Neath the Hoof of the Tartar; Or, The Scourge of God

by báró Miklós Jósika

Rumours as to the advance of the Mongols were rife throughout the winter; but the month of March, 1241, had arrived, and still there was nothing to be called an army, in spite of the sending round of the bloody sword, and in spite of the King's most urgent commands, entreaties, and personal exertions.

On the 11th of the month came the first note of actual alarm in a despatch from Héderváry the Palatine, who was guarding the north-eastern frontier. He announced that the Mongols had reached the pass of Versecz (almost in a straight line with Kaschau), and that it was impossible for him to hold them back unless large reinforcements were sent to him at once.

The King, meanwhile, had despatched ambassadors to his old enemy Friedrich, of Austria, urging him in his own interest to come to the help of Hungary. To the Kunok in their new settlements he had also sent orders to mount at once, and they required no second bidding, but set out immediately for the camp.

The Queen and Court had left Pest for Pressburg, whither all who took the coming danger in the least seriously, and many even who professed to think little of it, had sent their womankind. The few who dared run the risk of leaving them in country houses, with moats and walls as their sole defence, were nobles whose castles were believed to be inaccessible, or so far from the frontier and so buried in the woods, that they had every reason to hope that they would remain undiscovered. The Hédervárys and the Szirmays were not of this number, always excepting Master Peter; for, such was their reputation for wealth, that it seemed only too likely that, to save their own skins and perhaps share the spoil, some of their servants and dependants might turn traitors and betray them to the Mongols. They, therefore, were among the first to send their wives and children to Pressburg, lavishly provided with all that they might need, and accompanied by brilliant trains of men-at-arms.

Pressburg was full to overflowing, and to every man there were at least ten women. Jolánta, of course, was there, and was daily looking forward to the pleasure of seeing Dora; not doubting for a moment that her uncle would send her with all speed as soon as he himself left home to join the army.

But the days had passed, and not only had Dora not come, but no one knew where she was, or anything about her. There was no little wonderment at this among those whose minds were sufficiently at leisure to wonder about anything not immediately concerning themselves or their families. It was odd that Master Peter should have stayed so long in Pest without her, a thing he had never done before; it was odder still that he should not have sent her to Pressburg, out of harm's way. Surely he must have placed her somewhere to be taken care of! He could never think of leaving her at home, and alone, when the time of his absence was likely to be so uncertain. They knew, indeed, that his ancient hall was so buried in dense woods, and so surrounded by ravine-like valleys, that no one would be likely to find it unless they knew of its existence and went there for the purpose; yet at the same time, as he and Stephen had been busy collecting their troops, and seemed to consider preparations of some sort necessary, he would surely never be satisfied to leave Dora alone in a place which, though strong enough to resist any ordinary foe, would certainly not be safe from the thieving, burning Tartars, if they should discover it.

And yet, in spite of all these conjectures, that was precisely what Master Peter had done. We have already mentioned his reasons for not taking his daughter to Pest. The same reasons prevented his sending her to Pressburg. He would not have her exposed to sneers, perhaps insults, when he was not at hand to protect her.

Dora herself was quite against going to swell the Queen's train; and her father was more than a little hurt that, whereas her Majesty (so Paul's mother told him with satisfaction) had especially summoned Jolánta to join her with all speed, she had not said a word to show that she even remembered Dora.

What Dora wished was to follow her father and share all his dangers, labours, and hardships—no such very uncommon thing in those days, when women were often safer with their fathers, husbands, and brothers, than they could be anywhere else. Her father was Dora's first thought, as she was his; but at first he would not give her any decided answer. The Mongols were not yet in the country; and he and his brother, though they loyally obeyed the King's orders, were among those who thought him far too anxious, and his preparations more than were necessary.

At all events, he would not take her with him when he set out with his troop for the camp at Pest, but he promised, if he could not find any better way of ensuring her safety, that he would come later on, put her in a coat of armour, and take her with him. The only question was where she had better stay meantime, and he decided that on the whole home would be best.