THE IMPALER'S WIFE

20

"I just learned that Matthias's tax reforms caused Wallachian farmers to riot."

"Do not trouble yourself with the poor's problems," I purr.

In a blink, his eyes harden, and he drops my hand. "It is best you understand a few simple truths, PrincessIlona. Kings like your cousin neither understand nor care that for the poor a single coin of tax one day means no food the next. Have you ever gone without food?"

"No, my lord." Ignorance heats my cheeks. Ashamed, I survey the tables laden with trenchers of meat, vegetables, and fruit.

"Then you do not understand the poor's suffering. Kings levy taxes and dispense justice on a whim, and yet a king's way of life depends on the people he burdens most. Do you know any destitute folk, my lady?"

"Only the servants."

"They are fortunate. Always fed. Their beds beneath a sturdy roof. I speak of the baser workers, Ilona. You know them, just not their names. The farmer whose wheat made this bread, the child hewing wood for your fire, the young man cutting stones for the castle—his grandfather having laid its foundation—the maiden sweeping the cathedral steps. The nobility are the real strigoi of the land—they suck their people's lifeblood. The noble class—what an ironic name—are worse than common thieves, worse than the beggar woman with a never-aging babe at her breast, worse than the gypsies telling happy fortunes for coin. You can outrun, outwit, or fight these low types but you cannot evade the lords who rape their lands and—" Vlad frowns and shakes his head. "Forgive me, I've upset you."

I stop gnawing on my lip. "I never thought about it that way. Your righteous anger makes me love you even more."

The emeralds in his eyes melt into verdant pools of affection. "Either you are a crafty flatterer or the most perfect wife."

"I will be whatever is required."

Vlad bursts out laughing. He lifts a quail off the platter, rips it apart, and offers me a choice piece of flesh. "Oh, to be that bird on which your lips nibble," he says when I pull off a morsel.

At the appointed hour and after much foolery, good wishes, and prayers, we leave for Vlad's chambers. Our mansion in Pest—King Matthias's wedding present—is still noisy and dusty with hammering carpenters.

Vlad's chambers are aglow with candles and fragrant with scattered rose petals. Plush furs cover the red velvet bed.

I stand transfixed. This is my first visit to his chambers. Will his belongings whisper his secrets? Vibrant Turkish rugs murmur of his admiration of Turkish artistry. The carved writing desk stacked with books and paper mumble his enjoyment of reading. The decorative chests and tables topped with jeweled coffers and sculptures confide his appreciation of beauty. I feel like I know him a little better.

"Bernádett will prepare me for bed." I nod toward my nightgown, delivered earlier and folded on the table.

"Not tonight. Modesty in not permitted in my bedroom." Vlad pushes my nightgown off the table then stands in front of the blazing hearth. "Come, wife."

I set my hand over my fluttering stomach and recall Aunt Erzsébet's advice to drink lots of wine and lie on my back.

Vlad pulls me close, then circles around me and sprinkles kisses on the nape of my neck. Shivers shimmy down my spine. He removes the headscarf signifying my new marital status and uncoils my braids.

"Do you love me?" He lips brush against my shoulder.

"Heart, mind, and soul." My skin prickles under his touch.