Chapter Twenty One
For God And Kaiser!
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
While their exact whereabouts remained something of a mystery, the news that both Conrad and his chum Salvatore were not under arrest as had been believed, came as a complete and welcome surprise to those waiting anxiously for news at Rosenberg.
"So, are you saying that everything which Goldstein told you earlier was untrue?"
"No, by no means. Both he and his friends in the Jüdische Selbswehr - for whom I have the greatest respect - are far too well informed for that to be so".
"Yes, of course". Edith nodded.
"Who?" Sybil asked, clearly mystified.
"It's a ... secret organisation; set up here in Austria by the Jewish community, to protect their own. Regrettably, in the present circumstances, they have to. Put simply, it's a matter of self preservation. Its members keep their ears to the ground and, as a result, they hear all sorts of things ... which others do not".
"I see".
Friedrich turned to Edith.
"Darling, what Goldstein told me before, was reported to him by his Roumanian contacts in good faith; were the facts as they believed them to be at the time. In any case, with this sort of thing, I doubt the whole truth of it will ever become known. That I suspect lies, if anywhere, not in facts, but in dishonesty, distortion, and equivocation. As Lenin himself is reported to have said, "a lie told often enough becomes the truth". All this aside, what really matters is that tonight, thanks to his contacts there in Bucharest, Goldstein was able to tell me that a short while ago Wyss and Salvatore took off from Roumanian soil, heading westwards, for an unknown destination".
"Heading westwards? Then ... that must mean ... they're bound for the landing strip at Rózsafa! Oh, thank God!" Edith smiled excitedly at Sybil. "Darling, they'll be fine! All of them! You'll see".
"I don't think we can assume that they ..."
"Where else would they be heading?"
Friedrich nodded.
"Very well then. If they are, so be it. But ..."
"But what?"
"Goldstein also told me - and he has this on equally good authority - that there have been reports of Hungarian troop movements in and around Szentes. And a much smaller force seen in the vicinity of both Erdőtelek and Rózsafa. Each equipped with field artillery".
"Oh my God! Isn't there anything we can do?"
Friedrich shook his head.
"As before, all we can do is to wait. Pray God that Wyss and Salvatore reach Rózsafa, before the Hungarian army does. If they ... What the devil was that?"
Somewhere northwest of Rózsafa, Hungary, earlier that same day.
Sometime after Tibor had gone, not long after the other officers had dispersed, in their case to attend to the duties assigned to them in the forthcoming engagement, General Rőder requested that the Regent's representative, should join him in his quarters.
A short while later, the man in question arrived. At which point the general looked up from the letter he had been reading, duly returned the smartly proferred salute, indicated that the other should take the chair opposite him. Quite why Horthy's man should be a German officer, Rőder couldn't begin to imagine. Thank God he himself was a soldier and not a politician.
"I will come straight to the point, Sturmhauptführer. This letter comes directly from His Serene Highness. It informs me that you are acquainted with certain ... issues of ... how shall I put it ... a delicate nature".
The other nodded.
"Indeed".
"That being so, we need not waste time rehearsing what is already known to each of us. All that remains is for you to acquaint me as to how the matters referred to herein are to be resolved ... satisfactorily. In that regard, Captain Csáky, what is to happen to him?"
"But of course. As to Csáky, with his true loyalties unmasked, he will die, most tragically, in the closing stages of the assault on the kastély at Rózsafa. A vainglorious end to an otherwise entirely undistinguished military career. Although, infinitely preferable to being hanged for treason, like a common criminal, wouldn't you say? Thereafter given a suitably impressive, public, military funeral, in Budapest, naturally".
"Naturally. So naturally that somehow I managed to overlook it," observed Rőder drily.
"I take it that you do not object?"
Rőder permitted himself the briefest of smiles.
"Object? Why the hell should I? First and foremost, I am a soldier. Treason always has a stench about it. But, if I understand you correctly, in essence, a grateful Fatherland will be seen to pay homage to a loyal son, saluting a brave soldier, who died heroically in the defence of his country".
Fergal smiled thinly.
"Herr general, I could not have put it better myself. Whereas, in reality, it will serve to demonstrate to one and all, that here in the Kingdom of Hungary His Serene Highness is secure in his position as Regent. At least until the authorities in Berlin decide otherwise".
"If I did object, what then?"
Fergal shook his head.
"I fear that would be most unwise".
Rőder nodded.
"Very well. And the earl and countess of Grantham? What is to be done with them?"
"Ah, yes, the Granthams. With suitably worded expressions of infinite regret and so forth being duly tendered by the Regent to Viscount Chilston, and I have no doubt, then conveyed personally by him to the British government, it will be found that the earl and countess of Grantham perished in the evacuation of prisoners to Budapest. At least, officially".
"And unofficially?"
"A bullet in the back of the head is just as lethal no matter when, where, and by whom it is fired".
"I see".
"I'm glad you do. As a member of the British aristocracy, if only as a result of an advantageous marriage, along with his involvement with the League, the untimely demise of the earl of Grantham and his wife will serve as a warning. Dissuade others from meddling in Hungary's affairs".
Again Rőder nodded.
"And Branson úr? Given his position as a newspaper editor, he could prove troublesome".
"He could. But he won't".
"You have something equally in mind for him too?"
Fergal nodded.
"Suffice it to say, no-one will ever learn what became of him".
Matthew and Mary's bedroom, Rózsafa, Hungary, that same afternoon.
Later that same afternoon, playing to perfection the part of the concerned hostess, Eva came to enquire, ostensibly, how Mary was feeling; whether she had recovered sufficiently for Manfred to do as he had promised her he would and show her around the stables. Given the fact that they would be leaving here the day after tomorrow, it would be a very great shame to have come all this way, for Mary not to see the Mezőhegyes English full bloods for which Rózsafa was justly famous; of which Eva's own family, and now Manfred, were both inordinately proud.
And, if Mary felt up to it, on a suitable mount, escorted by Manfred, perhaps, she might care to take a short ride before dinner; in anticipation of which Eva had brought with her some riding clothes which, while apologising profusely that they had undoubtedly seen better days, she hoped might suit.
"How kind!" Mary smiled. Eyed with interest the clothes, which Eva laid out before her on the bed.
Along with the top hat and short veil, the cut of the riding habit was decidedly old-fashioned, dating, thought Mary, from before the Great War, when most women still rode side saddle. While the whole ensemble smelt strongly of moth balls, they would do well enough for an afternoon's hack.
Given that Matthew had impressed upon her the importance that they must not arouse the slightest suspicion in their host or hostess, Mary professed herself to be feeling a great deal better. Without the slightest trace of sarcasm, now said that a dose of fresh air was just what she needed. Having thanked Eva for the loan of the riding habit, said that if Manfred was agreeable, once she had changed, she would join him in the hall in half an hour or so.
At this Eva smiled sweetly; said that she would let Manfred know. Added, apparently in all innocence, that journeys by train were often so very tiring; even short ones, such as that undertaken recently by Unity and her brother, as a result of which darling Unity herself was quite done in. Having taken a strong sedative, was presently resting in her room.
A moment later, having been assured by Mary that she did not need the services of a lady's maid to help her change, bestowing yet another sweet smile, Eva was gone.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933, that night.
Above the keening of the wind and the patter of the rain, from somewhere came the sound of breaking glass, followed almost instantaneously by a piercing scream which echoed throughout the house and immediately sent the three adults in the Drawing Room hurrying into the hall.
"I think it came from upstairs," said Edith.
"Ma!"
"Saiorse!"
The three adults looked up, aghast to see Saiorse, her face flecked with blood, in tears, barefoot, in her nightdress and dressing gown, appear on the landing overlooking the hall.
Followed closely by Edith, Sybil was up the stairs in a trice, and kneeling by her daughter's side.
"Darling, what on earth happened?"
"Oh, Ma!" wailed Saiorse. "It was horrible! At the bedroom window. It was a ..."
Seeing that Saiorse's injuries were thankfully not serious, that she was far more shocked than hurt, Sybil became practical. Placing a comforting arm about her daughter's shoulders, quietly and calmly, she suggested, in order for Saiorse's cuts to be cleaned and dressed, that they should go along to the bathroom.
"Darling, come with me. And you can tell me all about what happened. Edith, darling, would you be a dear? Go and look in on the others? Unless Nanny Bridges ..."
"Yes, of course".
Somewhere high over the Carpathians later that same night.
Here in the mountains, having been buffeted relentlessly by strong wings, Conrad had already brought the F13 as low as he dared. Any lower and there was every chance both he and Salvatore would find themselves communing with the saints.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
The engine first coughed, spluttered, and died.
Matthew and Mary's bedroom, Rózsafa, Hungary, afternoon, that same day.
"Do you think she knows anything about ..." Mary nodded in the direction of Tom's bedroom.
"I don't doubt it. A consummate performance that. Much like your own, darling, which, if I may say so, was very adroitly done!"
"You may!" Mary simpered.
Matthew laughed.
"Worthy of Peggy Ashcroft at the Old Vic, even if I do say so myself!"
Mary smiled.
"Darling, I'm a Crawley. Twice over. Like dear old Granny, a woman of many parts. After all, if I could help move a decidedly deceased Turkish diplomat out my bed, carry him halfway across the abbey, and deposit his body back in his own room, dealing with the likes of Eva is child's play!"
"Good Lord! Dear old Pamuk! Late of Constantinople and the Orient. Why, I'd quite forgotten about him!" Matthew let out another laugh, loud enough to have been heard in distant Budapest.
"Matthew, really!"
"I'm sorry darling".
"He wasn't old at the time," retorted Mary quietly.
"No, of course not".
Mary eyed her husband cautiously; wondered if his cheerful banter presaged some pithy remark, but in that her fears proved to be groundless. Sensing her discomfort, Matthew smiled again.
"Darling, as I told you, on the night I proposed, you've lived your life, and I've lived mine. What's past is past. Leave it there! There's nothing to forgive. Now, while you're out riding, I need to talk with Tom".
"About what?"
"I'll tell you later. Nothing to worry about. Something, I heard earlier. Here, let me help you undress".
"Darling, I'm perfectly capable of ..." Mary caught the glint of eager anticipation in her husband's impossibly blue eyes. "Darling, I'm supposed to be going riding ..."
"You said in half an hour. Or thereabouts. Time enough!" Matthew whispered huskily.
"Honestly, Matthew! Oh, very well, have it your own way!"
"Darling, in case you hadn't noticed, in matters such as this, I usually do!"
He didn't need to be told twice; capturing her mouth with his own, Matthew began unbuttoning her blouse.
Max's bedroom, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, night, that same day.
All three boys heard the sound of breaking glass, but not the scream that followed.
"Jaysus! Feckin' hell!"
"That's torn it!"
"What's torn?" asked Max not understanding.
"The cricket ball ... it hit the feckin' window!" Danny explained hurriedly.
Watched by Max, helped by Rob, Danny hastily wound in the line with the attached clay head of Anubis, before pulling down hard on the sash, closing the window, and barring the shutters.
The fishing rod - somehow it would have to be returned unseen to its rightful place downstairs by the front door - together with Anubis's head, were thrust quickly and ignominiously into the gap between the wardrobe and the wall; Max dived into bed, pulling the covers over his head; Rob switched out the electric light; he and Danny both beating a hasty retreat back down the passage and into their own bedrooms.
Stableblock, Rózsafa, Hungary, afternoon, that same day.
Here at Rózsafa, the stables which, not unsurprisingly, were extensive, ranged round a quadrangle, and lay a short distance from the house. They were, explained Manfred, as he and Mary now came within sight of them, a testimonial wrought in both brick and stone to a more leisured age, built at a time when the estate was over three times the size it was now, money was plentiful, and the Old Man was still on the throne.
"The Old Man?"
Manfred smiled.
"That's how many of us referred to him. In fact, we still do. I mean, of course, His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty The Emperor of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary, Franz Joseph, who ruled over the empire from 1848 until his death, aged eighty six, in 1916; scarce two years before the end. I sometimes find myself thinking that it was only the Old Man's sheer force of will that held it all together. I'm sorry, I must be boring you".
"No, not at all".
Manfred smiled.
"However kind, a white lie is still a lie. Nonetheless, I thank you for it. Taking you at your word, by the law of succession, the Old Man's great great nephew, Crown Prince Otto, now in exile in Belgium, is the rightful king of Hungary. There's a photograph of him in the hall. I saw Tom looking at it earlier".
Mary nodded. While sworn to secrecy, she knew something of this from Matthew; that the plot afoot hereabouts intended ousting the Regent, Admiral Horthy, and placing the young Crown Prince on the vacant throne.
Manfred went on to explain that, with circumstances no longer what they had once been, while there were still Mezőhegyes English full bloods here at Rózsafa, these days the stud was very much reduced and most of the stalls stood empty.
The rot had set in during the war, when many of the horses had been requisitioned as remounts to replace casualties among those of the Landsturm Hussars, which formed part of the cavalry of Hungarian Honved. Not one of the requisitioned horses had ever returned. After the end of the war, with two thirds of the estate lost to Roumania, money short, other horses had had to be sold, just to keep the handful that yet remained. Quite what Eva's father, or for that matter her two brothers, Jozsi and Nikolasz, would have made of it all, God only knew. Perhaps it was just as well none of them had lived to see the collapse of the empire and what befell the Kingdom of Hungary in the bitter aftermath of defeat.
Mary nodded sympathetically; she had heard very much the same tale of woe back in Budapest ... from Tibor.
"And this is your mount. His name is Patrik. From the Greek Patrikios. He answers to both. The name means of noble descent. Rather appropriate since he is descended, directly, from the Austrian Imperial and Hungarian Royal Apostolic Stud at Mezőhegyes, founded by no less a personage than Emperor Joseph II himself. In the winter of the second year of the war, Eva had his future sire and dam sent away to one of the outlying farms, long before the requisition squad came calling, in order that the Honved wouldn't get its hands on them. Jozsi and Nikolasz were in full agreement with what Eva had done; even if it was decidedly unpatriotic! By then, of course, with the resources of the estate already severely depleted by the constant demands being made upon it by the Imperial government for men, for grain, and for cattle, and with little chance of ever being recompensed ... " Manfred shrugged. "Then came the terrible news about Eva's brothers. Both killed and within a month or so of each other. After that nothing seemed to matter. But, no more of that. What's past is past. Cannot be undone. What do you think? A real beauty, isn't he?"
For a moment, Mary was too overcome for words.
First by a sudden, totally unexpected rush of sympathy for what Eva herself had suffered. Remembered how she herself had felt when Matthew had been posted missing, ever before they had received the dreadful news that he had been wounded. Had seen, too, at close quarters, the awfulness of the pain wrought upon other families in the county who, unlike the Crawleys had lost fathers, sons, brothers, and cousins in the four long years of the Great War. Seeing the aching void such losses always left, Mary was eternally grateful that she had only sisters. Even if one of them was Edith.
And then, rendered equally speechless, by the sight of horse Manfred now presented to her. Possessed of a long neck, wide eyes, large nostrils, excellent balance, strong loin, and straight legs, together with the quality of his muscling, standing at just over sixteen hands high, the pure white, full blood stallion was truly magnificent. Entranced, Mary heard but vaguely some of what her host was now saying.
"... and most recently in the Hungarian Triple at Kincsem, back in '31".
Kincsem. Mary knew of it of course; the racecourse in Budapest.
She smiled.
"Why, Manfred, he's ... absolutely magnificent. And his name again?"
"Patrik. From the Greek Patrikios. Now, if you're quite ready?"
"Yes, of course".
"Then, shall we?"
Manfred smiled; helped Mary up into the saddle.
Tom's bedroom, Rózsafa, the same time.
"Tom!" called Matthew in a hushed whisper, at the same time rapping hurriedly on his brother-in-law's bedroom door. Was relieved to hear the sound of the key being turned in the lock. Evidently Tom must have taken his warning to heart.
A moment later and the door swung open, to reveal a Tom wearing considerably more than he had been the last time Matthew had seen him; standing out in the corridor wearing only a towel while the kimono clad figure of Unity Mitford beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction.
"What is it, for sure?"
"This came for me, earlier this afternoon".
Rózsafa Estate, shortly thereafter.
As Mary and Manfred trotted away from the stables, on the surface everything seemed normal; belying what Mary herself knew was taking place hereabouts. Like the sudden calm before the coming of a summer storm.
Somewhere, close at hand, doves cooed in a cot, a flight of fantail pigeons fluttered softly in a flurry of snowy white plumage, and a pair of storks with long pointed beaks and scarlet legs nested gently on the nearby roof of a moss covered barn. In the late afternoon heat, behind closed shutters, the kastély slumbered on; its occupants whiling away what still remained of the afternoon: resting in their bedrooms, dozing in wicker seats out on the broad verandah, slumbering in canvas deckchairs beneath the lilac trees. Save that was for the handful of house guests who had chosen to indulge themselves in an impromptu, desultory tennis match, or a far more gentle game of croquet; one and all partaking of a seemingly never ending supply of cooling drinks, served to them by a liveried ensemble of footmen.
Halfway down the long drive they met a creaking wagon, laden with ripe apricots, heading back to the kastély while, over beyond the magnolia trees, among the sunflowers, could be glimpsed large wooden vats in which, explained Manfred, the harvested fruits were being boiled, the resulting juice distilled down into Pálinka, apricot brandy, the fermentation of which filled the air with yet another heady, intoxicating scent.
At the end of the drive they turned right out of the gates and, for a short distance, trotted back along the road which had brought them to Rózsafa. Not long after, in the cool shade of poplar and willow, they crossed over a small stone bridge beside which a group of young soldiers, to Mary's eyes some of them looked to be little more than boys, were digging a series of trenches. As they passed by, the corporal in charge of the detachment turned and saluted smartly.
Manfred drew rein. A short conversation ensued, presumably regarding the work being undertaken.
"Für gott und kaiser!" The corporal saluted again.
Manfred nodded. Moments later, Mary and he were once more on their way.
Manfred clearly felt some explanation to be necessary.
"Our local militia. I'm glad to see they're being put to good use. The watercourse back there may look like a stream but don't let that fool you. It's a tributary of the Tisza and often floods. What those boys are doing will help. Over there beyond that belt of trees is our airstrip". He pointed with his riding crop.
"Airstrip?"
"But of course! Darling, this is 1933! Several of the estates hereabouts have them. It's a much quicker way of reaching Budapest than taking the train! Don't you have one at Downton?"
"No, we don't".
"You do surprise me. I'd have thought Matthew might have taken up flying".
"Thankfully, he hasn't!" Mary grimaced. Remembered how enthusiastic both Matthew and Tom had been about the craze of wing walking. Now proceeded to tell Manfred something of Matthew's penchant for speed. Ended by adding that she had quite enough trouble keeping him in one piece on the ground without Matthew taking to the air. "So, please don't go suggesting to him that he does!" Manfred laughed. Promised his lips would remain sealed.
"That being so, am I to presume that you yourself have never flown?"
"No, never. I leave that sort of thing to Edith". Manfred laughed again. Said that he heard a great deal about her aeronautical exploits out in the Near East.
"You should try it. If you were staying longer but then ..." Manfred broke off what he was saying. When, but a moment or two later, he resumed chatting, it was to tell Mary that they were bound for a small church, dedicated to Szent Katalin - St. Catherine - Manfred kindly translated, famous hereabouts for its richly gilded iconostasis which had been given to the church three centuries ago by some of Eva's ancestors; adding that most of the family still held to the Catholic faith of their forefathers.
"Not that we have any truck with it; what with Eva and I having lived together, openly that is, after Julia ran off with her Russian count, and then married in a civil ceremony in Nice. But you know about that already, don't you?"
Mary nodded.
It seemed that here in Hungary such things were not hidden under the proverbial bushel, as would most certainly have been the case in England, where, in certain circles, rumours were circulating that no less a personage than the Prince of Wales was consorting with an already divorced, married American woman.
Trotting companionably along the white ribbon of the road, a short while later, Manfred indicated ahead two motors, coming towards them, trailing in their wake a cloud of dust.
"Ah ha! If I'm not much mistaken, the rest of our guests. I think Eva told you Tibor had gone to help fetch them, from Erdőtelek?"
"Yes. Yes, she did".
A few minutes later, the two motors reached them, Mary not unduly surprised to see that one of them was being driven by Tibor. On catching sight of Mary, he smiled. Out of uniform, in mufty, he looked much younger, no older than the some of the young soldiers she had seen digging trenches down by the bridge. There was, of course, a very great deal she wanted to say to him, but now was hardly the time, so their conversation, which was short, was confined to the usual brief, meaningless pleasantries which one exchanges in these sort of situations.
Along that was, with introductions being made of the others travelling in the two motors. Of course, the names themselves meant nothing to Mary; save that was for one. That of the count and countess von Waldstein Frigyes de Nagybaresa.
"What a bloody mouthful!" The count himself smiled broadly at Mary. "My wife, Annamaria. And I am Fülöp, Pips for short There! Much better, don't you think? And this fine fellow here is Micky, our youngest son, aged fifteen, home for the holidays from his school in Geneva, and who I believe, is already known to your husband". Pips indicated the young boy sitting between his wife and himself.
For Mary, the penny now dropped with her recalling Matthew having mentioned he had attended a musical soirée in Geneva. Not that such an event was really Matthew's cup of tea. Said he had spent most of it sitting outside talking. At the time, Mary had assumed he had been accompanied there by the comtesse de Roquebrune, until that was, Matthew explained, to Mary's great surprise, that his companion for much of the evening had been the young nephew of his host and hostess; a boy but a couple of years older than their own son Robert. A most personable lad, called Micky. Presumably, this was he.
Micky grinned.
"Hello! This is Dévaj". The boy patted the head of a golden retriever seated beside him on the back seat of the second of the motors. The dog reminded Mary so much of Isis and therefore also, painfully so, of darling Papa who had died two years ago, back in the summer of 1931.
All the same, Micky was so engaging, that Mary found herself smiling back at him.
"Well, do enjoy the rest of your afternoon. No doubt we'll see both of you later, back at the house". Pips smiled; promptly tapped Tibor on the shoulder.
"Now, young man, off we go".
Tibor turned; grinned over his shoulder.
"Yes, uncle!"
"Your uncle?" Mary could not conceal her astonishment.
Tibor nodded.
"Yes, at least of sorts. Actually, a second cousin of my mother's. We're all related somehow, even if distantly".
With that the two motors moved off, at a sedate pace, so as to avoid frightening the horses.
"Of course before that damned treaty, the estate ran for miles, in that direction. The cross you can see over there in the distance marks the present border and beyond it lie the lands lost to Roumania".
Mary nodded. It was the same refrain she had heard from Tibor. Here in the Kingdom of Hungary, since the Treaty of Trianon, shrunken to but a quarter of its erstwhile size, the loss of Transylvania to Roumania was seen as a great injustice; was a source of growing anger and resentment.
"What's that? Over there". Mary pointed to where, cresting a slight rise in the otherwise monotonous flatness of the vast plain, a huddle of tiled buildings clustered around a tall brick chimney.
Manfred was dismissive; indeed, decidedly so.
"That? Oh, nothing that need concern us. If you really want to know, in Eva's father's time, long before that even, it was the estate's brick works".
Memory resurrected itself. Mary recalling that on one of her slow ambles around the estate at Downton with Matthew - he was not a good rider, much preferring to be seated behind the wheel of a motor and preferably a fast one - he had pointed out what he said was the site of the estate's brickworks; by then nothing more than a tumble of walls in a nettle grown dell.
"We had one at Downton". Mary turned her horse aside; made to set off along the track leading towards the brick works but before she could do so, Manfred forestalled her.
"No, not that way. No-one ever goes there. Not now".
"Oh?"
"Yes. The buildings are very much decayed. Unsafe. I really should do something about having them demolished. No doubt the peasantry would make very good use of anything salvageable. That apart, in wet weather, the ground over there becomes quite impassable. What with all the recent rain ..." Manfred shook his head; indicated they should take the other fork, leading towards a small whitewashed church, crowned by an onion domed spire, of which he had spoken earlier when they had set out nearly an hour since.
However, they were destined never to reach it because, before they had gone very much further, ahead of them in the distance a dark speck arose which swiftly resolved itself into a single rider, galloping towards them at great speed.
The rider drew level with them, with some difficulty reining in his lathering, sweating horse in a flurry of hooves and splattered mud. A dark haired young man, in military uniform, reminding Mary instantly of Tibor, and who, while still in the saddle touched the brim of his cap to her before saluting Manfred.
"Ecellenciás uram!"
Manfred nodded; inclined his head. Evidently the unexpected arrival was known to him.
"Mi az?
"Sok katona!"
"Hol?
Shading his eyes, the young man turned in the saddle; articulated expansively towards the distant horizon.
"Erdőtelek felé".
For all that Mary spoke no Hungarian, one word sounded familiar. Erdő ... Wasn't that where Eva had said Tibor had gone? From where he had been returning when they had met him and the others on the road?
"Biztos vagy benne?"
The young man nodded vigorously.
Whatever it was he had just been told, Manfred was clearly worried; it showed in his face.
A further hurried exchange of words now followed, all of which was just as unintelligible to Mary, at the end of which the other again saluted Manfred.
"Für gott und kaiser!"
The very same words which had been said to Manfred down at the bridge.
Then, swiftly the young man turned his horse and, with hooves flying, rode off at a thundering pace whence he had just come.
For his part, Manfred made no attempt to move; evidently lost in thought, he simply sat his horse. A moment later and he seemed to realise his whereabouts.
"Forgive me. Mary, I don't wish to seem discourteous, but I very much regret that I must cut short our little excursion. Something has arisen ... which requires my urgent attention".
"Oh?"
"Yes, I need not trouble you further with the details but I fear I must return immediately to the house".
Mary chose to be arch; more out of sheer devilment than for any other reason.
"Do I understand you correctly ... that I no longer have the honour of your escort?"
There was only one answer to that; at least from a gentleman. But, Manfred did not make it. Instead, he wheeled his horse quickly about.
"Will you be all right?"
"All right?" echoed Mary.
"What I mean is, if I leave you here?"
Mary's eyes narrowed; this really was quite intolerable.
"Perfectly!" she said coldly.
"You're quite sure? When I reach the house, I will give orders to Sebastyén to ride out immediately and meet you on the way".
"Thank you, but there's really no need to do that. I shall be quite all right. As you said, Rózsafa lies somewhere over there". Mary pointed back down the grass grown track.
Manfred nodded.
"Yes. Follow the track along which we rode. After about a hour's ride, it will bring you to the road, and the drive gates. Look, I'm really very sorry about this, but the matter simply will not wait".
A moment later and Manfred was galloping away back down the track.
Later, somewhere west of Rózsafa.
Away to her right, Mary caught sight once more of the crumbling chimney and buildings of the old brick works. To the eye of an experienced horsewoman like herself, the track leading that way across the plain looked perfectly dry. Certainly there was no immediate sign of the bogginess of which Manfred had spoken. That decided it. After all, if at any point the way proved impassable, then she would turn back.
High above her Mary saw a succession of white clouds chasing each other across a brilliant blue sky. Save for a handful of distant figures, moving rhythmically among the haycocks and sheaves, scything the very last of the wheat, she saw no-one. Not that she minded. Not in the slightest. Out for a leisurely afternoon ride, mounted on Patrik, Mary was quite content with her own company. Was even minded, at least now, to forgive Manfred his gross discourtesy in leaving her to her own devices; reasoning that the matter, whatever it was, must indeed have been pressing for him to have reacted the way he had. Wondered, too, how Matthew was faring in his discussions with darling Tom. Hoped he had been spared any further trouble with Unity Mitford. Given what Eva had said, about the little minx being indisposed, it seemed unlikely but one never knew. Still, if the need arose, Tom had Matthew there to protect him!
Thinking of Matthew, Mary recalled what had happened earlier; not their quarrel but what had followed hard upon it. At that, she smiled, reflecting that the gentle, ambling pace of the ride, so unlike the frenzied passion of their lovemaking, would have suited Matthew down to the ground. When he was on horseback anything more than a light canter and he became extremely nervous which, for someone who had survived the horrors of the Western Front, seemed patently ridiculous. But there it was. The slow pace also seemed to please Patrik. Indeed, it was hard to believe that he was the same horse that had won so many glittering prizes; most recently, as Manfred had told her, on the racecourse at Kincsem.
From the rutted, churned state of the ground, along with the foot and hoof prints etched in the damp soil, it had become obvious to Mary that the track leading to the old brick works had seen considerable usage, both by men, and by horses. As well as by some kind of heavy wheeled vehicles; the passage of which had left their own mark in the form of deep ruts. Given that Manfred had told her that the buildings, which belonged to the estate, were derelict, this seemed singularly odd. Indeed, he had taken pains to impress upon her that no-one ever came here. Yet, clearly, someone had. And recently. But why? And for what purpose?
About twenty minutes later, Mary drew rein where the track ended, at the abandoned brick works. There was no doubting their derelict state; the buildings were in part ruinous, the tall chimney crumbling, its upper courses fallen away, the roofs sagging, missing tiles, the bare timbers bleached by years of exposure to the weather, and there were numerous broken windows, most of which had been boarded up. And recently; the wood was new, still pale, not yet weathered. All the same, the buildings were plainly deserted.
Or, were they?
For a few minutes, Mary sat her horse. Then, having at last made up her mind, stowing her riding crop, she slipped lithely down out of the saddle and dismounted. Catching up the hem of the long skirt of her riding habit and draping it over her arm, she strode purposefully forward, towards a pair of high wooden gates which appeared to be the only entrance.
It came as no surprise to Mary to find the gates were shut. Not only that but also padlocked; though why on earth anyone should have thought that to have been necessary, way out here, seemed incomprehensible. Miles from anywhere, lost in the great, empty, vastness of the plain, surely the very remoteness of the place was more than sufficient to safeguard it against the unwarranted attentions of any would be intruders?
While Mary's knowledge of crime was strictly limited to having helped carry Pamuk's body halfway across the abbey - which could be forgiven on the grounds that what had been done that night had been undertaken in order to safeguard the good name of the family - who on earth would want to break into a derelict brick works? As dear old Granny might have said, it defied all logic.
With the place all locked up, that rather seemed to settle things; ruled out Mary undertaking any further investigation. Irritated, unaccountably so, with no-one about to see her do so, she kicked at the gates with the toe of one of her boots, the resulting noise seeming to reverberate throughout the empty buildings. And then, much to her surprise, something unexpected happened.
The large padlock fell from the hasp, landing with a dull thud in the soft earth at her feet.
Whoever had closed and secured the gates had been singularly careless. Mary pushed at them which, despite the lightness of her touch, to her surprise, swung open noiselessly, on hinges that clearly were very well oiled.
Her curiosity undeniably piqued, leading her horse gently forward, Mary walked on through the gateway.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, night, that same day.
Equally thankful that Saiorse had come to no real harm, as he prepared to retire for the night, even if, given all the circumstances, he reasoned sleep might well be in short supply, Friedrich remembered that he had left his glasses in his study. Having entered the room in search of them, Friedrich switched on the light, before crossing over to his desk. Then, before picking up his glasses, Friedrich did as Saiorse had done a short while earlier, he unbolted the shutters.
Outside, the rain had long since ceased. Friedrich thrust up the sash; resting his elbows on the window cill, leaned forward into the darkness, savouring the damp scent of the cool night air.
On the hillside overlooking the rear of the house, hidden in the wet bracken, with his quarry now clearly in the cross hairs of the telescopic sights of the high powered Merkel hunting rifle, the man squeezed gently on the trigger.
Muffled by a silencer, there came the sound of a single shot.
Somewhere west of Rózsafa, earlier that day.
The derelict buildings ranged round a grass grown, cobbled courtyard; in the centre of which, and to her surprise, Mary saw two ...
What were they?
Large guns on wheels certainly, along with their limbers.
She had seen something similar once before, over at Langthorpe Hall, during the war, not long after the Lusitania had been sunk by the Germans off the coast of Ireland. The army had put on an artillery display to demonstrate the accuracy of their gunnery, by blowing to pieces the old brick water tower which, until then, had stood atop Conduit Hill. She had mentioned the event in one of her letters to Matthew who, in his reply had described the whole thing as a ridiculous piece of theatrical nonsense.
Howitzers.
Yes, that was what the guns had been called.
And the air hereabouts smelt just the same as it had done on that long gone day at Langthorpe back in the hot summer of 1915. When she had made mention of that too, Matthew had said it was probably ... Cordite, that was it. From the exploding shells. And here in the courtyard, beside the two howitzers, stood a clutch of large, brass cased artillery shells.
Wherever that shell came from, it wasn't from over the border but from somewhere much closer at hand.
While Mary was still standing beside the howitzers, letting Patrik crop the grass, to her dismay, she heard the sound of an approaching motor. Then voices too. Quickly she made to remount. Just as she did so, a battered truck, in the rear of which there was seated a contingent of soldiers, lumbered through the open gateway before pulling to a stop in the yard.
"Mi a neve?" a man's voice called harshly.
Turning her head, Mary now saw, much closer at hand, two other soldiers who, from the direction from whence they had appeared, must already have been here when she herself had arrived. Doubtless had been watching her every move. Would have seen her looking at the artillery pieces and their limbers. A moment later and the two soldiers came to a stand in front of her.
"Mi a neve?"
"I don't understand you". Mary shook her head. Bloody foreigners!
"Mi a neve? Honnan származol?"
The soldier repeated himself again, now for the third time of asking, more insistently; reached forward and grasped hold of the horse's bridle.
Mary jerked hard on the reins.
"Let go of my bridle, damn' you!"
For a moment the soldier stared blankly at Mary; then guffawed, revealing a set of dirty, heavily nicotine-stained teeth. Said something equally unintelligible to his companion who likewise sniggered; laid his hand on Mary's skirt, sliding his fingers upwards, his intentions only all too clear. At this, Mary had had enough. Laid about her hard with her riding crop. Her assault, being both sudden and unexpected, took the two soldiers completely by surprise. Yelping with pain, the one holding the bridle loosed his grip, like his compatriot seeking to try and shield himself with bare hands from the incessant rain of stinging blows.
This gave Mary the chance she needed, digging her heels hard against the flanks of Patrik. Taken equally unawares, nostrils flaring, the stallion reared, heavy shod hooves flailing, drawing fiery sparks from the cobbles. Very wisely the two men beat a hasty retreat. A blow from one of the hooves would crack a man's skull as easily as if it were an egg. At the same time the two yelled something incomprehensible to their fellows across the yard who were in the act of jumping down from the truck.
All uncomprehending, swiftly regaining control of her rearing mount, albeit losing her hat in the process, Mary quickly turned the stallion, then road hell for leather for the gates. Saw, to her horror, that several of the newly arrived soldiers were hurriedly rolling an old wooden cart across the open gateway, thus barring her flight.
Saw, equally, as they turned to face her, as she rode full tilt at them, the look of sheer incredulity etched upon their faces.
Surely not.
She wouldn't.
No.
Never.
Would she?
Mary dug her heels harder against the horse's already bloodied flanks.
For the stallion, memory stirred.
The roar of the crowd grew to fever pitch.
Laying back his ears, Patrik raced forwards.
Author's Note:
Dame Edith Margaret Emily Ashcroft, DBE (1907-1991) better known as Peggy Ashcroft, was an English actress whose career spanned more than sixty years. At the time of the story she was drawing excellent reviews playing five of Shakespeare's heroines at the Old Vic Theatre south of the River Thames, close to Waterloo station.
Hungarian Triple made up of three races: Nemzeti dij (Hungarian 2000 Guineas) Magyar Derby (Hungarian Derby) and Magyar St. Leger (Hungarian St. Leger).
Für Gott und kaiser! For God and Kaiser! - the battle cry of the Austro-Hungarian army.
An iconostasis is a wall of icons and religious paintings, separating the nave from the sanctuary in a church.
an already divorced, married American woman - Wallis Simpson - whom the Prince of Wales had first met in 1931.