They hurried for Gertrude's parlor, though Erzsebet needed to refuse a half-dozen invitations along the way. Even Mog had the audacity to offer his solar, despite the darts of his wife's glare needling his back. Only once they had escaped the hall were they free to walk unhindered to their privacy.
"You could have gone with one of them," Gertrude said as they approached the door to her apartments. "I wouldn't mind–"
"I would," Erzsebet replied. "I feel like I've been holding my breath all night; only out of sight will I be able to exhale."
Genuine concern filled Gertrude's expression. She hastened to open the door and let Erzsebet through, then pulled it shut behind them. "Are you well?" she asked. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"Oh, sweet girl," said Erzsebet, turning to put hands on her arms. "Nothing happened–nothing I could not handle, anyway. Events like this are a drain on me, that's all: keeping the proper face for so long, listening politely to their prattle. I just needed reprieve."
"Ah." Relief flooded Gertrude's face, followed by a questioning arch of brow. "But you seemed to get on rather well with the Hont-Pazmany kinsmen. Was it all truly such misery for you?"
"Pah!" Erzsebet released her hold on Gertrude, spinning away to march off and settle atop the couch. "I admit, they are not so bad. Sandor is a jester, but not so much a fool as I had thought. Marton, too, had his moments–but enough of my night. What ails you, dear?"
"Me?" she asked, surprised. "Why, I'm right as rain. Nights like this are manna to me."
Erzsebet frowned. "Something bothered you," she replied. "Just after the toast, when the prince thanked Tamas–and called him 'Bagoas.' What was that?"
Her expression went slack, then darkened, and she sighed. "I had hoped no one noticed." She shuffled over towards the couch, dropping to sit next to Erzsebet.
"Well? Speak to me, Gertrude."
Primly she put her hands together in her lap, then took a steadying breath. "It is nothing, truly, just some silliness of my heart's making."
"Then speak of it," Erzsebet implored, "that you might laugh together with me, rather than sulk alone."
"I'm not sulking," Gertrude huffed. After another sigh, she explained. "It's only–they have something, the pair of them. Something... intimate."
Erzsebet only barely stifled her gasp. "The prince and Tamas? They are–as the Greeks?"
Gertrude shook her head frantically. "No–I don't know! Certainly don't say that to anyone. I know only that they are close, that they share something, apart from the other men."
Still rocked by the revelation, Erzsebet sat in thought for a moment. "Well," she eventually said, venturing softly with her words, "you told me that Andras was wont to roam, and that you had made your peace with it."
"I have!" There was a hitch in her voice, a quiver in her lips. "Truly! If it was another woman, it would not bother me–I know he has chosen me, that we are to be wed, and so every affair is just a dalliance, just a pastime for him."
"Then why is Tamas any different?"
"Because he's a man!" Gertrude cried. "What they share–whatever it is, it's beyond my touch! I can't compare, can't judge where I stand against it." Tears began to flow, streaking her makeup; Erzsebet handed the girl a kerchief, which she put to swift use. "I don't know, I just don't know..."
"Don't know what?" Erzsebet asked. Gently she put her hand on the girl's back, remembering the comfort such contact had been.
"If they could be..." She struggled through tearful breaths. "If men could–if the world allowed them to be–together..." She cleared her throat, brought her streaking eyes to Erzsebet. "Would he still marry me?"
"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.
"You are kind," she answered, gracing him with a demure smile, then taking his hand. "Let's–though I warn you, I have not danced for some time."
"Not to worry, my lady," he replied with smooth courtesy. "Allow me to lead."
Indeed, the man had more than his share of grace. Slender though his hands were, they were strong and sure, guiding her gently into the current of song. Though a lively tune, somehow Istvan made their dance a patient, flowing thing, never needing to rush to keep tempo, never straining to find a step. They moved as flowers in a stream, twirling at the behest of greater forces, moving without effort.
"You were right," Erzsebet murmured quietly as they carried on.
He did not falter as he asked, "About what?"
"That I need not worry," she answered. "You are as fine a dancer as I have known."
"You are kind to say so, my lady–though it means you have yet to dance with my brother."
She looked up at him. His face was indeed unremarkable, save in one respect: he had beautiful dark eyes, thick-lashed like a girl or a moor–and familiar. "Your brother," she repeated. "Have I met him?"
"You have, my lady. He sat quite near you at the banquet."
"Tamas!" she cried, for in an instant the resemblance had resolved, become uncanny. How had she not seen it? "I did not know he had a brother."
Istvan smiled a rueful smile. "He has two, in fact, though neither of us are of any note in this court–or any other."
"How came that to be?" Erzsebet asked, playing her innocence while thanking her good fortune. A question raised but a watch prior, and here the answer might be served to her on a platter. "I had heard the prince honored your father for his loyalty. Why then has only one son risen to prominence?"
"The prince has been generous with all of us," Istvan said, "well beyond any debt owed our father. As for Tamas' ascension, that is owed solely to his character. He has always drawn others in, a lodestone for a certain type of man–and as it happens, the prince in particular is well-disposed to him."
"Oh?" Erzsebet asked, trying to keep light her tone despite her prying. "How so?"
He scoffed. "Their old books, their relics. Every time I come to visit the court I must hear about Ptolemy's blade, come marvel at the rusted scrap. Who decorates a ball with weaponry? Absurd!"
Erzsebet glanced back at the hearth's mantel, where again she saw in the place of honor the ancient cragged sword. "I confess," she said, "though I know him hardly at all, I hadn't pegged your brother for an historian."
Istvan snorted. "He is not–merely a romantic. He finds beauty in the past, relishes the works of Homer and Pindar. It seems that is enough to share with the prince, who has more... material interests."
"I see." She would have questioned further but the song was ending. Istvan drew them to a halt, bowed with her hand yet held.
"Thank you, my lady," he said as he straightened, meeting her gaze once more. Something in his eyes held her, as if he had far, far more to say. What had brought him to her in the first place? He'd made no hint of amorous intentions, had answered all her questions without asking any of his own. Could it be he simply wished to dance? That look said otherwise, and yet off he went without another word.
As swiftly as he left, another took his place, and the sight of him was far more distressing. "Come, Lady Erzsebet," said Mog, wrapping an arm around her waist, "this next dance is mine. Let me show you how a real man moves, after that preening wandought took you prancing around the hall!"
Her protests went unheeded, drowned by his grunting exertions as he began leading her on a far less graceful course. Erzsebet could hardly keep the grimace from her face–indeed it seemed before long she had failed in even that pretense. "I know why you resist me," he said between grunts, his hand uncommonly warm on her hip.
"I–" she began to deny, but swiftly caught herself. "What do you mean?"
"You show me no affection," he explained. "You heed not my words. But I understand–I am married, and you would not be known as a temptress."
There could be no answer, so far had he roamed: fully out of the realms of truth and lie, into the land of delusion. Crimson were his cheeks and nose, and an odd glaze covered his eyes, but they were yet tight in watching her. His touch, his face, his intimations–Erzsebet was hexed into placid silence.
"But I have a secret to share," he went on, oblivious of her petrification. He leaned close, pressing himself against her, whispering wetly in her ear. "I will not be married much longer. I shall have the prince petition the church to annul the marriage. I've a lineage chart proving that we are too closely related, she and I. By year's end, I shall be a free man–though technically, the marriage is false even now. Even this night, I am free to–"
Any more and her meal was liable to come back up. "Excuse me, please," she muttered as she pushed away, the movement sudden enough to slip his grasp. With haste she fled the dance floor, Mog sputtering as she went. Swerving to avoid another couple, she found her way back to the refreshments, and there drank deeply to clear the wretched taste from her mouth.
The night went on, and Erzsebet danced with partners of varying skill and charm–blessedly, Mog did not venture back to her. She suffered through the other men, dancing with Sandor and Marton both, among others of lesser note. None were too unpleasant, but the only joy to be had was when Gertrude called for a carole. The guests then formed up in a huge circle, Gertrude on Erzsebet's left and an unknown noblewoman on her right. The circle turned to the left, the links of their clasped hands raising and lowering with the music, Gertrude laughing all the while, and soon enough Erzsebet found herself laughing as well. Even as the carole ended and the circle came apart, Gertrude held her hand and together they danced on through the next song, a mirth so pure that it needed no source or explanation.
They might have danced on, but at the song's closing, the music fell away. Erzsebet looked up to the band to see the prince speaking close to one of the players, then stepping away, raising his hands to his guests.
"My lords and ladies," he called, "I have a rare treat for you this evening." A titter of excitement ran through the crowd. "I have brought to you a genuine Occitan troubadour. Student of the Master himself, Bernart de Ventadorn, I give you: Peire de Corrèze!"
The musician Andras had been speaking to stepped forward, a viola in one hand, his cap in the other. He bowed politely to his audience, looking perhaps a little meek under the attention, and then returned the cap to his head and turned back to the prince, expectant. Andras did not keep him waiting long.
"He shall now sing for us one of his teacher's most lauded verses," the prince announced. "Heed the words, if you've the heart, but beware! For this is a song of deep passion. The cynical and the heartless might find themselves cold, shorn of their guarding hides for listening..." With a stageplayer's flair his shoulders dropped, his voice grew soft and tender. "And the romantics, those of full heart–you might find yourselves in tears, as the muses sing your own spirit back to you. The gentle, the lovers–find now one who might hold you, and share in this dance."
All through the evening, the prince had kept his distance. They had hardly spoken during dinner, and since rising from that table, their paths had crossed only to pass Gertrude between them. Yet now he strode towards her, flame and shadow, darkness and light, walking bold past his betrothed to stand before her.
"My lady Erzsebet," he said, his hand outstretched. "Would you honor me?"