled the name of the great Sultan Murad. Give me more of this magical sherbet, Hans, my true friend, may Allah be praised for his miracles."
The few Saxon and Hungarian customers of the inn could see that the Muslim envoy was not committing a crime against his faith since he was offered sherbet. Yet, the Hungarians spat and turned away their heads. Some swords were rattled angrily when the renegade made his toast, but though every sane able-bodied man wore a sword in these times of danger, drawing a blade on each other was banned by Prince Rákóczi.
The dark-faced Turk and Hans continued chatting and drinking merrily until they spotted the only person in the tavern who paid no attention to them.
The strange man—rather a lad—was leaning above a big sheet of unfolded paper. He pulled out a pair of small spectacles and balanced them on his nose, folding the paper outward so that those who cared and could read English could read its title: The Grantville Times.
"Look what we have here, Selim. He is your countryman, isn't he?"
"Nay, his skull is shaven in the stupid Hungarian fashion. Faithless giaur dogs don't grow a decent long mop of hair to praise the Prophet, rather they leave an inch-wide ridge that grows from the forehead to the nip of their neck. Look, his blond mustache is waxed horizontally and not descending over his chest. He is a Hungarian pig, worse than that, he is a Szekler, I know this because of his grey coat, trimmed with those black braided fasteners."
"And now you think yourself very smart, my jolly friend, but you need to look more closely at him. As a clerk of a diplomat who had travelled much with my noble Lord, Maximilian Hoffe, I've encountered many weirder folks than you. You may have missed his blue and green maidenly skirt. This man right here is a Scot, no doubt about that."
They continued arguing the pros and cons and seemed to enjoy themselves enormously. Finally, they put out some gold coins to wager who was right and decided to investigate further.
Hans stood up, goblet in hand, tasted it and made a sour face, spitting and spilling the content all around him, as he shouted at the barmaid.
"What sort of wine is this that you poison us with, you Saxon witch?"
His words had hardly left his mouth when dozens of red wine drops rained down on the white pages the lad was studying.
Instantly a very angry cry emerged from the lad followed by a long and complex Hungarian curse. This proved the Szekler origin of the young man.
****
Selim pondered to himself that decent European folks stabbed each other for less and softly caressed his Persian scimitar's grip.
Clearly his German ally had no strong command of the Hungarian language for he was yet to be convinced, poking his sheathed rapier under the boy's plaid kilt and lifting it.
"And who do we have here...? A boy or a little girl perhaps? A nasty girl, with a rather bad tongue? Selim, what is under the skirt…? A Protestant Scottish arse or a pretty Szekler male-whore's member…?"
Selim had no time to warn his stupid companion that he had better not mess with a Szekler for everything happened in a blur.
A fist landed and a nose was bloodied. Chairs were kicked out and a basket-hilted sword was drawn on the German, who staggered back, wiping his face.
"Eat my sword, you peasant dog!" Hans shrieked and his long rapier slipped out quicker than one would expect, seeing how drunk the German was.
Selim hurled himself between the two and roared at the red-faced young man who was ready to stab Hans on the spot.
"Come out into the snow, and let me take your blood for insulting the Sublime Padisah, you coward Szekler or whatever you might be!"
The three men rushed out of the inn, along with the onlookers who trampled the snow outside and drew a circle around them.
Even the barmaid ran out with them, putting a warm shawl around her shoulders. She gripped an older guest, a strong Saxon in a butchers' apron and pleaded with him to help.
****
"Uncle Michael, please do something, we don't need the trouble we will get from the city guard if they kill the lad!"
He nodded at her in agreement and shouted out in German.
"You all slow down, damn it. Can't attack two on one—there are rules to dueling."
"You must fight one on one and only until first blood. Saber against saber or rapier against rapier."
"I am the first," the sobering Hans replied in German.
"Give this peasant's offspring a proper sword." He waited until someone offered an old rapier to the boy who put his Scottish sword aside.
The lad was steaming with rage and hefted the rapier, trying out its grip and balance. Saying nothing, he just stepped into the circle. he wore only his Szekler coat above his blue and green kilt.
He made the sign of the cross but gave no sound. Instead, he took up a low guard with his rapier and leaned forward.
Hans fleetingly wondered how this lowly creature seemed to have a knowledge of Fencing Master Meyer's art of the rapier…at least as far as his guards were concerned.
He then dismissed this as nonsense and carelessly dashed at him with his well-practiced master thrust that aimed at the neck but usually pierced the liver.
Not this time.
The strong thrust wasn't parried but was allowed past the defending blade. The momentum carried Hans forward, past the young man's left side and while struggling to steady himself on the slippery ground he felt a burning pain from behind. Then a kick that sent him sprawling on all fours.
"Remember, your German lordship, when you try to sit again that it was a Scot who made a second hole in your arse…" he heard the young lad cry out, and his words were accompanied by the loud laughter of the onlookers.
****
Selim was watching the fight solemnly and quickly assessed the boy's martial skills. He shrugged and exclaimed, "Bismallah! Let Allah's will be done."
The Turk was a man well into his thirties, and he not only knew the Szeklers' way with the saber, but he had also learned from the best Turkish masters of Istanbul and so knew much more than what the janissary schools would teach to an ordinary soldier. Besides, he trusted the thin chainmail shirt that was hiding under his kafthan.
The lad had already been given a broad-bladed Hungarian saber, a wicked cavalry weapon that, unlike rapiers, was usually used from horseback. Yet, each saber-wielding nation had their own way of fighting on foot. Szeklers were no different…Moreover, these ancient mountain folk preserved their age-old martial traditions that went back to the shadowy past—when all Hungarians were still Huns, using a runic alphabet and curved bows.
Selim knew all about this and the Szeklers' impulsive and hotheaded nature.
"Come, giaur dog, dare to attack the servant of the Padisha's envoy…" he said. They began the saber-dance anew; circling around each other to have a feel of their distance, while taking up the rhythms of war.
"Let dogs lick up your blood…" He kept talking as he watched the darkening face of his opponent, "Your mother was a whore who serviced a thousand mercenaries, wasn't she?"
A loud cry. A flash of light and a metallic clash, was followed by an excited murmur.
"Easy, my son…perhaps I am your real father…you might kill me!"
The boy's eyes shone like the prongs of pitchforks and he was gritting his teeth. Now they entered the second circle, drawing nearer to each other. Three rapid steps and one quick strike and parry. Circling on. It was just a game, for the moment.
The elegantly curved Persian blade turned aside the heavier sword with little effort yet all the while the Szekler was pressing Selim fiercely.
Now the Turk feigned a surprised face, as if he had slipped on the snow, and revealed an opening under his right armpit. The Szekler's saber took the offered opportunity and the lad's eyes shone triumphantly when the sword's edge cut into the green kafthan.
However, the rigid blade did not tear apart the Turk's ribs and lungs as expected. Instead, the sound of steel on steel rang in the street. The young man was confused and paralyzed for a moment and in the next instant the grinning Turk sliced at the boy's head, but not with a killing intent. He wanted to humiliate the lad first. Perhaps killing, too—but later.
Blood flooded the Szekler's head but he just shook the gore from his eyes. Instead of falling into a retreat he struck back as if nothing had cut his skull.
Selim wasn't expecting such a fast riposte, so he was caught unguarded and now his head was also bleeding. Angry, he wanted to finish the boy off.
It was a duel to death now, and both of them knew it. The onlookers tried to separate them but when Selim threateningly swung his scimitar towards them, they shrank back in terror.
****
There was no laughter anymore, and no one noticed the slender figure who ran away through the falling snow, her copper hair flying behind. Now she wanted to call the city guard before it was too late.
The fighters renewed their circling, but there were no more games. Blades flew rapidly back and forth, sometimes parried but sometimes not. Selim's kafthan was in tatters and the chainmail glittered through the gaps. The lad was entirely covered in red and was already stumbling from the loss of blood.
Usually saber duelists did away with each other by repeatedly wounding their opponents so as to weaken them—the constant jumping and moving literally pumped the blood out of the body during the few minutes while the fights lasted. The very same was taking place here and now, and all foresaw the outcome.
Selim didn't hurry to finish with the boy. He deliberately chose targets and struck with a deadly precision.
"You wretch," he said. "You disgraceful puppy. You underling. Take this for the Padishah. You swine. You wine-drinker. This for the True Faith. And this for Hans, you nameless…"
The lad feebly dealt with every second blow and then just stood, gazing forward.
"I am a Szekler and a Scot," he said. "My name is Bálint. Bálint Felföldi. You may kill me, but you will remain the pribék of your own land." With that he spat at Selim's eyes. With hatred and spittle clouding his vision, Selim raised his arm high to deliver the final blow. Shadows and torchlights were moving and voices cried around him when his slim scimitar savagely sliced downward.
Two halberds fell from the sky, blocking the deadly strike. Arms grabbed his kafthan and pulled the Turk back, while a shaft of a spear tripped him from behind. Suddenly Selim's sight was blocked by helmeted heads and angry voices filled the air as he lay in the befouled snow.
The city guards had arrived.
****
Gyulafehérvár, capital of Transylvania
January 23, 1634
"His name is Bálint Felföldi, he is a petty nobleman from Szeklerland," said Péter Alvinczi, the preeminent Calvinist leader in the country and advisor to Prince Rákóczi. Alvinczi was making his report to the Prince's chief spymaster, Gáspár Bojthi, in his office within Prince Rákóczi's palace.
The walls of the spacious and elegantly appointed room were decorated with paintings, and the grim faces of ironclad heroes were all peering down at the two men. The one who was tall and aesthetically thin was dressed in grey robes; the other, shorter and heavier, wore a dark red embroidered cassock known as a dolman.
Alvinczi went on, "His late father was, indeed, a Highlander, a lieutenant, and a piper, too. Yes, a follower of the Stuarts, a staunch Papist." Breaking from his dry recital of the facts, he inserted a passionate opinion of his own. "Our wrathful God is punishing our poor country, using the Turks' hand, for the sins of Catholics like this one!" But at a stern look from Gáspár, he reverted back to stating the requested facts.
"Yes, your Lordship, the English word highlander translates as Felföldi in Hungarian. This man's father served with the Scottish mercenaries who distinguished themselves defending Lippa and Temesvár castles in 1595. There were a hundred and fifty of them. A pity that only thirty of them survived the sieges, good soldiers they were. Later those few survivors mingled with the Szeklers. General Mikó knows more about them since he is the Szeklers' leader. Bálint's father was ennobled for his valiant deeds in 1611 by Prince Báthory. So it would not be wise to hang him. Beheading is more befitting to his position."
"Reverend Alvinczi, would you give away the life of this poor lad so lightly?" asked the spymaster, with a tired sigh. He knew of Peter Alvinczi's burning hatred against the Catholics and privately despised him. Alvinczi, the chief Calvinist pastor of the city of Kassa was infamous for having eagerly assisted in the execution of three Jesuits in Prince Bethlen's time.
Spymaster Gaspar had too many troubles since the sudden arrival of the small American town of Grantville almost three years before, and he really wanted this pastor out of his hair.
According to the Americans' encyclopedias, Alvinczi should die this very year, he thought to himself, but the bony man in his audience room looked very healthy and thirsty for more blood.
"Sir Gáspár," he protested, "he is a rogue. Would you risk the principality's fragile reputation for the sake of a criminal?"
"Certainly you don't want to give him to the Turks, do you, Reverend Alvinczi? Their ambassador wants to have him impaled. On the other hand, the Holy Roman Emperor's envoy, being a Christian, would simply send him to the gallows."
"Then, it seems we need a proper trial." Alvinczi sniffed. "We shouldn't waste more time with this issue when we have a large amount of information to evaluate. Sir, our enemy is devouring Europe with those devilish ideas and devices before our very eyes. We have no time for toying around," he snorted.
"There will be no trial, I say," Sir Gáspár said decisively. "Reverend Alvinczi, do you know the details of the incident at that tavern?"
The pastor made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"A hotheaded young drunk insulted the men in service of the Turkish and the Austrian ambassadors and dared to wound them with his sword, violating the ban on duels at the same time."
"Clearly you don't know that they asked for trouble? That the Turk was a pribék?"
"Sir Gáspár, you should know best that we also use informers who sell secrets for money…"
"The Turk was drinking wine and violated the rules by doing so…"
"Sir, he says it was his friend who bought it, and he was offered the drink as a sherbet. There are witnesses to it. He says it must have been the barmaid who turned it into wine by using witchcraft. You should rather put her to the question about that, though…"
"Reverend," Sir Gáspár frowned "it seems after all that you know more about the details than one would have thought. Do you also know what the lad was doing before their argument?"
When there was no answer, Sir Gáspár pulled out a sizable sheet of paper and presented it.
"He was reading The Grantville Times, the newspaper that is being printed and distributed by those people who have turned the world upside-down."
The thin man of faith was quick with his reply.
"Now I see, Sir Gáspár, why you don't want a trial. You have caught an agent! Very well, we don't need to give him up, we can have our ways with him to make him speak."
This was too much for Sir Gáspár Bojthi. His head felt the tension building up in him. He jumped up from behind his richly carved desk and snatched up the newspaper on it. Then he held the broadsheet in front of the sour-faced reverend's nose.
"Read it! Read it out loud!" His hand was shaking.
Alvinczi went pale and said nothing.
"Can't you read it, damn it? No? But he can! Tell Professor Pál Keresztúri Biró to put the lad on our payroll immediately as a teacher of English and interpreter. He is assigned to work on the materials Count Csáky had sent from Grantville. The lad is not to leave the palace and must swear the same oath as the rest of the scribes. And I make you personally responsible for his well-being as well as for his quick recovery from his injuries. Now be off with you." With a wave of his hand, Sir Gaspar dismissed the pastor from his presence and his thoughts.
****
Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania
February 12, 1634
It was late night when Bálint sank down on his knees before going to bed in a small servants' room in the southern wing of the palace. Finishing his prayers, he carefully eased himself to the mattress, placing his aching limbs to rest. The stitches held but his wounds were burning…all eleven of them.
Had Mary not run after him when he was taken away, he would have perished in the dungeon of the city hall. She had sewn him up the best she could and seemed to have shed a tear for each drop of his blood. When she left in the morning, she had appeared unsure if he would make it. Yet, it was her silver that bought him fresh clothes and drier cell. She sent around the city barber-surgeon to visit him twice a day to replace the bandages, and every morning there was a new basket of food filled with bread and cheese, the good Saxon sausages, and the heavy red wine of Eger. He saw her no more—but she was in his prayers every evening. She was a fixed point where his exhausted mind could gain some rest after the days when his head was spinning and full with hundreds of new words and pictures.
****
Some ten days after the duel, a visitor appeared in front of his bed—no less a personage than Chief-Pastor Péter Alvinczi.
Bálint recognized him at once from a picture that had been circulated on a pamphlet that had portrayed Alvinczi as the executioner of the martyrs of Kassa, the three Jesuit priests who had died for refusing to recant their faith. Now that the minister has moved to Transylvania, he was close to the staunchly Protestant prince's ears and was one of his most influential advisors.
There had been pity in the reverend's eyes as he looked Bálint over.
"My poor son, God has visited you for your crimes. Your enemies want your life badly."
Bálint had already guessed this much but he was utterly puzzled why the man should care. Silently he kept looking at his visitor, becoming more alarmed as the priest continued.
"How fortunate you are, however, that I happened to hear about you. I might well be convinced that you were innocently accused and perhaps then, I could help you. Just perhaps."
"What am I to do to make you believe, Reverend?" Bálint asked as he looked up at him. "I was provoked to engage in an unfair duel where my opponent had chainmail hidden under his robes." The pastor puffed his cheeks and made a pious face.
"I know you are still an idolator and haven't come to know our Lord. If I saw your willingness to repent your sins and embrace the new and clear faith in fear of the wrathful God, I'd be possibly inspired to save a true man's life."
Since Szeklers speak little and Scots talk just as much, Bálint pursed his lips and said nothing.
"Do you know, my poor son, that the Turkish envoys' servants are already looking for the place where they can impale you? The Austrians are also readying the gallows-tree for you. Only God can save you now."
"Reverend, tell me please…is it true that the third Jesuit you murdered finished his life after being left for three days in a cesspit? What was his name? Will I have a trial, unlike them?"
The thin man leapt to his feet as if bitten by a snake.
"You, you will be sorry for this—very, very sorry," he said. Alvinczi left the cell in a fury.
Bálint sighed and thought of his late father and smiled. "He would have liked this jest," he said aloud, to no one in particular. "I might tell the old bugger soon, in person, while drinking his favourite ale." And he hoped sincerely that there was beer in heaven.
****
The next morning he was not surprised when two blue-clad Hajdus, the uniformed palace guards of the prince of Transylvania, came for him.
"Is the hangman Turkish or German?" he asked.
"Why should it matter?" The first soldier shrugged. "You Szeklers are very funny folks. Rather tell me—can you walk or should we give you a hand?"
Bálint snorted at the question and mused aloud. "Once a man was being taken to Hell by the Devil, he met his pal on the way who felt sorry for him. But the Devil pointed out that it would be really sad if the friend was made to carry them both all the way to Hell. So why should I complain?"
After taking a moment to catch his breath, Bálint struggled into a standing position and left the cell on his unsteady feet.
To his great surprise, outside he was gently helped into a sedan-chair and the guards carried him to the huge palace that had been newly built by Prince Gábor Bethlen.
It was not for nothing that the previous Prince of Transylvania had been called the man who had turned his realm into a prosperous Fairy Garden in an age when half of Europe was busy killing their neighbours or their own people who happened to be of a different faith.
The palace had been built in the late Renaissance fashion, its four wings enclosing an elegant square surrounded by a circular gallery in the Italian style. A baroque fountain, now covered for winter, adorned the centre with four stone benches around it. The rest of the square was divided by a labyrinth of neatly trimmed evergreen hedges that opened up to small courtyards where green wooden benches awaited the noble guests and residents when the weather was mild.
Bálint was led to the southern wing where he soon learned that he was not to leave the palace without permission and was never to venture to the northern wing as that was reserved for his Highness, György Rákóczi I, his lady wife, and his two sons.
Bálint was looking around in awe while he was ushered into a reception hall where a clever-looking, bald man dressed in simple grey robes with a delicate lace collar had just finished the briefing of a large group of scribes…all but one of whom hurried away to their duties.
"Good morning to you," the man said pleasantly. "Please come with me to the library on the second floor. Later, you will be shown your room on the third floor where the rest of the lads have their lodgings." Gesturing to the young man who remained at his side as he walked, he continued. "This is Johannes, a very bright apprentice of Herr Professor Alsted. He will supply you with all the necessary things you need. But forgive me, my name is Pál Bíró of Keresztúr, but please just call me Professor Bíró…"
Darting eyes were assessing him, making Bálint acutely aware of the sorry state of his bristling skull which was neither properly shaved in normal Szekler fashion, nor fully grown out in the manner of the palace servants. Bálint could find no words for a moment—for he had been addressed in English.
"Professor Bíró…I am honored to make your acquaintance instead of a hooded figure in black," he responded, also in English. "I am called Bálint the Highlander or Felföldi, and I am gladly in your service unless you wish to convert me."
"Very well." Bíró nodded approvingly. "You can really speak the tongue, I see. No, I don't need your soul but your brain. You have had the good fortune to meet Reverend Alvinczi, haven't you?"
"I think he might have not felt it so."
"So I heard, so I heard," Bíró said as he shook his head sadly. He was also a Protestant pastor, as Bálint was to learn later, but in his teachings he focused on the individual's personal experience of a loving God and was not liked by Reverend Alvinczi for it. He had studied in England so his position in court had greatly appreciated since the appearance of Grantville.
"I am hopeful that you will join our community of scholars. Our rules here are simple and clear enough. Johannes will tell you the details. As much as I know of you, you like reading and stand against injustice,and you don't abandon your faith," he added. "So far, so good. I promise to introduce you to the greatest intellectual challenge a Scot or a Szekler might face. To tell you the truth, we need your language skills quite badly, but if you are afraid to join us, you are to be given a horse and a saddle so you can go back to General Mikó and continue to serve—as an honest Szekler would."
"Sir," Bálint said hesitantly, "Professor Biró…what about my duel?"
"What duel? I know nothing of the sort. Just go ahead, and Johannes will take care of you. Report back to me in the evening, Bálint."
With that, Biró squeezed his hand where it was not bandaged and strode off, leaving Bálint staring after him.He started when his sleeve was tugged and looked around to find the young scholar still at his side.
"Come with me, friend," he said in Hungarian. "I am Johannes Deák but call me Jancsi. Did you really cut the Turk's head off and throw it before the legs of that beauty called Mary? Is her hair reaching down to her ankles as they say? We have prepared you a snug little room upstairs, and I wager you have had not had breakfast yet."
****
The scribes lived on the third floor, two to a small room, but their daily routine kept them busy at various places of the building. Bálint listened eagerly to Jancsi's chatter while systematically devouring the flavorful bacon and white bread. The youngster had black hair and matching eyes that sparkled with intelligence and good humor as he related the information Balint needed to know along with a good amount of palace gossip.
Jancsi's master was Professor Heinrich Alsted, the theologist-philosopher from Germany. Renowned for his encyclopedic works, he had come to Transylvania in Prince Bethlen's time. He was accompanied by two of his German colleagues, Heinrich Bisterfeld and Ludwig Piscator. Initially, their task had been to collate all the information gathered from Germany, and their scribes tried to summarise it in Hungarian. Now they had the task of researching the American "up-timers".
Like Jancsi, these scribes were students who had studied in Wittenberg or in the Netherlands and had a strong command of either German or Dutch. Their numbers were ever increasing—currently there were more than one hundred twenty of them, not counting the servants and the palace guards, but there was still a great need for more teachers of English.
Every Friday Reverend Alviczi called them together to summarize their weekly work. Jancsi grinned as he talked about it, but he said that Bálint would see the thing for himself in due time. Jancsi also told him about the pretty serving maids who lived and worked in the western wing, and if anybody needed anything, the chief-butler arranged it without a question. Scribes were not allowed to leave the palace, except when they visited their churches on Sundays and even then they were guarded by the hajdus. No weapon was permitted, except during the regular fencing lessons.
Jancsi also made his dislike of Reverend Alvinczi clear as he let Bálint know that the reverend had a network of informers reporting on all behavior that undermined discipline. He dropped his voice to a whisper to tell of lads who just happened to disappear all of a sudden. It was said they were taken to Déva castle where dangerous "laboratories" had been set up and "field experiments" were being conducted.
He admitted he found the work hard. Sometimes whole sections of texts made no sense, and there were dozens of new terms and words appearing every day.
"Sometimes I feel hurled into the depths of a well made by demons," he said. "It is one thing to hear about the Americans from the future but touching their objects gives all of us goose pimples. The up-timers' pen that was issued to me to work with is a smooth, flexible, and transparent stick that writes by itself, without having to mess with ink and constant dipping. And there are small pictures called photographs that open a window to peep into another universe." Jancsi was slowly shaking his head as he poured some wine for his friend. "I prefer the books, above all. With their small type and thin pages and the wonders they talk about. These books and newspapers that we are given to translate and read aloud fly us to a land of fairies and impossible miracles. I warn you, there are hundreds of words and terms that make understanding very hard, and sometimes we can only guess what they mean."
"Is the reverend so hostile with all new ideas?" Bálint asked when Jancsi had paused to take a breath.
Jancsi nodded. "Why, it is not for nothing we call him the 'Old Vampire.' Unfortunately, Reverend Alvinczi seems to have a ready explanation for everything. During his weekly summaries he puffs his cheeks, like this, and spends the first hour by cooling down the more enthusiastic researchers. He thinks there are many of us who have been dangerously infected by the new ideas and fantastic scientific facts we are learning. He goes into great detail as to how these concepts will be put to use by hostile and evil envoys of Satan to create horrible devices to destroy the true believers in the wars of the future."
"What does he conclude?" Bálint asked as he finished the last morsels before him and looked around for more wine…in vain.
Jancsi made a sour face and began imitating the pastor again.
"—'Why, don't the up-timers themselves admit that they were our enemies in both terrible world wars? Didn't President Wilson's intervention turn the balance of the Great War against us? Without the Americans' intrusion, Hungary would have become the leading power of the continent…maybe even of the world! Think on that! Which country suffered the greatest injustice after that first World War? We have just learned that in the future three-quarters of our country will be torn off and given to riffraff, upstart, never-heard-of countries like Romania or Yugoslavia…and let us not speak of that creature called Czechoslovakia."
Bálint couldn't help laughing.
"You say Ceczho…sclovo…or what? You are pulling my leg!"
But Jancsi could not abandon his role as teacher and he continued.
"In the second great war they just repeated this crime and after twenty years of that they were still our enemies. Count Csáky recently put his life in danger to bring us a few pages from one of their encyclopedias. Brothers, the Americans considered Hungary was their deadly enemy just because we were ‘Communist.'—" Jancsi was rolling his eyes as he spoke.
Bálint was afraid his wounds would tear again because of his laughter.
"But—" Jancsi held one finger up in the air as he continued his narration. "—who might Communists be other than humble Protestant folks who shared their possessions in their communa as it was done by the first Christians before the Catholics corrupted the holy religion? The Americans admit that their presidents and bankers are all shape-shifters!"
Bálint's eyes widened at this revelation.
"They are lizards, the demons from hell!" Now Jancsi gave out small whining sounds to indicate Alvinczi's terror and said, "If somebody catches a glimpse of their terrible true nature, he is instantly eaten up alive. So don't let yourself be misled by their glittering object and lies. Besides, they are openly trafficking with the Turks to get coffee!"
"Jancsi, stop it please. And send for the barber!" replied Bálint, choking.
Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania
March 22, 1634
Bálint's wounds were nicely healed by the time the fields were all dressed in green. He was fidgeting like a badger in the thorn-bush and was just grumbling about everything in the palace. His hair had grown out and both it and his moustache were trimmed short. He had a new kilt obtained from the palace tailor after he'd given a careful explanation of how his clan tartan should be woven.
When he began to attend the nearest Catholic church, accompanied by two of the palace guards, he was pleased to find copper-haired Mary in the congregation, and they exchanged warm smiles. The next day he begged a special dispensation from Spymaster Böjthy so that he could have his Sunday afternoons free as well. From then on he and Mary spent their Sunday mornings attending Mass and the afternoons in her father's tavern.
Some other afternoons, Bálint gave his friends fencing lessons in the palace's wide corridors or in the yard if the weather was good. It was on one such occasion he met Achmed.
As Bálint was explaining a particular stroke to Jancsi and two other scribes he became aware of a stocky man in a kafthan with a small silk turban on his head. Seeing Turks in the palace was not unusual for quite a few of them served there as musicians, scribes, or cooks but Bálint became annoyed when the Turk began shaking his head.
"What's wrong with this saber-turning?" he asked him, putting his limited Turkish to use.
"Young man," came the answer with a friendly smile. "It is a nice drill for the parade ground but such a stroke can be outsmarted with ease."
"Then show me how you do it…"
As soon as the soft-looking, plump Turk was offered a saber the tip began flying about his opponent's head like a butterfly, and Bálint found himself disarmed in a heartbeat.
A deep and sincere friendship developed from that first fencing lesson. Bálint was happy to pick up more Turkish while they were discussing many interesting things they had in common. Every Sunday they met, sometimes practiced a bit or just talked.
It turned out that Achmed was a musician and had seen many battlefields for the Turks never fought without music. Bálint's father had been a piper and taught the skill to his son. Achmed brought out his Turkish clarinet, and they played for each other. Bálint also knew the Szekler flute and showed him all the Scottish and Szekler tunes he could play.
Achmed had been a war prisoner of Prince Bethlen. Some years ago he had been freed for his musical skills, and he had decided to stay on and serve the prince of his own free will. Bálint slowly realised that not all the Turks were evil—at least not those ones who were not the subjects of the Ottoman Empire.
Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania
March 23, 1634
Professor Bíró and Spymaster Gáspár Bojthy silently regarded the tall young man before them. Bálint was not offered a seat since both gentlemen were pacing the length of Sir Gáspár's elegantly appointed reception room.
The professor's voice finally broke the silence. "Tell us freely. What do you think of the intentions of these folks called up-timers, according to your observations?"
"Pray, make it short," added Sir Gáspár.
Bálint took a deep breath and looked into their eyes.
"I entirely disagree with Reverend Alvinczi. These Americans may have come from the future but they did not ask for it. Therefore making them our enemies is the greatest wrong that can be done against both our nations. They could be powerful allies, and with their assistance we could chase the Ottomans out and build up a stronger state than even King Matthias' had been. With their scientific knowledge there would be neither poverty nor epidemic anymore. Their ideas would be certainly welcome compared to how Reverend Alvinczi views the world."
Professor Bíró was nodding his bald head in agreement but Spymaster Gáspár seemed to have some doubts. So far, Reverend Alvinczi had refused to send anyone to Grantville after Count Csáky had returned, but perhaps Sir Gáspár believed the time was now right. Finally, after another long pause, he gave the instructions to Bálint Felföldi as if he was talking to a soldier:
"You are to go to Grantville, accompanied by Johannes, the apprentice of Professor Alsted. He has stronger German skills and he speaks Dutch, too. You must observe how these American people live and worship, spending enough time with them before you contact and greet them officially, on behalf of Prince Rákóczi. Tell them we are not friends with the Austrians, and the Turks are our enemies. We seek peace and trade, first. Their ambassadors are welcome. You can show them the way. Here are your credentials and traveling letters. Take this ring. Use it to seal all the reports you send.
"Your contact in the Netherlands is Gábor Haller. He has had a well-built intelligence network from the time of Prince Bethlen. You are to accept orders or instructions if you see the sign of the same ring or the ring itself. Your contact in Vienna is Cardinal Péter Pázmány. Again just show him your ring and he will provide you with everything you may ask for.
"In short, make your best attempt to prove to the up-timers that the Principality of Transylvania is a strong power in the civilized part of Europe and has plentiful resources. Tell them that our land has remained untouched by those terrible wars that have laid waste to half the continent. Moreover, we offer asylum to religious refugees fleeing England and Switzerland because we have given shelter to everyone since our first Prince Johannes Sigismund introduced the freedom of religions in 1568. Since the time of Prince Gábor Bethlen even the Jews are free to trade and live unmolested without having to wear the signs of Solomon.
"Now go, Bálint Felföldi, with God's blessing but take this gold for your expenses. You are to leave tomorrow at dawn along with Scribe Johannes and you may choose two good horses from the Prince's stables. Questions?"
"Sir Gáspár, there is someone to whom I have to say farewell if it is granted."
"Go, young man," he said with a wink, "but no more trouble with that girl or we will reintroduce the laws for punishing witchcraft…five hundred years after King Kalman the Bookish abolished them!"
****