The Ring of Kékkő Castle: Hungarian-Ottoman War Series, #2

To the Reader:

The first part of the Hungarian-Ottoman War Series was the „33 Castles, Battles, Legends" where we could take a first look at the struggles of the Valiant Order against the expanding Ottoman Empire.

The second part of the Series is the „Ring of Kékkő Castle", a stand-alone historical novel, based on several true stories coming from Royal Hungary, the Ottoman-Occupied Land of Hungary and from the Principality of Transylvania.

The unique ring of King Matthias Corvinus is on display in the Museum of Applied Arts in Budapest, Hungary. The enameled gold ring has a pointed diamond of great value that symbolizes, according to Renaissance thought, the virtues of Fortitude and Adherence.

The rare ring is said to have been designed in the style of a Medici family engagement ring and was given to Matthias by his Italian bride, Beatrix in Buda Castle in 1476. A similar ring can be seen in the coat of arms of the Medici family of Florence. Years later, the ring was found in the treasury of the Eszterházy family`s proud castle of Fraknó where it was first described in 1645, eleven years before our story begins. The earlier whereabouts of the mystic ring are unknown. Who knows what adventures it may have seen before ending up in the Eszerházy treasury chamber.

What we know of the hero of our story is true. There is a Felföldi family in Hungary that can trace their origins back to those Scottish mercenaries who came to serve the Transylvanian princes. They also have a family legend about a certain ring which they are not willing to talk about. There is no wonder my imagination was set on fire. The character of Lord Péchi, the leader of the Sabbatarian sect of Transylvania, is a real person as are the other lords who in that time were playing games of political intrigue in the court of Prince György I Rákóczi. The Balassa family and their famous Kékkő Castle are also real as are the names mentioned there.

The deeds of the Hussars and Hajdú soldiers of the Valiant Order are all based on the true nature of raids, ambushes and warfare during the period of the story in the frontiers of the Borderland.

Both letters of challenge are based on contemporary documents, translated from archaic Hungarian texts into English. The poem written by Bálint Balassa was translated into English by Joseph Leftwich. The data about taxes paid to the Ottomans by Hungarians living near the Szarvas Castle are derived from a local contemporary Ottoman „defter" document, a type of tax register.

I express my thanks and gratitude to Suzanna Lahner King who edited the story and has helped me throughout the process.

The Ring of Kékkő Castle

March 8, 1634

Gyulafehérvár, Transylvania

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Later they said it all had happened because of the good looks of copper-haired Mary.

Pretty she was, and kind, as a wife of a Saxon innkeeper should be. It was gossiped that her husband disappeared on his way back from Wallachia where he had traveled to sell wine. These were dangerous times and the roads outside the Principality of Transylvania were infested by marauders, cut-throats, Crimean Tatars and Cossacks who made their living from capturing folks they ran into and selling them if nobody paid a ransom.

As time went on and no-one showed up to demand ransom for him, Mary began to consider herself as a widow. Soon, people tended to think the same.

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 the street was dark, there were just enough lamps of the sky shining through the windows of the clouds that one could barely mind his steps avoiding the mud and the stone poles at the corners, just enough light for greeting his friends or recognizing his enemies in time. Outside, it was quite gloomy thus saddening the narrow street of the Transylvanian Prince`s capital.

In the tavern, only a few shadowy 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 she kept the floor clean all same. Her eyes fell on the script on the wall which said: no credit is given. Whoever refused to pay was threatened by a good beating. There was always someone who helped her to remove such thugs for a smile from her and she was not easily to frightened, anyway.

The young woman was wiping the tables and dreamily peering through the window into the swirling snowflakes that had imprisoned the city in a cold grip. It was the last snow of March but the extreme cold chased the burghers into their houses. Copper-hair Mary was sure that the city guards were warming themselves at their fires instead of strolling the deep snow in search of inns which failed to have stopped serving wine after the bell of the St. Martin Church signaled nine o’clock. Everybody knew she violated the law but who would have reported a poor widow?

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 which sported a golden ostrich feather. He carefully shook the snow off the brim and turned his long face decorated with a goatee beard toward his companion. In badly accented Hungarian he said:

My friend Selim, this is the tavern that is open all night long and sells wine to Turks like you... .and she is my extra 'treat’. . . and he nodded and grinned at the young woman with visible lust. The tall man he addressed had finished brushing the snow from his expensive fur coat and undid its gilded straps. Taking a closer look at his garments, it could be seen that all three parts of the known word, Europe, Asia and Africa provided materials for its fur, lining, and fabric.

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 mustache also fell in the 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. When they were not hired for their services as spies or guides, they were regarded as knaves and traitors. They were cast out even from Transylvania, in spite of the fact that it was regarded as the vassal state of the Sultan. Worse, when caught, they were mercilessly and painfully put to death in Habsburg Ferdinand’s Kingdom of Hungary. Anyone, a peasant even, had the right to kill them in broad daylight.

However, he was at ease and strutted confidently to an empty table where he carelessly dropped his heavy outer garments. His green velvet kaftan and bejeweled fingers showed off his high position in 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 woman trying to catch the large silver coin which was worth slightly more than a Hungarian gold Forint. 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, the German 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 uttered 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 Although every sane able-bodied man wore a sword in these times of danger, drawing a blade on each other was banned in the Principality of Rákóczi’s Transylvania.

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 a Latin script on it. A huge blue-and-red coat-of-arms was painted above the text in the fashion of documents issued by the scribes of crowned rulers. Indeed, it was a deed gift, similar to those in which a soldier was awarded a nobility.

Look what we have here, Selim. He is your countryman, isn’t he?

Nay, his skull is shaven in the stupid Hungarian fashion. Faithless Giaour 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 nape 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 Székely, 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 traveled much with my noble Lord, Maximilian Hoffe, I have encountered many more weird folks than you. You may have missed his blue and red 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 page the lad was studying. Instantly a very angry cry emerged from the lad followed by a long and complex Hungarian curse which was describing the sexual connection between Emperor Ferdinand and Sultan Murad.

This proved the Székely 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 Székely male whore's member... .?

Selim had no time to warn his stupid companion that he had better not mess with a Székely 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 could presume 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 Székely 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 Mary ran out with them, putting a warm scarf 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, and 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 Székely coat above his blue and red kilt but now he threw his upper garment to Mary. It was easier to move in his white, loose shirt. 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 was not 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 the 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:

Ismallah! Let Allah’s will be done.

The Turk was a man well into his thirties and he not only knew the Székelys’ 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 kaftan.

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. The Székely Frontier guards of the Carpathian mountains were no different. These ancient folks who believed themselves the descendants of Attila, the Scourge of God, preserved their age-old martial traditions. It went back to the ancient nomadic past - when all Hungarians were still Huns, using a runic alphabet and curved bows.

Selim knew all about this, and thinking of the Székelys impulsive and hot headed nature loosened his scimitar in its sheath. Better steel than its blade was made of was wrought only in Damascus in those days, and it was a great mastery of the blade to be able to cut a small wound with it rather than a deep one.

Come, Ghiaour dog, dare to attack the servant of the Padisha’s envoy, he said and they began the first steps of the saber-dance; circling around each other to have a feel of their distance while taking up the rhythms of their opponent. Only the torches of the onlookers shed some light on the scene.

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 Székely 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 Székely’s saber took the proffered opportunity and the lad’ s eyes shone triumphantly when the sword’s edge cut into the green kaftan.

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 Székely’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 the 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