Luigi della Scala is naked, his saggy white flesh grinding against a servant's backside. The lad, too young for a beard, bends over the bed.
"Close the door, wife." Della Scala withdraws slowly.
I am speechless, eyes fixed on the scene. My betrothed is fat and old and prefers boys!
Luigi della Scala leers, pushes back in, withdraws, enters again while the servant boy moans louder. Then della Scala shudders, withdraws, his appendage hanging like a sausage.
"Perhaps you will join us." Della Scala caresses the lad's rump. "My late wife, God bless her soul, was not so inclined. But you are not as devout as you pretend. Come, let me show you how I like to be pleasured."
My body shakes like a dry leaf in a storm. "I will tell the king." Even my voice quivers.
"I doubt he'll believe a silly girl whose heart belongs to another." He sneers. "I've heard the rumors."
I turn, race down the hallway, through the courtyard, and into the chapel where I bolt the door behind me and throw myself at the mercy of the crucified Jesus.
"Forgive me my sins. All of them. The sin of skepticism. Of being jealous of my sister. I repent of desiring another man. Oh Lord, why do you condemn me? How may I atone for my transgressions? A hundred rosaries, alms for the poor, daily confessions, I will do anything anything anything—just numb my mind. Give me the strength to bear this marriage." I suck in the frankincense-heavy air, ready to make more bargains with God when I pause. I am not alone.
I feel a draft, inhale a whiff of pine and rosemary. "Who's here? Show yourself."
Vlad Dracula rises from behind the altar. "Is this how a bride acts before a marriage is consummated?"
I sag against the pew, relief flooding my body. "Luigi della Scala is sinful."
Prince Vlad skews his lips into a half smile. "No one is without sin, my lady."
I rub my swollen eyes. "You don't understand. He prefers boys. I saw it. He wanted me to..." A fresh sob strangles my voice.
"That's the way of some men." Vlad walks toward me. "You're a good Christian. Practice mercy, forgiveness, and humility."
"You expect me to pray for his soul?" I sniff, wipe my dripping nose.
"Not at all. I loathe the man. I'm only reminding you of your Christian duty. I am neither a Catholic nor an especially pious Christian. I ascribe to a different code. One of loyalty, courage, and justice." Prince Vlad hands me a handkerchief. It smells of forest, spice, and rosemary. Just like him. He sets a soft hand on my damp cheek. "Tomorrow you start a new life. Be strong, Lady Ilona. Have faith." He kisses my hand, his eyes devouring mine with a raw intensity that leaves me breathless.
His kiss ribbons warmth up my arm and into my body. Hot tears stream down my cheeks for what will never be, for a love I will never know.
"Farewell, Prince Vlad." I withdraw my hand and walk to the door, then turn around. "You were in the labyrinth."
"I was." His voice holds no regret.
"You left the castle. Why?"
"I have allies to appease and enemies to crush." Vlad bends low. "Yar hamu-ka Liah."
"What does that mean?"
"May God have mercy on you."
#
My mouth is dry, my muscles tense, my body twitchy. I dread the ride to Genoa. Six armed guards will not protect me.
Della Scala sits beside me, our bodies separated by only the fur blankets covering our legs. If only I could build a wall between us with the food baskets stacked on the other side of the carriage. I turn my head from his onions-and-sweat stench to the open window.
My heart twists, tears wrung out like washing from crying over all he made me leave behind. My family, Bernádett, my falcon, even my favorite books.
"Tears do not move me," says Luigi della Scala flatly. "Instead of weeping, think of your new future."
Sniffing, I wipe away my tears.
"Genoa is beautiful, the weather always sunny and warm." The wood creaks as he shifts on the bench. "When we arrive, we will exchange rings, give consent to the notary, and celebrate with a lavish party." He nudges my foot. "Until then we will indulge each other as husband and wife. I want a babe in your belly before we reach Genoa."
I remain mute, my voice fragile, ready to splinter into sobbing.
Luigi della Scala drones on about his house by the river, favorite foods, horses, garden, and Venetian fashions. I reply. Brief. Polite. Detached.
When the shadows outside lengthen, della Scala sticks his face through the window. "Hurry, man! We must reach the Catholic monastery before nightfall!" He tucks his head back in and rummages for a flask. He gulps the liquid down, drags his hand across his wet mouth, and pushes the flask at me. "Drink. It will take the edge off your virgin fear."
I snatch it, start guzzling. How much do I need to drink to pass out?
Hoof beats thunder by. Guards shout. I lower the flask. The carriage lurches, slams me into the side. The flask clatters to the floor.
The white-faced Luigi della Scala peeks through the curtain. "Bandits." He latches the wood shutter closed and reaches for his scimitar. "My men will make swift work of them."
Someone pounds on the roof.
Cold with terror, I yank the fur blanket to my chin. "What's happening?"
"Shut up." Della Scala wipes sweat from his brow.
The shouts grow louder, cries mixing with shrieks. And then a blood-curdling scream rips all breath from my lungs. I shove my fist into my mouth, bite down on my thumb and look to della Scala for comfort. He's bloodless with fear—his scimitar shaking in his hand.
Steal clashes against steal. Long swords clang. Short blades clank and squeal.
I wedge into the corner and fold my trembling legs to my breast. Della Scala puts his finger to his lips, shakes his head.
The shouts fade into groans. Wilt into moans. Wither into bloody gurgles and punctured wheezes.
A horrible silence descends. Not so much as a footfall or horse snort. Luigi della Scala watches the door, his white knuckles clenched around his trembling scimitar.
The bandits will rob us. They will kill della Scala. I will suffer a worse fate.
The door swings wide and a masked Turk leaps in. He disarms della Scala with falcon-like swiftness.
Della Scala's blade drops. His hands fly to the crimson stain blooming across his tunic. He grunts, rasps a curse, then slumps forward.
The blood-splattered Turk, his black turban concealing everything but his emerald eyes, turns to me. He shoves della Scala's scimitar toward my feet, yanks della Scala's body onto the ground outside, and slams the door. It sounds like he drags della Scala's body across the road.
"I believe in God." I put my shaking hands together in prayer. "The Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord who was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary."
Whack! Whack! Whack! Loud hammering stops my silent prayer. I press myself further into the corner.
"I believe in the Holy Spirit." I speak loud enough the bandits will hear. Maybe my prayer will inspire their pity. "The holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the—"
A twig snaps just outside the window.
"Remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam eternam. Amen." A low voice finishes my prayer.
The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.
My trembling fingers clench the cross at my neck as I stare at the door. I recite the Hail Mary. Intone the Our Father. The door never opens.
I hear men whisper, gravel crunch under their boots, reins and tack jangle, horses blow, then the clamor of hoof beats galloping away.
"Thank you, Almighty Father." Nauseous and damp with sweat, my hand closes around the scimitar's hilt as I push open the door.
The light is murky, the low orange sun veiled with clouds. The trees cast long dark shadows over the road. And yet I see it. A blood path.
I follow the red smears and splatters to horror. To crimson pools and viscera mounds.
The Genoan guards are slit from throat to groin, their bodies ooze blood and guts. The driver's head is severed, his sightless eyes gaze at the darkening sky. His body is splayed on the other side of the road.
Luigi della Scala's body is not among the dead.
I fall on my knees and retch. When nothing else comes out, I stand on shaking knees and gulp the air. And then I see him.
Luigi della Scala is nailed to a tree and carved open like a pig. His entrails hang beside him. A wad of flesh hangs from his mouth. His cock and testicles.
My legs give out and I fall to the ground. The bandits wanted this to look like the work of Martolea, the avenging Romanian demon.
A crow swoops down, perches on della Scala's head, and pecks at his eye.
In the distance, a wolf howl rises over the treetops.
_______________________________________
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This novel is 450-pages long. An epic read. At this point, we're not quite 1/3 into the story.