The Prince in Exile

Chapter 16

"Oh, you poor sweet girl." Erzsebet pulled her into an embrace–taking care that her sodden face go over a shoulder, rather than stain her gown or mantle–and rubbed slow circles on her back. Even as love and pity coursed through her, Erzsebet could not quiet the cruel cynical part of her mind.

Would he still marry you if you were not the daughter of a duke? Would he want you for anything more than a night's throw in the hay, if it did not suit his political aims? The world is not a fit place for the love you crave, silly girl. Certainly not from a prince.

But she held her tongue, rubbing the girl's back until her sorrow diminished. With a shuddering gasp and a deep sigh, Gertrude sat upright. "Enough," she said quietly, as much to herself. "I'm being a fool. We shall be wed, and Tamas... They shall be nothing. To all eyes, nothing!"

Erzsebet answered with an encouraging nod. "Just so, dear, just so. Now come!" She patted the girl's leg and stood. "You are a right mess, but do not fret, we'll fix you up before the dance is called."

Still dabbing her eyes, Gertrude stood as well. "Of course. How ridiculous I am. Sophie! Sophie, where are–there you are. Come, help us, my face is all about–my hair too, I should guess. Come, bring the looking glass and my cosmetics box!" The servant bowed and scampered to her duties.

And so with care and artistry, every trace of Gertrude's trouble was cleaned, righted, or painted over. Once more she was radiant, the very picture of courtly charm. Thereafter they had little time to gossip or plan, for the watch was soon called, and they rose to return to the great hall.

While the varied adornments remained, the room was yet transfigured, made vast and cavernous by the absence of dining tables, a hollowing only partially undone by the joyful lilt of music. Strings and flutes, horns and drums, all told perhaps two dozen musicians, playing a gentle prelude of welcome for the returning guests. Andras already stood in the midst of the chamber, facing the main entrance as if waiting for a ship to come in, his lips a patient smile.

Gertrude made straight for her betrothed; Erzsebet followed, rather than being left to stand alone in the gathering crowd. As they approached his smile grew, somehow both broad and tender, grand and intimate. "My ladies," he said in greeting, though he reached only for Gertrude. She took his hand and he pulled her into his arms.

They were each comely in their own way, but here pressed together, Erzsebet could not help but see them as mismatched. Andras cut too striking an image in his black and scarlet; Gertrude almost faded from sight, so soft was her glamor, so gentle her presence. He was the truth of night beyond the firelight, and she was but a daydream beside him.

"Let us not delay," he said, warm and potent. "May I have this dance?"

"Certainly, my prince," Gertrude answered. Erzsebet winced–something in the girl's tone, or perhaps the prospect of being left behind for the picking of the dogs. Andras turned and gestured to the musicians, and the music quickly became lively, a rousing tune that the prince seized swiftly upon, and off he went with his betrothed, twin sprites on the night of midsummer, floating on the wind.

Erzsebet drifted her own way, off to the side of the hall where refreshments had been set. Even as she took her first sip of wine, she was accosted.

"My lady, you are a vision of glory," came a greeting from behind her. She turned to see a stranger, a man not much older than her, well-dressed in a silver-gray tunic, though plain of face. "I am Istvan, of the kindred of Monoszlo. I would be honored to have this dance." He extended a steady hand, oddly slender for a man. Sizing him up, he seemed of mild temper, and in his gaze was none of the hunger she had seen among some of the other men–if dance she must, a man like this was fine enough. Over his shoulder she spied spiteful glares, all cursing this Istvan for his promptness, ready to pounce should she refuse him.