He stood tall in the fore of her parlor, looking much as he had at the head of his court: in command, in control, the master of his grounds. Belatedly, a voice within her noted that this was his parlor in truth, not hers, but she granted that seditious thought no sway in her bearing.
"Your Highness," she said, letting a touch more rebuke into her tone than suited her station. "The hour is late. A man ought not barge into a lady's room–even a prince."
He gave her a shameless smile. "One thing you must learn, my lady, is that I care not a whit for the norms of the many." A bold step towards her, and there he stopped–not out of propriety, but as if he were caught by the sight of her. His eyes did not roam, did not drift down to her hardly covered body, and yet he drank her full image all the same. "I care only for people," he went on. "A person is real. 'The Many' is a fiction, and its strictures serve but a few."
He turned from her then, walking over to a small side table, where a bottle of wine and two glasses had been set out–had they been there before? Erzsebet could not recall. "The norms say that my brother rules Croatia," he went on, filling a glass with wine that looked amber in the firelight. "But it is I who governs here, my face upon their coins." Now the second glass, without so much as a look towards her. "The norms say that a man should not call upon a lady in the late evening, but I care only what you have to say." Glasses in hand he faced her once more, striding over. "If you ask me to leave," he said as he offered the glass, "I shall do so at once, without complaint–but leave the opinions of the preening masses out of it."
Her eyes dropped to the glass, then rose again to him. So close, she had the full sense of his height–in the hall he had seemed raised, standing atop a social dais, but now she saw that even alone he towered over her. She would not flinch from him, but neither would she abide his looming–at least, not yet. "What of the lady Gertrude?" she asked.
That seemed to unbalance him, the first ripple in his demeanor. "What of her?"
"You care not what the masses think, but do you care for her?" Erzsebet was not something to be lightly won and discarded. No simple pastime, no dalliance; she would train him from the start, that if he wished to have her, he would need to renounce all other pursuits. "Would your betrothed approve of such a visit?"
He smiled, his manner once more smooth and sure. "It pleases me to see you become such fast allies," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "But yes, she would approve of my coming here."
Erzsebet arched a brow. "I find that hard to believe."
"Another thing you must learn, my lady: I will never lie to you."
"How honorable," she muttered, managing to keep herself from rolling her eyes.
The prince shook his head, the waves of his dark hair swaying. "Honesty is not a sign of honor, my lady, but of strength. Only the weak need to lie, that they might steal that which they lack the strength to fairly win."
"Is that so?" she asked. Still he held the glass towards her, so steady that no line marred the wine's face, a mirror of bronze. Still she did not reach for it. "But you have strength enough? You need never deceive?"
"Just so, my lady," he answered. "All I want, I have–or will have, in time." There was something dangerous in that smile, something feral. She thought of a wolf, though she had never seen one–that canine grin which presaged a darker pleasure.
In time, he would have her. In time, he would have the kingdom–thus did his eyes promise. What did hers say?
With a matching smile, she took the glass from his hand. She raised it, as did he, and together they drank. Richly perfumed, austere, with a hint of clove. A finer vintage by far than what Gertrude had offered–the prince had sent it personally, no doubt. They stood in silence, Andras watching her, she watching him, until as one they drank again. Warmth was spreading outward from her core, suffusing her limbs, loosening them, until she felt the blood running through her joints, blooming in her face. She had not drunk so much–perhaps what she'd had at dinner, and the warmth of the bath–
"Are the rooms to your liking, my lady?" asked the prince. For the first time, she caught his gaze as it flickered down to the sheer chemise–and what it covered. Wolfish greed in that look, tempered by something more refined. His was not a crude desire, at least not wholly.
"They are wonderful, Your Highness," she answered. With shock and some disgust, she found her body responding to his attention–no doubt owed to the wine, made all the more potent by her exhaustion. "I was just making ready to sleep when you arrived," she said with some force. "Did you need something from me?"
His gaze had returned to her face as she spoke, but even the way he marked her lips had her fighting against herself. Something in his bearing, his nearness, disquieted her; he reminded her, so daring and self-assured, of when she had first met the young Benedek.
At the very instant of the comparison, his spell was broken. She had seen the weakness that hid beneath Benedek's false front, the darkness and the terror lurking beneath his allure. The prince was doubtless the same; every devil, no matter how charming, was but a mask for the child within.
"Ah, well," he said, giving a wry smile, but she saw now just how farcical the whole encounter was. "Need? No. I came only to... see that you were comfortable. A late welcome, you might say."
"Oh, how kind," she replied pleasantly. Already the warmth was receding, draining away through the hole where her heart had been. "I am quite comfortable here, thank you. These accommodations alone are far too gracious of you–I would ask for nothing more."
"Are you certain? It would be my pleasure–"
She tipped up her glass, drinking the last with an air of casual conclusion. "Truly, Your Highness," she said after swallowing, "I appreciate the offer, but I want for nothing this night–save for a peaceful slumber."
He stared at her, and for the second time a crack showed in his demeanor. His eyes tightened, but not with anger. He bore not the look of a jilted suitor; no, he looked like a court mathematician, whose numbers had led him unexpectedly astray. What he had thought to be his domain had shifted beneath his feet; what he had seen as a pet had pecked his hand and flown the cage.
"Certainly, my lady," he eventually said. His tone carried no affront; the cracks had been swiftly painted over. "I will not delay your rest any longer." He finished his wine in a quick gulp, then held out his hand to her glass. She passed it to him with a smile, and now he looked upon her with nothing but courteous propriety. He inclined his head then turned from her, returning the glasses to their table, then made straight for the door, pushing it open before swiveling to look upon her again. There was nothing wolfish in his face; now something higher gleamed in his eyes, an intrigue, a human recognition. He was beginning to understand that he would never seize her, would never own her as a bauble, but that he might yet persuade her to stand beside him.
After a pair of heartbeats he was gone, the door shut in his place. Erzsebet let out a long breath, then turned towards the bedroom. This time it had been no lie: she was truly exhausted. She quickly performed her nightly ablutions, snuffed the candles and slid beneath the covers; the mattress was heavenly, the warmth and weight of the blankets divine.
She was clean, warm, and comfortable; she was well-fed and well-guarded; she had ably handled both the prince and his betrothed, laid solid grounds for her path forward. By all accounts, the night had gone as well as she could hope...
And yet she lay restless in the dark, an unyielding ache in her chest, a cringe and clench that she could not loosen. Her thoughts whirled, vicious fancies consuming her imagination. Her siblings captured crossing the Duna and brought before the palatine, made to watch their parents suffer all manner of degradation. Ilona forced to wed the younger Benedek–or, no, even worse, the palatine himself! Absurdity was no deterrent; she was caught in a storm of misery that cared nothing for reality. She had won a measure of peace, and her treacherous mind would not allow it.
She knew not how long she lay, prisoner to her cruel conjurations. At some point she slept, and far too soon after she woke. The sun was an unwelcome guest rousing her: she had forgotten to draw the curtains.
Long did she lay abed, hiding from the morning beneath thick covers, eyes screwed tight. She took brief comfort that no servant here would dare come tear the blankets from her, but that relief soured as she found herself missing old Cecilia, and wondering what had become of her. The thought of that kind old woman, somewhere in the castle on the night of the attack–why hadn't she come to the tower? Or had she been there, on one of the lower floors, and Erzsebet hadn't noticed? If she had been among the fleeing crowd, at her age...
With a violent shake Erzsebet flung the blankets aside and stood up, leaving the bed to its evil thoughts. With meticulous attention she made ready for the day: rinsing, powdering, rouging her face; brushing, arranging, pinning her hair. It would have been far quicker if she called a servant to help, but she still couldn't shake her unease of their touching her.
Long did she survey the wardrobe, for the few clothes she had purchased in Croatia were far outnumbered by the array of garments that had come stocked in the room. There was a statement to be made in refusing to wear Gertrude's gowns, but it seemed weak and petty. She had already worn the chemise, after all–and the gowns were gorgeous. She eventually chose a silk bliaut gironé of shimmering gray, trimmed with snow-white fur.
Only once before had she worn one of the french gowns, for the snug bodice had felt both restraining and exposing, and the sleeves were a constant hassle, hanging nearly to the floor. It was not easy to don the dress alone, but when she had finally wormed her way into it, she found the fit was nearly perfect. Indeed, in the looking glass she was pleased to see the pleated waist was more than flattering to her figure. She chose a fine silver girdle to wrap about her stomach, and after a moment of debate she took a mantle of pale rose about her shoulders. It was by no means cool enough to necessitate the cover, but after her beggarly appearance yesterday at court, it would be good to strike an image of nobility.
Once more she judged herself in the mirror: cosmetics to enhance her youth, a fitted gown to emphasize her figure, and a mantle to mark her station. It was posed, presumptuous–but every element had been provided by her generous host. One could hardly blame her choices; if they wanted a more reserved image, they should have stocked her wardrobe with habits, wimples and veils.
At last she was ready to venture forth. She clapped her hands, and there in a flash was Herlinde, looking just as she had the night prior. "Good morning, my lady," she said as she arrived, then froze at the sight of her, and with wide eyes exclaimed, "Du lieber Himmel! You look so beautiful, my lady. I wish you had called, though–I would have been happy to help you dress."
"Thank you, Herlinde," Erzsebet replied, enjoying the maid's shock. "Perhaps tomorrow I will do just that. As for today, however, I was wondering if I might break my fast with the prince. We had not the time last night to discuss what is to be done about my... situation."
It seemed the girl was still recovering, for she stared uncomprehending for a breath before answering. "Apologies, my lady, but the prince has already eaten. The Lady Gertrude, however–"
"Ah, that's fine," Erzsebet cut in smoothly. "I'm not yet hungry, anyway. I can speak with him before I eat."
The girl looked conflicted for a breath–indeed, her loyalties were clearly tangled. "Apologies, my lady," she repeated, "but the prince is quite busy this morning. I do not know when he would have time to see you."
"Well I suppose then it is your task to learn when he would have time," Erzsebet answered, a touch more harshly than she had intended. Softening her tone, she added, "What has him so busy this morning? Off on a hunting trip, or some such nonsense?"
Herlinde shook her head. "The prince does not hunt much these days, my lady. I believe he is meeting with an envoy of his brother."
"Oh," said Erzsebet, slightly abashed. "Well, I suppose I cannot blame him for that." A breath later she realized, and fighting to control the panic that would seize her throat, she asked, "His brother–it is a royal messenger, then?"
"Indeed, my lady," she answered blithely. "Despite their troubles, the king and the prince are in regular correspondence."
This was little comfort for Erzsebet, for she knew–she knew! A mere week after she arrived here in Varasd, when a royal messenger had already been to see the palatine...
He had tracked her down already.
"Are you well, my lady?" Herlinde asked. "You've gone white as bone!"
She gave a quick shake of her head, bringing herself out of her terror into action. "I'm fine, Herlinde, just hungry–suddenly, quite hungry. You said Gertrude would host me for breakfast?"
The maid, to her credit, recovered nearly as quickly. "Ah–yes, my lady, she would be happy to. Shall I lead you to her parlor?"
"If you please," said Erzsebet, stepping towards the young woman. "Oh, and Herlinde–might I ask a favor?" She laid a hand on the maid's shoulder. "Between us?"
Already uneasy with her closeness, the girl fairly quivered under her touch. "Of course, my lady," she managed. "Whatever you need."
"It is nothing scandalous," Erzsebet assured her, putting her other hand on her other shoulder, locking the girl into her gaze. "Only that, if anyone strange should come asking where I am, do not tell them. Lie, send them to my room, make an excuse–anywhere but Gertrude's parlor. Then you come directly to me, and let me know. Do you understand?"
Her eyes had widened with every word, but her tongue kept still.
"You said you would serve me, Herlinde," Erzsebet reminded her. "This I need, far more than your help getting dressed in the morning. I am a woman hunted–if you cannot see to my protection, I will have to find another servant who can."
Her tongue at last loosened, the girl stammered back, "M-my lady, the prince, he... His castle shall–it is nowhere safer than–"
"Perhaps it is so," Erzsebet allowed, "but you do not know the man who hunts me as I do. I had thought my father's castle was secure, and it was lost in a single night. Do this for me, Herlinde–for my peace of mind, if nothing else."
The maid gulped, nodded. "I shall, my lady."
"Good," said Erzsebet, squeezing her shoulders, then releasing her. "Then, let us go. Breakfast and Gertrude await."
"Yes, my lady." There was now no conflict in her eyes, no opposition in her loyalties. Just like that, the maid had been won–so fickle were the spies Gertrude had set upon her. Such confidence, such arrogance, so little they must think of her. Even in the midst of panic, Erzsebet had turned the circumstance to her favor...
But she could not relish the victory, for there were servants of a far more dangerous master stalking the castle halls.