ILONA
January 1468
Dracula's Manse in Pest, Hungary
Screams echo off the walls. Through the tapestry-covered stones. Across the hall. Down the stairs. Out into the courtyard. My screams.
"Focus your strength downward. The babe is crowning. Bear down with the next pain." The midwife rubs ointment into my nether regions.
Bernádett presses a cool cloth to my brow. "Another push, my lady. Just one more."
Aunt Orsulya hunches over her rosary, her fingers clenched, her lips moving soundlessly for hours.
Margit gnaws her fingernails.
Aunt Erzsébet paces the room. "Everyone, we must all beseech Saint Margaret's blessed help."
I am dying. Only the patron saint of childbirth can help me now. I writhe. My bones ache. My skin hurts. After a day and a half of labor my body is as weak as a newborn kitten.
The midwife crouches at my feet. "My lady, the last pains are always the worst. Your babe waits for the final push. Let your child enter the world." She sticks a knotted cloth between my teeth.
PUSH! A strength surges from somewhere deep within, and my body and soul bears down into an agony so tremendous it blocks all reason.
The searing pressure slips away as the infant emerges.
"A son. A son." The midwife holds the red-faced babe aloft. "A healthy son."
The child lets loose a loud wail. The ladies burst into happy tears. They hug, kiss their crosses, and give thanks to Saint Margaret. The midwife places my son in my arms. I stare down at his tiny pink face, hot tears running down my cheeks, and my heart blooms with instant love. He is perfect and beautiful and mine. Joyful sobs wrack my weary body.
"Lady Ilona is overcome," says Aunt Erzsébet to a servant. "Bring her watered wine. Hurry." She dabs at my tears with a handkerchief then counts the babe's fingers and toes, inspects the shape of his face, and runs a hand over his limbs. "Well done. I will give the good news to Prince Vlad." With a swish of her skirt she departs.
The midwife tugs on the cord and a hot rush of afterbirth slushes out. She checks it, nods her approval, and sets it in a bowl.
"You must rest, Ilona." Zsazsa lifts my son from my heavy arms and the midwife helps me from the birthing stool to the bed.
I collapse in its softness, feel the midwife cover me with clean linen. I doze in and out, hear snatches of conversation.
"So vigorous. A strong little man."
"Bring fresh linens."
"Cleanse the air with fresh herbs."
"Warm the milk bath."
"Bring swaddling."
My eyes flutter open when the midwife palpates my stomach.
She scrutinizes the blood clots. "All is well, my lady. How do you feel?" The midwife sets my milk-bathed babe in my arms.
"Tired but wonderful." I stare down at the babe's cornflower-blue eyes, which already blink as though determined to take in the world around him. I kiss his wee head, sweet smelling and downy with pale fine hair, and place him at my breast where he latches on my nipple with gusto. Tears flow down my cheeks. My happiness is complete.
Aunt Orsulya, Zsazsa, and Margit arrange their chairs at my bedside.
"May I?" Margit lifts the blanket and strokes the underside of his wrinkled foot. "He's beautiful, Ilona." Her lower lips quivers. Today, Margit shows her sisterly side; concerned, caring, and without guile.
Zsazsa puts her hand to her ear. "Do you hear that? Prince Vlad is celebrating."
I hear it. The țigani lăutari's merry melodydrifts up from the great chamber. I smile, close my eyes,and whisper a prayer of gratitude for God's blessings. A devoted husband. A healthy son. Contentment overflows my soul.
A smiling Aunt Erzsébet returns to the . "Prince Vlad pronounced you the finest wife in all the world."
I point to the bowl holding the umbilical cord. "Will you do the honors?"
"Thank you." Aunt Erzsébet takes the bowl to the fireplace and tosses in the cord where the flames consume it with a fiery dance. "Light more lamps." She speaks to a maidservant. "Bring more fragrant herbs." She opens the shutters and a wintery blast swooshes fresh air into a room thick with sweat and fear and birth. "Rejoice in your accomplishment, Ilona. Your great duty is done." She puts on her fur-lined cloak. "I have been away too long."
I reach out to clasp her cool dry hand. "Thank you, Aunt Erzsébet. I pray for King Matthias every day." After she departs, I stare at my sleeping son. Today is the first day of a lifetime of worry for him. How do mothers bear it? I turn to Aunt Orsulya. "Is Matthias's condition much improved?"
"Healing takes time." Aunt Orsulya shakes her head, her lips pressed into a long-suffering frown. "His wounds are deep. Thanks be to God the Moldavian arrows did not strike a vital organ." She tucks the blanket around me. "No more questions. Worry spoils breast milk."
The ladies depart late in the evening. Only Bernádett remains, her cot placed outside the door in case I need help. From downstairs, the duduk music floats upward, the haunting melody honoring the miracle of life. I close my eyes and let the tune carry me to sleep.
"Ilona." Vlad, wrapped in a thick robe and smelling of wine, sits on the bed. "Remove the swaddling. I want to marvel at him."
Though my eyes are thick with fatigue, my heart warms with pleasure that Vlad visits so soon. "He sleeps."
"Remove the swaddling." It is a command.
Alarmed by his tone, I sit up and obediently unwind the cloth. The babe flails his thin pale arms and cries in protest. Vlad runs a slow hand over his son's head, strokes each limb, and wriggles his finger into the infant's fist. He cups the tiny feet in his hands, leans over and kisses the sole of each foot. The baby howls, loud robust bawls that upset my composure.
"He's strong." Vlad grins wide, his eyes sparkling with pride. "With lungs like that he will be able to command great armies." He kisses his head. "You may swaddle him now. I will name him Vlad."
"I can think of no better name." I re-wrap the babe and put him to my breast.
"Youwill nurse him. I will not have a malnourished wet nurse suckle my infant son."
My eyes widen. "I...yes... of course, my lord."
Vlad strokes my cheek with his thumb. "You made me very happy today."
Pleased by this, I press my face into his warm palm. And then I remember Matthias. "Tell me about Matthias. Will he recover? My aunts refused to give me any details during my lying-in. They said worrying brings on early labor."
"Those silly women and their superstitions." Vlad scowls, then nestles beside me. "Matthias caught three arrows in the back and collapsed in the middle of battle. Fortunately, his physicians treated him immediately." Vlad pats my arm. "He is expected to make a full recovery."
"Was Hungary victorious?" I hope Matthias's wounds had not been for naught.
Vlad's face contorts, crumpled with pained disappointment. "Hungary suffered an embarrassing defeat."
"Defeat? How can that be?"
"Because Matthias made stupid mistakes." Vlad's nostrils flare. "They were defeated despite having five hundred cannons, and plenty of siege engines, catapults, and battering rams. Matthias lost ten thousand of forty thousand soldiers—many from Wallachia. A forty-day battle, and they were crushed like bugs." Vlad balls his fist.
"What happened?"
"Matthias is no match for a shrewd strategist like Prince Stephen. A few blocked roads and a couple evacuated villages was all it took to weaken Matthias's army." Vlad grunted and shook his head. "The only good that came out of their humiliating defeat was that several nobles distinguished themselves in combat. I hear Stefan Báthory fought well."
"Will Matthias retaliate?"
"He already did. On Christmas day he sent mercenaries to torture the rebels celebrating their victory at a village inn." Vlad turns his fist as though he holds a sword. "I wish I had been there. It would have given me great satisfaction to run a sword through Stephen's black heart."
"Did the man wrong you?"
"That man is my cousin—his Aunt Crina, my first wife." Vlad's body tenses, muscles coiled with anger. "For a brief time after my first reign we were inseparable, the best of friends. We swore an oath to support each other and fight the Turks. I honored our oath. He did not. I have no tolerance for duplicitous men, cousin or not."
"I understand." I set a light hand on his arm.
"Do you?" Vlad leans away, his face pinched with annoyance. "You're familiar with betrayal, are you?" Sarcasm drips from his lips.
I drop my gaze. "Not really."
"Betrayal murders families and destroys dynasties," he snarls. "Betrayal is insidious. Inescapable. It lurks in council chambers, the great halls, private chambers...even beneath the sheets." His eyes flash with a past hurt. "Did you know Matthias offered sanctuary to Petru Aaron? Did you know this same man beheaded Stephen's mother and father—his own half-brother—during a wedding feast? You know nothing of betrayal." He grunts, rubs the tightness between his eyes. "You grew up surrounded by great wealth and loving relatives."
"As will our son," I say lightly to soothe his quick temper.
"Circumstances can change, Ilona." The hard line of Vlad's mouth softens when he looks at our son. "Extraordinary isn't it, how the birth of a son makes a man ponder the burdens and privileges of fulfilling his family's destiny."
I have no experience with betrayal but continuing the family line I understand. "This child will be a great man. How can he not? The blood of two great families runs through his veins."
"Greatness is nothing without honor."
I recall Vlad's hatred of his dishonorable brother Radu. "We will teach our son honor."
"Not all sons learn their father's lessons." Vlad strokes our babe's head. "Sons are a worthy burden bringing both pleasure and pain. The pain is watching him struggle with the hard lessons of life. The pleasure is...well, everything else. His worthiness will come from his immortalizing the Drăculeşti name, continuing the family lineage that it may live forever."
Lulled by his tender insight, I add my own. "Jesus had no children and he lives forever."
Vlad stiffens and pulls away. "I bare my soul and you reply with a myth?"
"Jesus is no myth." I clutch the babe to my breast, shielding him from Vlad's blasphemy. "You converted to Catholicism." My voice quivers. "Was that a lie?"
Vlad holds my chin. "I have killed for you, wife. I officially renounced the Orthodoxy of my people to marry you. Listen well. Allah. God. Yahweh. There are many names for god. A multitude of sacred books, canons, and scriptures. There are even more ways to honor one's god—chanting over fire, the Salah, ritual ablution, sacrificing animals, eating consecrated bread. Why is one deemed better than another? Who is your god, Ilona? Describe him."
My arms and legs are as heavy as my eyes. My mind is foggy and weary from the pendulum of emotions that swung from worry to fear to elation since my first labor pain. I am too tired for this conversation. Too tired to think clearly. But I must. Vlad wants to talk. Needs to talk. "The artists illuminating the manuscripts in Matthias's library depict God as an old man with a white beard wearing a red robe and holding an orb. The Book of Hours depicts him this way as well."
"God as earthly king." Vlad lets loose a throaty guffaw. "The Book of Hours is nothing more than a collection of prayers with colorful miniatures for entertaining the dull-minded." Vlad makes a show of swinging his head as though looking for eavesdroppers. "Are you aware that your royal cousin stoops to devious methods to procuring his books? Don't look so shocked, Ilona. Do you really believe a Carthusian monk willingly parted with his manuscript touting the virtues of a king?"
First religion and now accusations about Matthias? I am determined to lighten the mood. "I don't know. Are you willing to part with that book in your room? The one that is always open? You must read it every day."
A shadow passes over Vlad's face. "I will never part with that book."
"What is it? Theology? Philosophy? Warfare." I nudge his side. "Poems?"
"All of them." Vlad strokes my cheek. "You look tired, iubirea mea. I'll stay here until you fall asleep."
"Iubirea mea. You've called me this before. What does it mean?"
"My love." He whisks a light kiss across my forehead.
I rest my head on his chest, sighing with happiness when he slips his arm around me. Enfolded in his love, I close my eyes and sleep.
The following day, Aunt Erzsébet, Aunt Orsulya, and Margit take little Vlad—Vlăduţ as Aunt Erzsébet calls him—to be baptized.
While I rest in bed awaiting their return the midwife brings thistle tea. "When is the wet nurse due to arrive?"
"I will not need one." I close my eyes and think creamy thoughts...
I am jolted awake to the sound of my wailing, anointed babe carried into the room.
Aunt Erzsébet sets Vlăduţin my arms where he latches on, his tiny mouth sucking mightily. A thousand needles prickle within my breasts. Vlăduţbegins gulping, rivulets of milk run from his mouth, over pink lips, and down his chin.
"You make motherhood look easy." Margit's voice is honey, but her eyes glare sour with envy.
Bernádett blinks back tears. "God blesses your marriage."
"Where's the wet nurse?" Aunt Erzsébet lips pinch tight with displeasure. "Why isn't she here?"
"Vlad doesn't want me to have one."
Aunt Erzsébet cringes. "No wet nurse? The man oversteps. Babies are a woman's domain." She touches her forehead and shakes her head. "Ilona, you can set limits. You don't have to agree to everything he wants."
But somehow, I fear what will happen if I do not.
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Sorry, about the delay. I returned from vacation and had another book deadline that needed my immediate attention.
Thanks for reading!
The Impaler's Wife is available on Amazon and B&N in ebook and paperback.
I hope to be loading my next historical fiction, Dragon Lady, in the next few weeks!!
If you're a fan of erotica, make sure to check out Legends of Lust, Erotic Myths from around the World. It's available everywhere. I'm unable to share it on Wattpad because of publishing restrictions.