I recoil from the carriage window, away from the garlic-laced voice, away from the dirt-ragged nails, away from the filth and stench of poverty. "I am not a princess."
"You will be." Dun-hued eyes glazed with madness, the hag cackles, and thumps her fist on the carriage before disappearing into the throng.
Aunt Orsulya dabs at the sweat beading above her lip with an embroidered linen handkerchief. "A gypsy." She waves her hand across her nose as though dispelling the odor of the poor. "I wonder how she eluded the royal guards?"
"I want to meet a gypsy." Margit unfurls her fingers and stares at her palm. "A courtier told me they predict the future by reading the lines in your hand."
"They're more likely to snatch off your rings." Aunt Orsulya sniffs with disapproval.
Margit tilts her head into mine, and whispers, "The gypsy is prophesying to the wrong sister. I will be a princess, not you."
"Pagans and infidels," continues Aunt Orsulya. "Doomed to wander the world for seven years for crimes against the Christian faith."
"Aunt Orsulya, you must not condemn an entire group of people." My voice tightens in my throat. "Anyway, if that were true then the gypsies' seven-year debt would have been paid hundreds of years ago."
Aunt Orsulya squints at me. "I do not appreciate your insolence, Ilona. Be mindful, excessive intellect in a maiden is not appealing to a man."
I cross my arms and look away.
"I don't care if gypsies are heathens," says Margit. "I want one to tell my future, my royal future."
"Only God knows your fate." Aunt Orsulya wipes away the sweat trickling from her heavy headpiece.
From my window seat I watch the troupe of acrobats bounding by, their joyful leaping and tumbling like a salve to Aunt Orsulya's hurtful comment.
The townsfolk stop to watch, blocking the street and waylaying the long line of royal litters, including ours. The acrobats take advantage of their captive noble audience. One colorfully dressed troupe member bows low. The second leaps on his back. A third, a nimble slight youth, springs onto his shoulders, shakes his head, jingling the bells on his striped hat.
"Long live King Matthias!" He shouts.
"Bravo!" Margit laughs and stretches her coin-filled hand through the window.
But it's not one of the acrobats who take it.
A young wench in a dirty shawl plucks the coin from Margit's hand. "Pain will be your pleasure, princess."
Margit jerks back, her hand clutching mine.
"Pay no attention to the wench." I give Margit's fingers a sympathetic squeeze.
"Not you, golden locks." The wench, flashing a crooked brown-toothed grin, aims her stony black eyes at me. "The dark-haired one."
The carriage lurches forward, the wench left behind. I scratch my palm while my heart hammers against my chest. Two mysterious and ominous prophecies in one day!
Do not seek the book. What book? Pain will be my pleasure? How horrible!
"I hate gypsies." Margit fluffs her skirt. "Such repulsive people."
"They do not have the benefit of our privileges," I remind her. "They do what they can to earn money. Anyway, she did not have the dark features of a gypsy." I smile despite the worry knotting in my belly. "I think she was just a mean spirited wench bent on having fun at our expense."
"Commoners should take a different road to the castle." Margit sniffs with superiority.
My mouth drops open. "Commoners are the lifeblood of Hungary. They are Hungary. Without them who would Matthias rule?" I turn to Aunt Orsulya in hopes she will scold Margit for her snobbishness.
Instead Aunt Orsulya presses her hand to her flower-embroidered bodice. "This is all most vexing, Ilona. You had two dreadful prophecies today." She takes several deep breaths. "It is a sign from God. I will say an extra rosary tonight. So should you, Ilona."
My hand slips into my dress pocket, my fingers curling around the smooth amber beads that Aunt Orsulya insists we keep on our person at all times. They never provide me the reassurance they give my aunt. "Maybe the prophecies were done in jest." I gesture to the window. "Look how happy everyone is."
"Two prophesies done in jest? I think not." Aunt Orsulya adjusts her hennin. "And even if they were, that type of fun is the work of Satan."
"I thought you said it was a sign from God." I puff out my frustration, shake my head, and try another tact. "How could that old woman—so feeble and bent her wits are gone—discern a princess from a gentlewoman? All her blurry eyes see is a grand carriage taking well-dressed ladies to the castle. To her ilk we are all princesses." I pat the space beside me. "If Margit had been sitting here she would have received the prophecy."
"And the warning about the book?" Aunt Orsulya pushes her hennin further back on her forehead. "What witty explanation do you have for that?"
I flitter my fingers across my knuckles while thinking. "It's a pagan's warning against the Bible."
Margit crosses her arms, dimples punctuating her smug grin. "What of the wench's prophesy just now about enjoying pain? That prophecy was for you, not me."
"Mmmm..." I brush my fingertips across my knuckles again, back and forth, back and forth. "She spoke the truth."
Aunt Orsulya clutches the gold cross at her neck and squeezes her eyes shut. "In nōmine Patris et Fīliī et Spīritūs Sānctī."
I gesture to Aunt Orsulya's new hennin, a towering beaded headpiece adorned with a waist length veil. "What's wrong with your new hennin?"
Aunt Orsulya opens her eyes and shifts the headdress back, which leaves a rosy indent in her forehead. "This style is heavy and pinches my skin."
I nod my head in sympathy. "It's painful and yet you get pleasure from its craftsmanship and elegance."
Margit claps her hands. "I receive pleasure from pain too! These sleeves," she lifts one arm, the silk cuffs dragging to her knees, "are bothersome."
"We all derive pleasure from pain." The knot of worry in my stomach begins unraveling as I untangle the cleverly worded prophecies.
Aunt Orsulya and Margit exchange unconvinced glances.
"Lent is another example," I say.
Aunt Orsulya's eyes flick upward at the slated wood ceiling as though God is listening. "Mind your tongue."
I don't. "Isn't Lent a time when we are supposed to experience spiritual delight from the pain of foregoing some physical pleasure?"
Aunt Orsulya reaches for the crucifix hanging from the blue silk cord around her neck. "I suppose."
"Don't you see?" I splay my hands. "It was wordplay meant to confound us, nothing more. Had that wench been a lady from Matthias' court we would have praised her mischievous wit."
Aunt Orsulya narrows her eyes and lifts the crucifix to her lips. "Finding a husband for you will be difficult if you insist on flaunting your intellect."
I tap my chin pretending contemplation. "Then you and Aunt Erzsébet must find me a very intelligent man."
"Or else a very stupid one," giggles Margit.
"The Hungarian court has no shortage of fools." Aunt Orsulya bursts into laughter.
Ensconced in our litter and free from prying eyes, we laugh loud and long. Aunt Orsulya wipes away merry tears and I puzzle—not for the first time—over her misfortunes. Widowed before she conceived a child, Aunt Orsulya always behaves with proper courtesies and shows a zealous devotion to God. In private, another side emerges, her disdain for men revealed through quips and criticism.
The litter stops and our heads swivel to the window. A boisterous and jolly crowd is amassed outside the castle gate where celebrations are already begun. Troubadours play lute, fiddle, vielle, and tambourine. Castle servants set large platters of bread, meat, and casks of wine and ale on long roughhewn tables. A troupe of thespians struts across a raised platform with bows and curtsies mimicking lewd acts.
"King Matthias spared no expense." Aunt Orsulya picks off a bit of lint from her sleeve.
The liveried guards wave us through the entrance gate and into a courtyard bustling with servants, gentry, and even more entertainers. Jugglers leap through hoops and toss plates. A tiny monkey wearing a top hat rides a large hound. A jester on stilts walks a man on a leash.
I step down from the litter and rush into the welcoming arms of relatives, some who traveled great distances to attend Matthias' coronation. Pausing only to hug nephews, kiss nieces, and embrace friends I wend my way through the crowd intent on reaching my oldest sister Justine—married and living far away—when Aunt Erzsébet, her face pinched with disapproval, blocks my path.
"Pay homage to King Matthias first." Aunt Erzsébet's voice is a clipped whisper. "Together." She nudges Margit, also conscripted into this mosturgent duty.
"Of course." I flash sister Justine waiting nearby an exasperated look. She rolls her eyes.
"I suppose as a pair we are more impressive than either of us individually," I say to Margit as we join all the other sumptuously dressed and decadently jeweled well-wishers in line.
Ahead of us and dabbing her neck with a handkerchief, Aunt Orsulya waits with her good friend, Lady Zsazsa. I like the woman, she is funny and honest, but her dresses do tend to be scandalous. Today is no exception. Her cleavage-baring brightly colored frock is better suited for a young unmarried maiden, not a middle-aged widow. The prude and the voluptuary: their friendship defies my understanding.
Margit squeezes my elbow. "He's coming this way."
Returning from his audience with King Matthias, Prince Vlad works his way down the receiving line, pausing to greet nobles and diplomats. His swaggering stride is equal parts warrior and prince. My heart races as he draws near, his arrogant manner both intimidating and enticing. Dressed in green velvet with a floor-length robe draping from his wide shoulders, he turns his head as though he feels he is being watched.
I am caught! My face blooms with heat and I drop my gaze to the floor.
I hear Margit's quick inhalation and the air crackles with expectancy as we wait for his approach.
"Lady Margit." Prince Vlad bows low. "It is an honor to see you on this joyous occasion."
Margit smiles wide, all dimples and doe-eyed beauty. Prince Vlad's own smile is composed and tight, the slight curve of his lips visible beneath his straight chestnut-haired mustache.
Margit curtsies. "I cannot recall a more celebrated day in my life, but then I am only sixteen years." She bats her eyes. "Have you met my sister Ilona?"
Vlad bows, I curtsy, and our eyes lock. A thousand butterflies beat against my stomach. His moss-green eyes sparkle with something beyond polite interest. His gaze, focused and intense, ensnares me. I cannot look away, his eyes keep me as pinioned as the exotic butterflies Matthias displays in his library. My body leans forward, pulled in by a man who feels like a force of nature. I swallow, my mouth filling with moisture as though a delicious supper waits. No wonder Margit is enamored.
"Delighted to meet you." Vlad Dracula's gaze travels down my neck and lingers on my bosom.
My body warms, the layers of silk feeling transparent under the prince's brazen study of my pearl-encrusted bodice. Even as my skin burns with the thrill of his attentions, I sense something beneath his emerald scrutiny that sends the chill of danger into the heated caldron in my belly. The steam it creates within me is a singular sensation, the vapor of seduction awakening both skin and soul. My breasts heave of their own accord.
"Your sister found me admiring a portrait of your father." Vlad Dracula lifts his penetratingly clear eyes to mine. "Mihály was more than my mentor, he was like a father to me." His gaze is hypnotic.
I can scarcely breathe and yet my pulse beats double time. "It's my favorite portrait of him."
"It looks exactlylike Father." Margit's interruption breaks the spell between us.
"Really?" Prince Vlad's brow furrows. "I must confess, I do not think the artist truly captured his valor and wisdom."
"No artist would be capable of such a feat." I nod with eagerness. "Father's qualities transcend mere daub and brush."
"Well stated." Prince Vlad tilts his head to take measure of me, his studied look appearing as though he is trying to determine if I am a flatterer or a coquette.
"I think," says Margit too loudly while squaring her shoulders so her generous bosom strains against her flower-embroidered bodice, "the artist did a wonderful job, especially the mustache. His mouth is a little stern though."
Prince Vlad looks sideways at Margit with amusement—or maybe disappointment—and I realize in an instant that Margit and the warrior prince are terribly mismatched. I would be the worthier helpmate.
"Father's cruel death still haunts me." I press my hand to my heart and swallow the lump of grief that returns whenever I remember the horror that befell him. "I pray daily for his soul."
"I pray too." Margit shifts her body forward.
Prince Vlad does not acknowledge her comment, neither with glance nor words. He focuses on me, and I, him. The crowd blurs, conversations mute. I see and hear only him.
"I promise to avenge the sins of Meḥmed-i s̠ānī." Prince Vlad's face is grave, his eyes hardening into stone.
"That time cannot come soon enough." I speak quickly and honestly, my blunder unrealized until the last word slips from my lips. I open my mouth to soften my mistake, to rephrase or clarify but it is too late. I see it in Prince Vlad's eyes and my body shrinks into itself.
Prince Vlad's smile stiffens and his liquid green eyes freeze into emerald ice crystals.
Margit's eyes light up upon hearing my gaffe. "Matthias and I are very close," she lies. "I will explain that your talents best serve Hungary if you are released from your imprisonment and free to destroy Sultan Mehmed."
A shadow passes over Dracula's eyes. He smiles at Margit like a parent does to a silly young child. The folly in her words—her political ignorance and obvious flattery—exposes a charming naiveté. Which may be her intent.
Margit aims a pointed look at me, her eyes gleaming with friendly competition.
"I agree, my lady, however, I think it best if someone other than a sweet innocent cousin reminds him of my considerable talents." He looks away and down the line of well-wishers, then gives us a tight nod. "Enough of politics and vendettas, Matthias' coronation deserves nothing less than jubilant celebration and happy thoughts." Prince Vlad bows low. "I humbly beg your leave. Lady Margit and Lady Ilona, it is an honor and pleasure to make your acquaintances. I can now say with all sincerity that King Matthias' cousins are the most enchanting ladies in all of Hungary."
Margit blushes and dips in curtsy. I curtsy as well, his gaze like hot coals on my skin. At that moment I know I want him. It is a foolish thought. I have no say in the matter of a husband. But reality does not matter to my pounding heart and enraptured soul.
"He will wed me," Margit says when he is out of hearing. "Aunt Erzsébet will make certain of it." She turns to me, bright pink spots on her cheeks. "Why were you making eyes at him?"
"I was being cordial." Though the heat of Prince Vlad's gaze still warms me, I tell a cold but necessary lie. "Don't you want me to be nice to my future brother-in law?"
"Not that nice." Margit's lips pinch together.
Unable to meet her accusatory glare, I look over her shoulder to check our position in the receiving line. "Only Lord and Lady Magyar are ahead of us. Look, you can see the jewels on Matthias' crown sparkling from here."
Distracted by royal gems, Margit's pursed lips melt into a giddy smile.
Our cousin king sparkles as well in a sumptuous red brocade robe with a white ermine collar that emphasizes the flaxen hair grazing his shoulder. Sitting tall on his throne, he beams with majestic munificence despite his recent tragedies. Only a few months earlier we wept for the untimely death of his bride and newborn babe. Today, however, Matthias sits ramrod straight and content, his wife's and child's passing hidden under his royal vestments. What fortitude and control it must take to rally oneself for a public function.
"I heard Aunt Erzsébet wants Matthias to wed Emperor Frederick's daughter," I whisper as we step closer to the dais.
"What? So soon? Our aunt has no compassion," Margit whispers back. "He's still grieving."
"Political alliances come first." Like all noble maidens, Margit and I desire a lucrative marriage, dream of a love match, and worry about producing a male heir.
Mother took to childbed five times. Only three daughters survived. Mother died soaked in blood, the yearned for male heir breathing his last a day later. I often wondered if Margit and I inherited Mother's only weakness, producing daughters. It certainly is not a family trait. Aunt Erzsébet birthed two sons. The first, László, was beheaded by a vengeful Habsburg king a few years ago.Matthias is her second. Andhad it not been for Father's clever political maneuvering, Matthias would not be king of Hungary.
I step up to the dais with Margit.
"King Matthias." I curtsy low. "Hungary will soar to new heights under your excellent leadership."
Ignoring protocol, King Matthias holds his arms wide for a hug. "I will accept nothing less than a kiss from my favorite cousins."
We kiss his cheek and then proceed to praise the music, commend the choir, and applaud the pageantry, extolling His Highness until he flushes with pleasure.
"Margit," says Matthias with an impish grin, "you stare at my crown like it's a fig-stuffed capon. Have you an appetite for ambition?"
"Ambition?" Margit's brows lift in surprise. "Only for a good marriage, but I dare say your crown is nothing less than a banquet of jewels."
Matthias chuckles before glancing at the Roman diplomat waiting behind us. "Will you make me a promise, sweet cousins?"
"Anything," Margit and I reply in unison.
"Promise you will dance until dawn to prove your love of sovereign and country."
We vow to have fun, curtsy, and depart. Our duty dispatched, Margit and I stroll back down the line, stopping to chat with relatives and friends.
When we reach the great hall a red-haired stranger bars our entrance.
"May the Lord bless King Matthias with a long and prosperous reign." The woman lifts her pointy chin in the air.
"Thank you for your kind words," I say. "Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"
"My name is not important. You have little use for it." She clasps slim pale hands in front of her and lowers her voice. "I come bearing a prophecy for you, Lady Ilona."
My breath catches and my skin prickles with fear. Three prophecies in one afternoon cannot be good. I make a quick study of the woman's credibility. She wears a simple yet artfully draped pink silk gown with a large ruby pendant against her alabaster throat. Her delicate hands are smooth and soft, unblemished from fieldwork and labor. Nothing about her elegant appearance suggests she is a guildsman's wife, gypsy, or common wench.
I take a slow calming breath and present my most polite smile. "You're not the first."
The woman's ginger eyebrows lift in surprise. "Then you will not be surprised when I tell you my prophecy concerns your future husband."
*********************
Thanks for reading. Remember to like, follow, comment, and all that good stuff.
You can also find me on IG, Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, and Bookbub.
Want more? Check out LEGENDS OF LUST, Erotic Myths from around the World ( Cleis Press ). Take an erotic romp through mythology with fourteen romantic and naughty tales of love ands lust.
Chapter 4 goes up next Saturday!