ILONA
Winter 1465
Buda Castle, Hungary
Snowflakes flutter past the narrow window. It is a chilly reminder of time's quick pace. With icy foreboding, I contemplate the unopened letter in my hand.
Margit, sitting near the fireplace of the ladies' chamber with the others, looks up from her embroidery, her brows lifted with mean-spirited glee. "Another love letter from the capitano grande?"
My mouth slumps into a frown. "The second since we returned from Visegrád."
"Open it." Aunt Orsulya flutters her hand. "Maybe his wife finally died. God bless her soul."
The letter is heavy in my hand, the weight of duty pinning me into the chair. I do not want Luigi della Scala's wife to die. But it is unchristian to wish for her continued suffering.
"Fine, I'll read it." Margit snatches the letter, cracks the seal, and unfolds the vellum. "Ahem." She waits for the ladies to look up from their needlework. "'My dearest Lady Ilona, it is with burdened heart and tearyeyes I write to tell you that my devoted wife's infirmity grows worse."
The weight falls away and I exhale with relief.
"Not much of a love letter." Aunt Orsulya's pinched lips move sideways.
Zsazsa jabs her needle in the air. "At least he gets right to the point."
"Ladies, save your comments until the end." Margit waves an outward palm. "'Though her body is weak, her faith in God is strong. So strong, the selfless woman urged me to waste no time in wedding another when God calls her to His bosom. My self-sacrificing wife also extracted a promise from me to find a god-fearing woman capable of giving me an heir and lamented her failure in this great commission. As I am a faithful and loving husband, I told her King Matthias offered his cousin's hand in marriage. Oh, how virtuous is my wife! She wept with joy, laid her pale hand on mine, and wished me happiness. To satisfy her curiosity, I expounded on your beauty, youth, and noble family. I am certain you will strive to be her equal in Christian virtue. My sincerest wish is for your happiness and'—oh, by my virtue, such nonsense."
"It's not nonsense, Margit," sniffs Aunt Orsulya. "I thought it quite nice, although the emphasis he puts on his wife being self-sacrificing and selfless is a bit tiresome."
"He makes his wife to be a saint." Skepticism sharpens my voice.
"It's a stupid boring letter." Margit tosses it into my lap.
Two can play this game.
"What does your alleged betrothed write to you about?"
"Prince Vlad doesn't need to write." Margit's mouth puckers as she lifts her pointy chin. "Anyway, he's being transferred here this week."
My heart skips a beat. "Is he coming to the masquerade?" I look to my aunt for confirmation.
Aunt Orsulya draws the needle through a linen collar. "I am not privy to King Matthias's guest list. However, Erzsébet did mention something about Matthias requiring Dracula's knowledge of Turkish. Evidently, he speaks like a native."
Margit rises from the chair. "This dull embroidery can wait another day. I have a more amusing task—designing an enchanting costume."
"A pointless undertaking," says Aunt Orsulya when Margit is gone. "I hear Dracula is more concerned with politics than flirting."
"Undoubtedly." Zsazsa tears the thread with her teeth. "Everyone's talking about Stephen of Moldavia's attack on the Chilia fortress."
"Matthias will have to walk a thinner rope than the ropewalkers he hires." Aunt Orsulya chuckles at her joke.
"The attack certainly set the political rope swinging." Zsazsa aims her needle at me. "Not interested in politics, Ilona? You look distracted."
I fold Luigi della Scala's letter and slip it into my skirt pocket. "Is Chilia important?"
"It is to Prince Vlad," says Zsazsa. "It's a Wallachian outpost."
Aunt Orsulya jabs the needle into the collar. "Battles and power, I think, are men's true loves. Not women."
#
A letter slides under my door the morning of the masquerade. It has no name, the seal is marred, the sender's identity unknown, and yet my pulse quickens as I tear it open.
Dearest Lady Ilona,
The memories of our conversations at Visegrád sustained me since your departure. Scarcely does a day pass that I do not picture your charming smile or imagine your sweet voice. I look forward to seeing you again at the masquerade and suspect I will find you easily—your essence drawing me like a bee to a flower. As I remain under the ever-vigilant care of your gracious cousin, I must content myself with only occasional dances and conversation, although I hope it pleases you to know my thoughts are ever by your side.
With admiration and friendship,
V
Once. Twice. Three times I read his letter. With a twinge of guilt, I fold it into a fig-sized wad and conceal it in my fist. If Margit finds it—I've caught her snooping through my cupboard before—she will show it to Aunt Erzsébet and accuse me of undermining her future marriage negotiations.
I circle my chambers for a hiding spot. A velvet canopied bed. A carved table. An oak cupboard without a lock. Three upholstered chairs. Two wool carpets. There must be some place Margit won't think to look behind or under. I need a secret spot, a false plank, a concealed recess—
The mouse hole!
I am on my knees, my cheek to the floor, when someone raps on the door. Heart pounding, I shove the paper in the hole, stand, smooth my dress, and answer the door.
"Why are youopening the door?" Aunt Erzsébet sweeps inside, her eyes darting about the room. "Where is Bernádett?"
"She went to the scullery for fresh herbs." I point to the wilted bouquet on the table.
"Good. I come at a fortunate time." She sits by the fire and pats the chair beside her. "Dear child, I bring dreadful news." Her thin lips twist into a frown that is more irritated than upset.
"Is King Matthias ill?" I sit down, my mouth pressed tight with worry.
"Heavens no, nothing so frightful as that." Aunt Erzsébet casts her eyes about the room as though looking for something.
My stomach clenches. There is only one bit of dreadful news that warrants a personal visit—Luigi dell Scala's wife is dead.
"Vlad Dracula is here." Aunt Erzsébet plucks at a loose thread on my shoulder. "I do not like the man, but my son requires his expertise in Turkish battle tactics."
"Why is this—"
"Patience, niece. Prince Vlad, as you know, is a friend of the pope, who for his own unfounded reasons accuses Matthias of using crusading monies to buy the Hungarian Holy Crown."
"Ridiculous." I fix my gaze on her and noton the mouse hole.
"Indeed. The pope scandalizes my son with such accusations but who is fool enough to call the pope a liar?"
"No one," I say, wondering what this visit is really about.
"Exactly." Aunt Erzsébet twists the green vesuvianite ring on her finger. "Naturally, Matthias feels compelled to improve their relationship and has decided to answer the pope's call to defend Christianity against the Turks."
"A crusade to appease the pope? This is the dreadful news?" A note of skepticism slips out.
Aunt Erzsébet wags her finger. "Dear child, you must practice patience."
I clasp my hands together, force a smile, and do not look at the mouse hole.
"Matthias is certainly not organizing a crusade anytime soon. No, the dreadful news concerns Prince Vlad." Aunt Erzsébet's mouth droops. She narrows one eye and aims her suspicions at me. "The pope admires Dracula's rather robust defensive tactics." Aunt Erzsébet pokes her finger into my arm. "The man some people claim is Christianity's greatest warrior cannot be kept prisoner much longer. All eyes are on Dracula now. Even mine."
My courteous smile widens, and I do not look at the mouse hole. Get to the point, I want to shout.
Aunt Erzsébet tilts her head, both eyes tapered with accusation. "The dreadful news is that someone saw Dracula's servant deliver a letter to your chambers."
"Mychambers?" My hand flies to my breast in mock surprise. "You've been misinformed."
Her brows knot low on her creased forehead. "You deny a letter was pushed under your door?"
"Since I know nothing about this letter, I cannot confirm its delivery." I shrug, feigning innocence, and clasp my sweaty palms. "Ask Bernádett. Perhaps the letter came while I was at breakfast."
Aunt Erzsébet's nostrils flare. "Vlad Dracula is not Catholic. He is Orthodox and a prisoner. If Matthias releases him and if he converts to Catholicism, then Margit will wed him. Not you. Margit."
I lift my chin. "You bring me old news, aunt."
Aunt Erzsébet stands, her face as red as beet soup. "Do not imagine for a single moment that Dracula's pitiful attempts at flirtation will sway me from my plans."
"You mean King Matthias's plans."
Her eyes blaze with anger and her lips curl into a snarl. "Impertinent child." Aunt Erzsébet smacks my face. "Do not cross me. And do not cross the King of Hungary. Your virtue must be above reproach. Luigi della Scala demands it. The Genoan alliance is vital."
My cheek sizzles but I am dry eyed. The burning sting sinks deep inside and courses through my body. I touch my flaming cheek and feel strength, not humiliation. "I have done nothing wrong. Nothing." Each word is purposeful, clear, and without emotion. "I submit cheerfully to His Highness's decision." I set cool lips on Aunt Erzsébet's ring-laden hand. "My respect and love for you, King Matthias, and Hungary come first. Please believe me."
My aunt lifts my chin with her cold dry hand and stares down with icy judgment. "You look innocent enough...unless you're more cunning than I give you credit for." She pats my red cheek, then points to the pile of costumes heaped on the bed. "Indulge me. Let me find you a costume for the masquerade." Aunt Erzsébet rifles through the robes, tunics, snoods, dolmens, capes, stockings, trousers, and shirts. Wearing a skewed smile, she tosses aside the beautiful, the sheer, the daring, and the elaborate. "Ah, this one will do nicely." She holds up a Turkish kaftan and wide linen pants. "If Dracula should seek you out, he will find you dressed in the garb of the people he has sworn to avenge."
All hope to appear beautifully beguiling for Prince Vlad drops like a rock in my belly. "As you wish." My voice is as smooth as polished stone.
Aunt Erzsébet walks to the door, pulls it open, and glances over her shoulder. "One of my ladies-in-waiting will help you dress."
The door bangs shut.
I sweep all the costumes to the floor and muffle my cry in a pillow. Matthias has all the power. Prince Vlad, none. Nothing can ever come of our flirtation.
#
"It's better this way," murmurs Bernádett while fussing with the sheer yasmakcovering my mouth and forehead. "Your aunt is protecting you."
I steal a glance at Aunt Erzsébet's lady-in-waiting sitting in the corner. The only costume 'help' she is offering is the eavesdropping kind. "From whom?"
"Prince Vlad," Bernádett whispers. "Don't fall prey to his flirtations. I wouldn't be surprised if his idea of fun is toying with innocent maidens' hearts. I heard he flirts with—"
Margit bursts into my chambers. "Look at me!"
How can I not?
She twirls about in a skirt of peacock feathers. "I'm a woodland nymph." Her fingers dance over the bodice, a tease of web-thin material scattered with sparkling gems and cleverly placed feathers. "Look." Margit lifts her skirt to flaunt jeweled chopines.
"Your costume is stunning." Envy sticks in my throat like a dry crust of bread.
With her elevated chopines and tall-feathered mask, every guest at the party will take notice of her.
Frustration like steam heats my skin when I compare my dull costume and flat unadorned slippers. I will most certainly disappear amid the decadently attired guests. Which is Aunt Erzsébet's intent.
Margit puts her hands on her waist. "You ought to be glad Aunt Erzsébet did not insist you dress like a gypsy."
"I don't need to be noticed, I am betrothed to Luigi della Scala." I shrug, pretending indifference, but inside my enthusiasm for the masquerade molts like a goldfinch in autumn. My Turkish costume is a fabric cage but warbling about it will only expose my true feelings.
Margit tugs me forward. "Are you ready? Aunt Erzsébet insists we go together."
I can imagine the guest's twittering at our arrival: the peacock and the wren.
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Thank you so much for reading. The Impalers's Wife will be released April 4th. If you're interested in reading an ARC, an Advanced Review Copy, please leave me message.