EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 14: Between Two Empires
🕑 Added 2025-06-02 22:38:02 +0000 UTCMustering the Crusade, Buda May 1434
In the weeks that followed, a relentless urgency gripped the Hungarian court. Couriers galloped out of Buda at all hours, bearing sealed scrolls that crackled with imperial decrees. By day, Sigismund oversaw the flurry of preparations personally, refusing to delegate the most crucial tasks despite the pleas of his physicians to rest. He was often seen in the castle yards at dawn, cloaked in sable against the lingering spring chill, inspecting wagons and supplies being readied for the long journey. The clang of blacksmiths’ hammers on iron rang from every forge in the city, shaping horseshoes and weapon blades anew. Bakers and butchers toiled to stockpile biscuits and smoked meat for an army’s hunger.
The nobility’s levies began streaming toward Buda by April’s end. From every county, armored knights with pennons flying rode in at the head of columns of spearmen and mounted bowmen. The courtyards and fields outside the city bloomed into a canvas village of tents: bright heraldic banners snapping in the breeze above crude canvas domiciles. Sigismund moved among these encampments often, deliberately visible, the old king on his warhorse, trailed by a small honor guard. At times he would dismount and share a few words with a lesser noble or even a veteran footman, much to their shock. “Keep your sword bright,” he told one grizzled infantryman while fingering the man’s chipped blade with a practiced eye. “It will taste Turk flesh soon enough.” He said it with a kindly grin that sent the man beaming for days. Such gestures cost the Emperor little, but he knew the value: they bound the men’s loyalty to him, not just their local lords.
In quieter moments, Sigismund read and dictated letters by the dozens. Responses from abroad trickled back: polite regrets from England and France, still licking wounds from their own wars, hollow encouragement from the German princes. The Pope’s courier brought a blessing and a large sum of Ducats, welcomed, but far from sufficient.
With a resigned sigh, Sigismund summoned his steward and discreetly authorized the sale of distant royal estates, lands his forebears had won through battle or marriage alliances. Titles of minor nobility were quietly promised to wealthy merchants eager for status, their payments barely keeping pace with mounting debts.
“We’ll manage,” Sigismund grumbled, though inwardly he felt the strain. “Victory will refill our treasury.”
A chest of coins arrived just in time, urgently paying a signing bonus to a band of Czech handgunners who had nearly mutinied over their delayed wages. Mercenaries from all corners continued to gather under the Emperor’s banner, their loyalty balanced precariously upon the promise of fortune and glory.
Hardened Bohemian gunners with smoke in their lungs, Italian pikemen with plumed hats, Dalmatian sailors who’d serve as engineers on the river crossings, a motley, deadly crowd. Sigismund took stock of them one afternoon as they drilled outside the city walls. The snap of arquebus fire startled a flock of birds into the sky. Thundersticks, some called those guns. The Emperor watched the grey smoke billow, acrid and new, and found himself oddly stirred. War was changing; perhaps this crusade would show the world an updated face of Christian war-craft.
He remembered how even Constantine Palaiologos had used many thundersticks at the Battle of Domokos, shattering a larger force and winning the day with fire. Sigismund silently thanked God that the Hussite rebellions had taught him how to fight a modern foe, now those lessons would be turned on the infidel.
Through all the frenetic activity, Sigismund’s presence remained the fulcrum. He was there at the mustering ground when the banner of the Cross was blessed by the Archbishop in a public ceremony, holding the staff as holy water was sprinkled over its white silk and red cruciform. He personally affixed the crusader cross emblems to the standards of each contingent, anointing the flags with a gravity that left more than one tough knight misty-eyed.
The Emperor seldom allowed weariness to show, but at night in his chambers, when only his valet and the shadows attended him, he yielded to exhaustion. On one such night, as he peeled off a padded doublet, he felt a sharp pain seize his chest and for a terrifying moment he grasped the bedpost, dizzy. The spell passed, leaving him panting. Sigismund sat on the edge of the bed, sweat on his brow despite the cool air. Not yet, he told himself fiercely. My body will not betray me before the task is done. He drank a cup of watered wine and steadied his breathing. The face of Queen Barbara flickered in his mind’s eye, she had written that she would pray for his health daily, though she stayed away from court, tending estates in the country. Perhaps it was better she was absent; he had no energy for marital bickering now. All that mattered was endurance. He had to hold together long enough to deliver on his promise.
At last, by late May, the army of Sigismund, stood marshaled and ready. Rows of armored knights on horseback, ranks of foot soldiers with spears and crossbows, wagon carts loaded with provisions and powder, priests and camp followers bringing up the rear. They stretched beyond Buda’s southern gate in a column that took hours to fully assemble. On the morning of departure, Sigismund donned a suit of plate armor piece by piece, foregoing the royal robes for the steel carapace of a crusader. As squires buckled the gilded breastplate over his quilted gambeson, he flexed his shoulders. It had been some time since he wore full armor; it felt heavier than memory, but also reassuring, like an old friend’s embrace. His great helm he left off for now, opting instead for a lighter bascinet, its visor engraved with a small cross above the brow.
He mounted his war-horse, Athos, a dapple-gray destrier that had carried him through the last campaign a few years ago. The stallion snorted and pawed, sensing the martial excitement. Sigismund stroked the charger’s neck to soothe him, and perhaps to soothe himself. Trumpets blared along the line, signaling the vanguard to advance. Castle Hill behind them was thronged with onlookers; citizens waved kerchiefs and shouted blessings. The Emperor guided Athos to the front, where the royal standard bearer awaited. The standard, the red-white-green of Hungary quartered with Sigismund’s imperial black eagle, unfurled in the breeze. Beside it, Archbishop Szécsi raised a silver crucifix and intoned a Latin prayer that all within earshot paused to hear.
Sigismund made the sign of the cross over himself, then drew his sword in one swift motion and thrust it toward the road ahead. “Forward, in God’s name!” he shouted. His voice rang clear, carrying down the column. A cheer answered, rolling down the ranks like a breaking wave. With a creak of wheels and a thudding of hooves, the crusading host began to move. The Crusade of 1434 was underway.
The Emperor kept his face forward as Buda’s gates receded behind. He would not look back at the city, lest the weight of what he left, his throne, his comforts, perhaps his very security, tempt him to second-guess. Instead, he focused on the rhythmic clop of Athos’s steps and the flutter of countless banners ahead. Red crosses had been stitched or painted onto many a man’s tunic and shield. The sight filled Sigismund with a solemn pride. Not since his youth at Nicopolis had such a force departed these lands to face the Ottomans. This time must be different, he thought. This time we will not scatter and fall.
As they wound southward along the Danube’s bank, Sigismund occasionally rode down the line, exchanging words of encouragement. He patted the shoulders of sweating infantry trudging through summer’s first heat, and they gazed at him with a mixture of adoration and awe. Many had expected the Emperor to direct the campaign from afar given his age; to see him here at their head steeled their resolve. For Sigismund, each league of dusty road, each night spent in a tent listening to the snores and coughs of men around him, was a reminder of the cost he willingly bore. His body complained, stiff back, sore joints, but his spirit held firm. In quiet moments he whispered prayers that this endeavor would not end in vain. Sometimes, unbidden, the old nightmares of Nicopolis or the Hussite ambushes would surface in his sleep. He would wake with a start, gripping the hilt of the dagger he kept by his cot. Then, hearing the steady breathing of his squires nearby or the distant laugh of soldiers at their fires, he would remember where he was: on campaign once more, fighting for Christendom’s hope.
The journey into Serbia was blessedly uneventful at first. Branković’s domain began beyond the rivers Sava and Danube, lands both familiar and foreign. At the town of Belgrade, which once had been Serbian and was now Hungarian again, Sigismund’s army was welcomed with reserved enthusiasm. The garrison there watched the crusaders march through with polite salutes; Sigismund allowed no lengthy halt, pressing onward. He noticed, however, the scars of past sieges in Belgrade’s walls and the wary eyes of its townsfolk. Ottoman raids had come this far before, the people had learned not to cheer too easily at promises of deliverance.
Beyond Belgrade, the host wound along the Danube’s southern bank, heading eastward into the heart of the Serbian Despotate. Messengers from Đurađ Branković met them periodically on the road, small parties of Serbian riders in fine embroidered tunics, bearing gifts of dried fruits, wine, or bread for the crusaders and conveying their lord’s welcome. Sigismund received these graciously. Publicly, he expressed gratitude for Branković’s provisions, sharing the gifts with his captains to show solidarity. Privately, he studied each messenger for hints of their master’s mind. The notes Đurađ sent were flowery and reassuring: All Serbia rejoices at your approach; the Despot awaits you eagerly at Smederevo; our swords are yours against the heathen. Yet Sigismund knew well the art of diplomacy by parchment. Words were cheap. The true measure would come when their armies joined.
One evening, as the crusader column camped along a green plain by the Morava River, Sigismund walked among the tents to stretch his aching legs. In the twilight, he overheard a pair of Hungarian squires chatting in low tones.
“Think the Serbs will truly fight the Turk?” one lad murmured. “They’re half allies with him, aren’t they? Payin’ tribute and all.”
His fellow gave a cynical snort. “Their Despot’s about to marry one daughter to our Count of Celje, and rumor says he’s eyeing the Sultan for the other! He’s hedging bets both ways, if y’ask me.”
Sigismund slowed his steps, heart pricking at the truth of those blunt words. He knew of these matters, indeed, the upcoming wedding was one reason for their journey. Still, hearing it put so plainly by common boys irked him. He nearly turned to scold them about loose talk, but chose instead to remain unseen and continue on. The squires’ conversation had simply echoed his own inner questions: When the battle comes, where will Đurađ’s loyalty truly lie?
The Emperor gazed at the dark ribbon of the Morava under the dimming sky. Fireflies hovered over reeds along the bank, oblivious to human schemes. In the distance, a nightjar trilled. Sigismund drew in a long breath. The die was cast; suspicion must not be allowed to erode purpose. Serbia’s prince had reason to fear the Sultan, yes, but also reason to side with Christendom’s strength if shown. Sigismund resolved that in their meeting to come, he would look Đurađ Branković in the eye and weigh the man’s soul as best he could. The success of the crusade might very well depend on it.
With that thought, Sigismund made his way back to his command tent to snatch a few hours’ rest. Smederevo was only a day’s march further downriver. Soon, diplomacy and celebration would intermingle in that fortress, and the next phase of this journey would begin.
Smederevo, Serbia, A Wedding Alliance.
The fortress city of Smederevo rose from the banks of the Danube like a great stone crown, its walls new and imposing. As Sigismund’s host approached on a bright afternoon, they could see the sunlight glinting off countless merlons and towers. Banners bearing the double-headed eagle of Serbia fluttered from the ramparts alongside the standards of House Branković. Beyond the outer wall, the spires of churches and the peaked roofs of halls hinted at the bustling court within. To many of the crusaders, it was an awe-inspiring sight, a Christian stronghold on the very frontier of Ottoman power, proudly defiant.
Sigismund led a contingent of his nobles and knights across the wide moat via a lowered drawbridge. The clatter of hooves on wood resounded as they passed under the gatehouse. Lining the entry road stood Serbian honor guards in gleaming cuirasses, helmets adorned with horsetail plumes, presenting arms in salute. Townsfolk peered from balconies and lattice windows, eyes filled with curiosity and hope. Sigismund noted how well-kept the streets were, how orderly the reception. Đurađ Branković clearly wanted to make an excellent impression. The Emperor straightened in his saddle, projecting regal confidence though fatigue gnawed at him. His armor was freshly polished, and over it, he wore a purple mantle emblazoned with imperial gold. He would not appear the weary traveler; he would arrive like Charlemagne come to his borders.
At the inner courtyard, beneath the shadow of the Despot’s palace, Đurađ Branković himself stepped forward to greet his guests. The Despot was a stocky man in late middle age, his dark hair and beard neatly groomed, threads of silver glinting in both. He wore a rich garment of crimson silk and a collar of jewels befitting a man who navigated between great powers. When Sigismund dismounted, wincing only slightly as his feet touched ground, Đurađ moved with surprising agility to embrace him.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Branković exclaimed, arms wide. “Welcome to Smederevo! God has blessed us this day to witness the union of our families and the forging of our alliance.” The two men embraced loosely, a polite formality more than a true hug. Sigismund felt the Despot’s arms; they were thick and strong. Đurađ was shorter than Sigismund by a head, but broad-chested. Stepping back, the Despot inclined into a deep bow appropriate for a vassal to an emperor, though Sigismund noticed the gesture had just a hint of theatrical flourish.
“I am honored to stand in your halls at last, Despot Đurađ,” Sigismund replied warmly. “May this occasion herald much joy and victory for us both.” He then gestured to the tall young man at Đurađ’s side, Ulrich of Celje, the groom-to-be. Ulrich II was the son of Sigismund’s late friend and brother-in-law, and nephew to Queen Barbara; the family resemblance showed in his sharp features and confident stance. “And here is our prosperous bridegroom. God’s grace upon you, Count Ulrich, and upon your intended.”
Ulrich bowed to Sigismund and then to Đurađ in turn. “Your Majesty. Your Lordship. I am grateful beyond words for the welcome and for… for the lady Katarina’s hand.” At mention of his bride, Ulrich’s attempt at stoic nobility faltered into boyish nervousness. Sigismund suppressed a smile, Ulrich was a seasoned soldier, but clearly the prospect of marriage had him trembling more than any duel would.
Branković chuckled and clapped Ulrich on the back. “Katarina awaits inside, my boy, eager as a dove. But first, formalities.” He turned and barked a command. Servants hurried forth bearing trays of bread and salt, symbols of hospitality, which were presented to Sigismund and the high-born arrivals. A priest intoned a blessing in Church Slavonic, and both Sigismund and Đurađ crossed themselves piously.
Thus officially welcomed, the Crusaders and the Serbs mingled as the wedding celebrations commenced. For the remainder of that day and into the next, Smederevo was given over to feasting and festivity. Sigismund and his key lords were housed in the palace’s finest chambers, airy rooms with carved wooden balconies overlooking the Danube’s swirling waters. In the great hall, tables groaned under roasted meats, spiced stews, honey cakes, and fine wine poured freely. Serbian musicians played lively tunes on lyres and flutes, while Hungarian pipers and drummers answered in kind, creating a polyphony of East and West.
Sigismund sat at the high table during the wedding feast, with Đurađ on his right and Queen Irene, Đurađ’s elegant Byzantine-born wife, on his left. The Emperor observed every detail with acute senses: the flavors of cinnamon and clove in the lamb stew, the aroma of resinous wine in his cup, the touch of the silk tablecloth under his scarred hands. These small pleasures he savored, even as his mind remained watchful. All around, Serbian boyars and Hungarian nobles intermingled, trading toasts in Latin and Slavonic. A dozen different conversations murmured at once, yet Sigismund could pick out tones- excitement, curiosity, a few undertones of mistrust quickly masked by forced laughter.
The bride Katarina Branković and groom Ulrich sat two seats down, radiant and flush-cheeked. Katarina, a dark-haired beauty not yet twenty, wore an ornate gown of blue damask, a heavy Orthodox cross at her bosom. She was graciously quiet, as expected of a noble bride, but Sigismund noticed her eyes often darting toward her father, watching his cues. She’s been schooled well in politics, he thought, not unkindly. Ulrich, for his part, looked both proud and dazed, cup never far from his lips as well-wishers toasted him repeatedly.
Between bites of spiced carp, Sigismund leaned to Đurađ and spoke softly. “You have outdone yourself with these celebrations, old friend. It is no small feat to keep both our peoples heartily fed and drunk.” He raised his goblet slightly in salute.
Đurađ chuckled, the gold and rubies on his fingers flashing as he gestured expansively. “Ah, but when a man marries off a beloved daughter, Emperor, he spares no expense. Besides, it’s a rare joy to host comrades rather than invaders within these walls.”
That earned a genuine laugh from Sigismund. “I can drink to that.” They clinked cups. The Emperor felt warmth spread in his belly, the wine here was strong. He paced himself carefully; tonight was not a night to lose one’s wits.
As a course of stewed fruits was cleared, a troupe of dancers took the floor, Serbian youths performing a kolo circle dance, hands linked as they stepped and spun in rhythm. Their boots thumped on the flagstones, drawing claps from the audience. Sigismund watched with a smile, then caught Đurađ studying him from the corner of his eye. The Despot’s expression in that unguarded moment was enigmatic, a mix of contentment and calculation. Sigismund recognized it; he wore that same look at times. He’s measuring me even as I measure him, Sigismund realized. The two rulers turned to each other almost in the same instant.
Đurađ lowered his voice under the cover of the music. “Your Majesty appears pleased. I trust the journey from Buda was not too onerous?”
“Not with the welcome awaiting us,” Sigismund answered lightly. “My men already sing the praises of Serbian hospitality. I must caution them not to grow too fond of your wine, else they’ll never leave.”
Branković grinned. “Let them enjoy. They’ll have their fill of hardships soon, no doubt.” He took a slow sip from his goblet, then added, “We are at your service for the march south. My scouts bring word that the road to Niš is clear for now. No signs of Ottoman mustering nearby.”
Sigismund nodded, appreciating the information. “Good. We should depart before that changes. Two days hence, perhaps, once the wedding rites are fully concluded and your troops prepared?” He phrased it gently as a suggestion, though it was in fact a timeline he very much wanted. He could ill afford to let this army sit idle in revelry.
Đurađ tapped a finger on the table, thinking. “Two days. Yes, that can be done.” His eyes swept the hall, briefly scanning for prying ears. His tone turned wry. “I daresay many here will be nursing sore heads when the war drums start beating. But better a swift departure than lingering for the Sultan’s spies.”
“Indeed,” Sigismund said, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin. He cast a discreet glance around the hall, where laughter and song echoed beneath the high vaulted ceiling. “Your caution does you credit. Let us speak of sensitive matters in private.”
Đurađ allowed a thin smile. “Agreed. But for now, let us enjoy the celebrations.”
Two Old Lions Confer
On the morning after the wedding festivities, before the sun climbed high, Sigismund and Đurađ Branković met in a private solar atop Smederevo’s keep. It was a modest chamber by imperial standards, stone-walled and sparsely decorated save for shelves of manuscripts and a single painted icon of Christ Pantocrator watching from one corner. A brazier burned fragrant cedar to ward off the early chill. Here, the two men could speak plainly.
They were a study in contrasts as they settled into high-backed chairs by a small table: Sigismund in austere travel clothes of black wool, face lined by years and a poorly slept night; Đurađ in a fur-trimmed robe of deep green, eyes sharper than his genial smiles of yesterday. The Emperor felt a kinship in those eyes, he knew his own could turn steely in council after playing the jovial host in public.
Now, with cups of warm spiced wine before them, Đurađ’s preferred morning drink, gently infused with cloves and a hint of honey, the niceties fell away.
Đurađ began, folding his hands. “Your Majesty, first let me thank you again for honoring my house with your presence. Katarina and Ulrich’s union is all the stronger for it.”
Sigismund inclined his head. “It was my pleasure. A rare bit of joy in these dark times.”
There was a brief silence, comfortable enough, as they sipped the wine. Sigismund decided to be direct. “We should speak of our next steps, Đurađ. The crusade.”
“Indeed.” The Despot set down his cup. “I have assembled four thousand of my own soldiers to accompany the crusade. Cavalry and infantry. Not as many as I’d wish, but I’ve left garrisons to hold my fortresses should Murad attack while we’re in the field.”
Sigismund mentally compared that number to what he’d brought. “Four thousand good men are worth ten thousand unwilling. I appreciate the commitment.” He paused. “When Murad learns that you ride with me, under the Cross… he will consider it outright rebellion.”
Đurađ spread his hands, a faint smile on his lips. “To him, perhaps. Officially, I will claim I’m merely escorting a friend through my territory, I haven’t declared war, after all. Though that pretense will last only until the first engagement, I know.” He sighed, and for a moment the mask slipped; Sigismund saw worry in the downturn of his mouth. “Once swords clash, there’s no hiding where we stand.”
The Emperor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Are you prepared for that moment? Truly? Once blood is spilled, you cross a point of no return with the Turk.”
Đurađ’s jaw tightened. “I am.” He drew a breath. “If I must gamble on either you or Murad, Sigismund, I’d rather cast my lot with a fellow Christian, even if it’s the riskier choice. At least honor stands a chance on this side.”
Sigismund was struck by the quiet fervor in Đurađ’s tone. Perhaps the man was sincere, or had convinced himself so.
Author’s Note:
In 1434, Đurađ Branković ruled Serbia as a vassal to both the Kingdom of Hungary and the Ottoman Empire. To Hungary, he owed fealty; to the Ottomans, he paid tribute. In April 1434, he married his daughter Katarina to Ulrich II of Celje, a powerful Hungarian noble. Just a year later, in 1435, he married another daughter, Mara, to Sultan Murad II of the Ottoman Empire. These marriages were not just family matters, they were acts of political survival.
Đurađ was walking a fine line, and doing everything he could to keep from falling off.
Comments
Wen L.
Could he be using war surplus from prior stocks to fit an army. Wouldn't be the first time a medieval army or commander uses older equipment to outfit an army in order to make up for lack of supplies, hence why logistic chains become so important to modern armed forces. Since the fall of Roman Empire, very few armies or commanders in European engagements had uniformed battle equipment (Hollywood portrayal of uniform troops charging at other uniform troops are fantasy for what they could supply at the time without standards, state controlled armorers, and uniform techniques). I'm curious, what's the advantage or disadvantage of Great Helm for these battles against Turkish forces? Protection? Visibility? Range of movement?
Pearl of the Orient
http://myarmoury.com/images/features/pic_feature_ger_gothic.gif This is typical Germans' Gothic Plate of the 1430s onwards
Pearl of the Orient
This is odd. As Emperor, Sigismund would have access to the most advanced plate armor and had Gothic, Milanese and French plate. The Great helm became obsolete 60 years beforehand and is by 1430 only seen very rarely in tourneys.
