Following the supper with the princess, Herlinde had the good sense not to press when Erzsebet returned to her apartments, but the maid's impatience was hardly subtle. Her voice took on a strange bright quality as she helped Erzsebet undress, and her every sentence seemed to trail off into the unsaid.
They moved to the bathroom, already steamy, and set to work washing her hair. Erzsebet tried to relax beneath the maid's ministrations, but as the girl's fingers worked through her tangles, the motions distracted and careless, at last she could suffer no longer. "You wish to speak," she said flatly, and at once the fingers stopped. "Go on then."
"Apologies, my lady," she said, clearly embarrassed–as she ought to be. "I only wondered how your conversation with the princess went."
"It was lovely," Erzsebet answered. In vain she waited, hoping against hope that such an answer would suffice, but of course the maid's fingers kept still. "The princess was quite candid with her thoughts on the lady Gertrude," she eventually added, "and I am inclined to trust her judgment."
"Then you'll speak with her?" Herlinde could not keep the excitement from her tone, and neither could Erzsebet keep the rebuke from hers.
"That is for me to decide," she replied, "as it is for me to decide whom I might inform of my decision. If I need aught from you, Herlinde, I will so inform you. Until then, recall your station."
There was a brief silence before the maid meekly answered, "Yes, my lady. Apologies, my lady." She set back to her work with better care, and Erzsebet at last could relax into her thoughts.
She regretted her harshness upon the girl, but she had far too much to consider already without having to deal with a presumptuous servant. Indeed, her picture of Gertrude had become clearer, but that had not made clear her path forward. A gentle soul, an honest woman–that honesty might well see her spilling Erzsebet's secrets, her gentleness blinding her to the consequences. If no one else, she seemed likely to tell the prince, and while Erzsebet guessed he would keep her secret well, perhaps even lend her aid, she would still be sullied in his eyes.
Gertrude might as well be the purest woman alive, but Erzsebet was not. Her aims did not align well with purity; there could be no trust between them.
That settled, she could at least focus now on what she would do next. She needed some way to see a doctor outside of the castle, without drawing too much attention from the court. She could not send Herlinde, of course; one of her other servants might serve, but she knew even less of their characters, and they were all chosen for their station by Gertrude.
Perhaps Margit would be willing to help her, despite her suspicions–that boy Iljko might know the city well enough to see her to a reputable doctor, safely and unnoticed. The princess cared for Andras, but would she care for him to know of her possible pregnancy? Erzsebet doubted that the woman would be scandalized by a premarital dalliance–indeed, with how she treated her own marriages, past and forthcoming, it was hard to imagine that she cared much at all for the sanctity of matrimony.
But the prince surely did–and his aunt, knowing this, might tell him for that reason alone.
All that night her mind ran across the members of the court, searching for one that might be trusted. But this was a court of a rebel prince–they were all of them political exiles, stained with their association to Andras, which meant they had nowhere else to set their loyalty, save at his feet. They all served him, and any who might be persuaded to betray his interests would just as soon run to the palatine as to Erzsebet's aid.
Two more anxious days and two more sleepless nights followed. Each morning began with a desperate hope, checking if her monthly guest had arrived but lately, only to be dashed–then the rest of the day spent in plots and calculations. If she could seduce one of the men of the court, he might well see her to a doctor without betraying her to the prince–if he was enough of a fool, she could convince him that her trouble was private, unworthy of his consideration, some womanly ill–but then she would be left with a fool mooning over her, and would need either to break his heart or string him along, either of which might make its way back to the prince. If he was a fool, the doctor might not be safe, but if he was too clever he might figure out what ailed her...
And so the days passed, her thoughts mired in endless twisting cycles, hopeless–until the choice was made for her.
On the third morning, after taking her breakfast alone in her parlor, she was stricken by a knock at the door. "Lady Erzsebet?" came a cautious prying voice. "It is Gertrude. May I come in?"
She gave a quiet sigh, steadying herself. "Of course, come, come," she called back.
Gertrude's dress was reserved this morning, her gown a muted green, though as always the ruby at her neck was a beacon. She met Erzsebet's look with some meekness, sorry to intrude, sorrier for the imposition to come. "I hope the morning finds you well, Lady Erzsebet."
"Well enough," she answered. "You needn't trouble yourself with titles–I think we are past that, do you not?"
Her lips curved into a dainty demure smile. "It pleases me to hear that, Erzsebet. I confess I have felt a... distance, between us, these past few days, and I did not want to overstep."
"No, no–I have been in poor health," Erzsebet explained, trying to sound apologetic. "I have been distant from everyone, do not take it on yourself."
Again the girl's face brightened. "You should have some fresh air–cooped up here, no wonder you are ailing. It is a beautiful day. Would you walk with me?"
Her first instinct was to refuse, to find some able excuse and send her away, but looking into that sweet expectant face, she hesitated. She had opened her windows after waking, and indeed the breeze was pleasant, a scent of summer come early upon it. "That sounds like a wonderful idea," Erzsebet said, half to her own surprise. "Shall we go now?"
Now Gertrude's eyes fairly sparkled, so bright was her glee. "Yes, if you are ready. Yes, yes!"
And so they made their way off the castle grounds, a pair of knights as escort, keeping well back out of earshot. The day was as fine as promised, the sun warm and bright, the breeze rising just as the skin needed cooling. Gertrude led the way down a footpath she seemed to know well, leading down to the Drava river. Erzsebet had known of the river, had seen it in the distance from the castle, but had never come any closer. Perhaps it reminded her too much of the Duna–indeed, as it flowed east, it was likely a tributary. Looking now upon it, though, she found little resemblance.
The Drava was smaller by far–a wide river, true, and deep, but yet hardly did it compare to the Duna. It was also more exploited by men, with water-wheels set along the water's edge, fishermen on boats and sat upon the steep banks. A barge of lumber floated past as they turned to walk upstream, the shouts of the bargemen rumbling coarse in the Croatian tongue. The Duna had been wild, primal, untameable; the Drava had little of its potency.
Perhaps it was for the best: Erzsebet had ever been uneasy looking upon the Duna, yet here she felt no different than if she walked past a busy market or a farmer's field. There was a measure of peace in the bustle, for despite their finery, she and Gertrude were given hardly a second glance as they strolled along. One always felt watched beside the Duna, even when alone.
Amidst the calls of workmen and the songs of birds, Gertrude and Erzebet walked abreast, a pleasant silence between them as they each enjoyed the day. At least, so it seemed to Erzsebet–until Gertrude raised her stammering voice, and it became clear she had been working up the nerve to speak. "There is something..." she began, her voice low despite the space and clamor around them. "Something I wanted to... discuss."
A dozen guesses as to the topic sprang to Erzsebet's mind, none of them pleasant to consider. "Oh?" she replied, keeping her disquiet beneath her bonnet. "Please, Gertrude, speak freely."
She sighed. "I hope you do not take it poorly, but... Well, I have been told of your... predicament."
Terror and outrage. Twin beasts rose within her, one demanding she cringe and hide, the other that she lash out. At least their conflict lent a balance to her answer, her voice tight but steady. "My predicament?"
"That you are... delayed," Gertrude answered, even quieter. "In your flow."
"And how came you to learn this?" No, her anger wouldn't let her play that game. "Nevermind–Herlinde ran to tell you. You've been spying on me, have you? How kind, to grant me servants from your own household! Are their reports nightly, I wonder, or every other day?"
"It's not like that, Erzsebet, I swear it!" Her desperation gave wind to her voice, but it did not last. Solemnly, quietly, she added, "By the Lord God's holy name, I have not ordered any servant to spy on you, nor to report back to me. There have been no reports, save last night, when Herlinde came to me distraught that you suffered alone, and would not seek my help."
It was hard to countenance this as a mere act; with all she had seen and heard of Gertrude, all the love and pain in her expression, Erzsebet could only think she spoke true–but that did not absolve her. "It was not her place," she spat, "and neither is it yours. If I wished for help, I would have come to you."
"And why didn't you?" The bite, the anger, came as a sudden shock. The honey on her tongue had turned to acid; for once, Gertrude blazed. "Why did you do nothing, sit alone and sulk–for days, Herlinde said! Do you not know how dangerous it can be? The risks–by God, how could you be so foolish? Have you even seen a physicker?"
"Not yet," Erzsebet admitted. She had not imagined she would be so quickly on the back foot, and now struggled to deflect Gertrude's attack. "The risks are few this early–my mother sought care only a month after she suspected–"
Gertrude's look cut her short, the girl's widened eyes full of such horror as to still all thought. "You–oh." She dropped her gaze, suddenly abashed. "I did not realize. I'm sorry–I should not have spoken like that."
All her outrage had fled, driven out by confusion. "What do you mean? Didn't realize–what?"
Eyes downcast, voice barely audible. "That you meant to keep it."
Erzsebet stopped dead. The bustle carried on around her, the river still lapped at the banks, men still shouted to one another. Gertrude had stopped as well, and now looked at her with such care, such pain.
She hadn't thought–not once–what she meant to do with it. She had never allowed herself to consider it. She needed to find a doctor–for what? To confirm the pregnancy, and then–nothing. Her mind had never ventured any further.
"I–" she began, but found her throat closing. She could only stare, mouth opening and closing uselessly. What did she want?
"You don't know," Gertrude whispered, and stepped towards her.
Erzsebet flinched as arms wrapped around her, as she was pulled against the other woman, and there was held. Frozen with shock–then melting, sinking, releasing, falling into the embrace.
"You've been so alone," Gertrude murmured, a catch in her throat. "I'm sorry I couldn't make you feel welcome. I'm sorry you couldn't trust me."
And Erzsebet could only cry. Part of her raged still within her, shrieking that this was all a ruse, that Gertrude would betray her, that she could not afford such weakness–but she was tired, so tired. With every tear that fell, with every hitching muffled sob, the voice grew quieter, more distant, until at last it was drowned.
"I'm so sorry," Gertrude said again, and it was the only thing Erzsebet could hear.