Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 35. Chapter 35: Respect

Chapter 35: Respect

Lady Gretza stood at the window of her chamber. Down below, commotion in the courtyard caught her attention – Romanian men and boys ferried dressed blocks of stone to the wellhead. There, the building material disappeared quickly into the depths.

She had no emotion for what she saw; she had other thoughts to think, matters of state importance, and matters that would secure her future as queen.

"Milady?"

Gretza knew the timid voice, and turned to him.

Razvan stood with hands folded near his waist; he was waiting dutifully in the centre of the chamber for her attention.

"You have returned from Buda?" She began striding towards him with her ring finger extended.

"Yes, Your Ladyship." Razvan kissed her spider ring, and the woman flushed with a small ping of satisfaction. He raised his gaze and continued, "In addition, I have been told your Turks have struck water; water right where you said it would be."

Lady Gretza relished the confirmation of her divination abilities and ambulated towards the fireplace with the stiffening spine of vainglory. She told him without emotion, "Ionescu, it is done. They are lining the well, and by tomorrow the task will be completed."

"Milady, will Lord Laszlo free them?"

Razvan's tone was deferential, but still he could not hide his curiosity as to what she would do with the two slaves.

The lady of the place turned to him with feigned disinterest. "They are his lordship's problem. He shall see about their, reward. But, my envoy, you are here for a different matter."

"Yes, Lady Gretza."

"Did Mátyás grant you a private audience?"

"He did, My Lady."

"Did you plead the case for Laszlo needing his brother to dispatch a Turk-killing army to us?"

"I most passionately laid out all of your ladyship's points to the king. He heard them with gracious counsel, in the presence of only his chief advisor, Cardinal Sigismund."

"Good, the Church is rich." Lady Gretza could not contain her enthusiasm.

"Unfortunately," concluded Razvan Ionescu. "King Mátyás refuses to lend military support to Lord Laszlo, even though he is his brother."

Lady Gretza tried to bite down her rage, but nonetheless, every hair follicle on Razvan's body began to rise and the windowpanes began to quiver within their lead fittings. "And what possible excuse could he offer to sacrifice his own flesh and blood to the Turkish sultan!"

Razvan bowed his head lower. "The cardinal advised his highness that he should be prepared and willing to afford the loss of Transylvania as a territory to the Ottomans."

Lady Gretza clenched her fists. Her anger rose and filled the chamber like a toxic gas – one that was deadly, but only barely perceptible to the ordinary senses.

Razvan concluded, "Based on that counsel, King Mátyás is willing to shake off this remote satellite of the Hungarian Empire, as long as this stretch of land can appease Sultan Mehmed, and keep him out of Hungary proper. Further negative words were spoken about his lordship removing Vlad on his own initiative, and allowing this unrest to – "

Lady Gretza struck him.

She had moved with quick wrath and misplaced it violently upon Razvan's face.

Her spider ring left his cheek raw and bleeding.

In another moment, she collected her anger and paced before the man.

"It will be a blessed day in our nation's history when Laszlo usurps that scoundrel – legitimate, ha! – that disgrace to the memory of their great father – a teen boy who knows nothing of war! NOTHING!" She stood still. She leered at Razvan and raised her hand again.

She delighted in how her minion had flinched and steeled himself for a second blow, but the splayed palm that rose in ire, landed as soft as a caress on the top of her own belly.

Ionescu gazed at her action in stunned anticipation.

The lady of the castle placed her other hand below her abdomen and slowly stroked. "You see, Razvan – I cannot wait for Laszlo to take what is rightfully his, because the new heir to the throne is already secured."

As Razvan opened his mouth to speak, loud bootfalls were heard in her antechamber. Without knocking, her door flew open. Lord Laszlo was standing there with both arms raised and locked in the doorway. Gretza could see her husband's favourite lad, his harmless cosset boy, lingering behind him.

Laszlo glared at Razvan, and then said, "Louis. You wait for me here; you, Razvan – about your business!"

"Yes, Milord," he mumbled as he bowed at Lady Gretza and made his way to the door. Once ushered out. Laszlo closed it and turned back to his wife.

Lady Greta felt her husband's withering glare condemn her from all the way across the room. She felt her husband was not fully under her control – something, or someone, had been tapping into his mind, and that made her livid with desire to find out who. She vowed that this diminishment of her power would not last for long.

For now, she knew how to play her rôle.

"Are you well, My Lord?" She picked up the creases of her skirt and curtsied towards him. Her eyes though, never left his countenance.

Laszlo placed the room. His angry voice was accusatory. "It's all your fault."

"Milord?"

"Prince Vlad is imprisoned here instead of holding back the heathenish hordes! The nobles are demanding I do something."

Lady Gretza tried to control the contempt in her voice. "So, do something, My Lord."

Laszlo stopped moving. He sauntered straight up to her, and grabbed her arm roughly.

"What would you have me do, woman!"

Through gritted teeth, Gretza intoned a measure of restraint. "I would have My Lord raise an army." She extracted her arm. "I would have My Lord battle-temper them against the Turks and then march them upon your treacherous brother, who is unworthy to have Saint Stephen's crown resting upon his head."

Lord Laszlo stuttered in almost astounded disbelief, "An-and who wa-will pay for this ar-army you speak of..?" He stepped back to exhibit his amazement, and his hand naturally went to his sword hilt.

"Your nobles will, Laszlo." She stepped close. "And more than pay…" She let her hands stroke languorously on his chest, inching their way up to the side of his neck. "They will sacrifice their own sons as your officers, they will man the pawns of your army from their serfs, they will turn the horseshoes of their vast estates into swords…" Her fingertips caressed his ear. "And all of them, from noble scions to worthless slaves, will die in your honor too, shouting long live King Laszlo Corvin!"

Lady Gretza watched her husband swoon a bit.

He mumbled as he closed his eyes, "But wa-will they die for a purpose?"

She picked up his hand.

"Yes. Die to make your heir the future king."

She placed his hand on her belly.

Lord Laszlo opened his eyes.

She concluded, "They will all die in our service, if need be."

Expecting to see gratitude and love, Lady Gretza was shocked to see only the cold glint of suspicion on her husband's face.

He removed his hand.

"Are, are you wa-with cha-child?"

She picked up the folds of her skirts, bowed her head and curtsied. "Yes, My Lord."

Laszlo stumbled back a few paces. He looked stunned, and meandered without apparent motivation to stand at the window.

His hand went up to his temple as if a paining noise was intruding upon his sanity.

Lady Gretza stepped next to him. She enfolded her arms around his waist from behind him and gazed down upon the courtyard.

Ahmed and Junayd were standing and washing stone dust off of one another with rags.

"And Laszlo…there is one more thing I need you to take care of. You must do it for us, and for the sake of our future son."

˚˚˚˚˚

The castle's dispassionate heart coursed with the usual post-dinner activities.

Grooms carded horse manes, and their young farrier apprentices gouged tender spots out of the hooves braced on their thighs, and filed sharp edges off. In the morning, their charges would be freshly shod, but for the night, the stallions and warhorses could go shoeless in the stables.

Chambermaids hurried through the state apartments to close with latching authority the lord and lady's windows for the evening. As the weather was not yet cold, they left the window drapes partially open so the end-of-day light could still squeeze into the apartments. Later, before supper began, these curtains would be entirely drawn at the same moment rush lamps and candles were lit.

Pages and ladies-in-waiting anxiously surveyed their master and mistress' closets. New after-dinner attire must be made ready. As the formality of the day was at an end, the patrons of the place could array themselves in garments that were looser and less status-conscious. These young men and women also surveyed the treats stockpiled in the sanctorum of these closets – decanters of fruit cordials and syrups for digestion and better sleep, raisins, paper-wrapped sweetmeats of candied quince or plum, or sugar-rolled almonds – anything to satisfy a capricious and lonely appetite in the interval from dinner to supper, and from supper to breakfast.

The citadel's heart beat totally unaware that this dusk was not to be an ordinary evening in the life of Castle Corvin.

Down below, under one of her subterranean vaults, two men sat on their ramshackle bed and silently held hands. Their forms were in full contact from shoulder to foot, and they waited quietly together, but feared the worst. They had been stopped in their work, withdrawn from the well, and the Romanians sent down in their stead to finish lining the well shaft with stone.

Now, one rose-orange-coloured ray of light drifted dustily down to them from the single void that opened high in their prison wall.

Junayd felt Ahmed's gaze scan the man's profile. He could not look at him fully, not now, not until the time was nigh to weigh the gravity of that ultimate parting glance.

Junayd in his heart of hearts knew two things – Ahmed was upset with anger, confusion, and a righteous sense of injustice. And Junayd also knew that he personally was ready. His last and most lingering fleshly desire was a simple and painful one. He wished that the man he loved, the one with whom his body was now in full contact at that very moment, would surrender himself as well. He wished Ahmed to be at peace.

Junayd swallowed hard. He used his fingertips to push and play with Ahmed's rough cuticles and calluses. Finally he spoke gentle words to him. "I love you, my Kapikulu. Do not be angry."

A single tear fell from Ahmed's eye, and a moment later was smeared on Junayd's cheek as his soldier kissed him.

Beyond the iron bars that marked their cell from the corridor, a distinct jangling sound arose.

Ahmed's hand instantly began to tremble in Junayd's grip.

The sound grew closer and more distinct. It was the war-like clatter of men in partial armour. Both Turks could hear the clash of steel in chain mail while armed men pressed swords to their chests.

Ahmed slowly rose.

Three castle guards appeared, two ordinary officers with brandished weapons, and their leader – the castellan who had shown open hostility towards Ahmed.

This officer had the key to their cell, and as Junayd rose too, he opened the gate.

The armed men crowded in, first the leader, and then the two men of the escort, who used their bodies to block the passage from cell to corridor.

Junayd noticed Ahmed's fists clench as he held them down by the sides of his waist.

Slowly, the castellan extracted two lengths of rope from his belt. He had had them tucked out of sight behind him. "Turn around," the man said, and to Junayd's surprise, the voice that had spoken the command was soft and emotional.

The dervish lightly touched Ahmed's shoulder and led him to turn around with him. They glanced at each other, automatically putting their hands behind their backs.

The officer bound them.

"Do not be angry," Junayd whispered.

"My heart is full of…" Ahmed started, but could not complete his thought for internal reasons.

"All right," the castellan grunted.

The men of the escort stepped up and roughly laid hands on the slaves.

"No!" the leader cried angrily. "They are not resisting, and they are men like the rest of us. Treat them with respect."

˚˚˚˚˚

The rough cobblestones of the courtyard hurt Ahmed's naked feet.

With the ever-pushing urge of the guards that threatened to become needlessly rough, Ahmed noticed that the castellan has mysteriously disappeared along the course through the path within the castle. Ahmed's temper flared. But then, he considered Junayd at his side. That young man was focused on Ahmed completely and exhibited no rage that human caprice was at play here and now.

The sun was waning in the west, and shafts of vermillion light slanted across the dagger-like clouds over the open roof of the court.

The guards gripped them tightly and moved the men towards the grand staircase.

As they approached, Ahmed's indignancy rose at the sight of Lord Laszlo standing in his silk and gold trim on the second step. Above him, and to his side on a higher step, was Lady Gretza. The menace on her face was palpable. Ahmed felt his rage shift from a weak and contemptible Laszlo to the actually evil woman who controlled him. Although the master of the place may have been deceiving himself that the captives' true fate rested in his hands, Ahmed knew Gretza held all the power, and thus he felt their deaths were assured.

The guards pulled on their bindings to make the slaves stop.

In another moment, violent hands forced Ahmed and Junayd to crash to their knees. Ahmed felt broken and bleeding skin be seared by the bite of the jagged stone. He hoped Junayd was not bleeding like he was.

The professional soldier glared at Laszlo, feeling the lower whites of his eyes accusing the man of being a coward to his wife's control.

Guard hands compelled the Turks to bow their heads, and held them there.

Ahmed rotated slightly to see his belovèd and wanted to whip around and slay their captors with murdering flashes of steel; he wanted remorseless revenge. Out of the periphery of his perception, he could hear Lord Laszlo and Lady Gretza speaking. Laszlo sounded hesitant; his wife sounded adamant.

Finally, the lord of the place spoke with a commanding voice to the guards. "Take them, to where they belong."

Suddenly the guards' hands were off of their heads, and rude kicking made the bound men stumble to their feet.

More shoving and boot-blows pushed Ahmed and Junayd towards the well, where a newly completed wall and course of capstone had been built in the two days since they had struck water.

Ahmed shot a quick and angry glance behind him. It showed the lord and lady of the place had linked arms and were following them to the wellhead.

The guards grabbed at the rope lashings and halted the prisoners right before the well. They brought them close to the edge, and slammed them to kneel again. More aching pain arose from the soldier's raw knees, but he used that pain to focus his hate.

Ahmed felt a boot sole nestle right between his shoulder blades. It applied pressure, and he fell so that his upper chest and neck landed on the copestone of the wellhead.

He pulled at the bindings around his wrists and wound up only making them tighter.

Turned away from his belovèd, Ahmed was horrified to see what approached. A man appeared from a doorway – a man he thought resembled the leader of the guards who hated him – but if so, the castellan had been transformed.

He was shirtless, and wore only a pair of black leather trousers and boots. His face was covered by an equally inky-black mask of leather, only it had the hideous beak and beady eye-slits of a raven.

Lugged over the man's naked shoulder was the handle of a battle-axe – the blade glinting moody and rose coloured in the deepening twilight.

Ahmed rotated his head to look at Junayd. He did not want to cry, but he feared he might.

His younger companion comforted him. Junayd's smile was half-eaten by the capping stone's roughness, but the dervish told him softly, "Please, Efendi. Do not die with a curse on your lips for them – "

"Holy man, I am only human; how can I not want them damned and suffering for all time?"

"Die, my love, with the knowledge in your heart that we are about to achieve that forever you longed for. Tonight, we will dine with God in paradise, and we will both be free and together again."

Ahmed gasped, "Junayd…"

"Be brave, habibi, for me."

To Ahmed's terror, he sensed that the executioner had stepped up behind and to the side of him. In another moment, a razor-sharp coldness lightly kissed the back of his neck – the man was testing the fatal blow's location, and now Ahmed knew that blade was rising high over his head in an arching position to strike him dead. All that waited was the order.

In the back of his mind he heard voices – Laszlo's plea to wait, and then Gretza's shrill laughter echoing around the stone corners of the court – but to his eyes, Junayd's placid smile told him all he needed to know. Ahmed would not die alone; Ahmed would not die unloved. He forgave his captors, and did so easily because it was right; they knew no better, unlike he and Junayd who knew true happiness. In love there is enough forgiveness for all.

The iron blade swung through the air with the sound of thunder cracking.

Ahmed perceived a burning sensation on the back of his neck, quickly followed by a breathless tickle on his throat. His ears rang sharply with the terrible scream of steel striking stone.

Warmth coated the underside of his chin, accompanied by the smell of liquid iron. His open eyes began to move away from Junayd's gaze as if in slow motion. Ahmed's severed but still sentient head began to tumble and fall. His open eyes perceived the stone-lined walls of the well shaft as a sort of tunnel he was moving through.

A rushing sound whipped past his ears and he instantly thought of the sea. He saw lapping jewel-like waves washing in from an unobstructed sunset, and he and Junayd were walking barefoot and holding hands over the warm sand.

A perfect sense of well-being overtook him, and a smile arose helplessly. His half-open eyes gazed peacefully out as he fell, and he knew with supreme confidence that somehow the face of God and the face of Junayd would be one and the same.