27
"Tighter." A thousand butterflies flutter in my stomach. This is my first formal appearance since Vlăduţ's birth."How do I look?"
"Motherhood becomes you, my lady." Bernádett adjusts the veil flowing from my gold-threaded hennin.
I look down at my milk-full breasts, eager to flaunt my impressive cleavage. "Motherhood added a few new curves." I suck in my stomach. "But this waist. Ugh, Aunt Erzsébet says it will never return to its former size."
"A daughter steals her mother's beauty," says my new lady-in-waiting, Gizella, the heart-faced daughter of a Wallachian boyar. She clasps an emerald pendant, a gift from Vlad, around my neck. "A son increases it."
If that were the case, Aunt Erzsébet would be a great beauty.
"Summon me immediately if he cries." I kiss Vlăduţ'schubby cheek as he sleeps in the pillow-soft arms of the placid, rotund Dădacă, the skilled white-haired Romanian nursemaid Vlad hired.
"Don't worry, my lady." Bernádett smooths the veil over my back.
"Vlăduţ is in the best of hands." Gizella holds open the door.
I kiss Vlăduţ yet again. I don't want to leave my precious son but I must.I need to charm Vlad back into my bed. I miss the taste of his passionate kisses, the feel of his hands on my body, and the tenor of his wanton whisperings.
I walk toward the great room feeling like a visitor in my own home. Vlad added many furnishings during my lying-in. Tapestries. Banners. Statues. Benches. I recognize the two golden Turkish vases and the turquoise inlayed coffer he had brought to my bedside but nothing else.
"New house, new baby, new nursemaid, new lady-in-waiting." Gizella sighs loudly. "I don't know how you manage to be so calm."
I like Gizella. She is always cheerful and eager to please. "It's easy when my husband finds such good people."
Gizella blushes and lowers her head. "Thank you, my lady."
We are about to pass Vlad's chambers when I stop. I am desperate to discover why Vlad makes such infrequent visits to my lying-in chambers. Do I dare enter his room? I rest my hand on the door handle. It's unlocked.
"Wait there." I point to the bench across the hall.
With wide eyes, Gizella backs across the hall.
My heart throbbing in my throat, I open the door. "I'll only be a minute." I slip inside.
Vlad's chamber is rosy-colored and cool, sunset's pink glow streaming through the open window. His bed is draped with fur blankets, strewn with pillows, and canopied in red velvet. Rare sculptures and fine objects decorate the tables. A tall spray of fresh rosemary—the herb promoting mental clarity—bursts from an urn on the casement ledge. But it is his desk, topped with a candelabrum, a large drawing, and a sheaf of stacked missives that I go to for answers.
I stare down at a diagram of our manse. Thick straight lines delineate the basements, first, second, and third floors. Five chambers are marked with arrows and X's, and three dotted lines extend from the cellar to the edge of the paper. Tunnels perhaps? Vlad loves tunnels.
An old book is buried beneath a pile of correspondence. It's the same one I mistook for the Bible. The cover is worn, its wood casing peeking through a cracked leather binding. I run my fingers over its scratches and stains. How odd that it has no title, etching, or engraving. Three soft discolored leather straps fasten the book closed. With trembling fingers, I untie them and open the book.
The room darkens—the sun sliding beneath the horizon—and a chill seems to rise from the thick dry pigskin pages.
I study the faded brown and red ink. The script is foreign and dissimilar, as though many hands drew the curves, dashes, and simplistic drawings of birds, snakes, and other lowly creatures. Icy shivers race down my neck and prickle my skin. I close the book, set it down and replace the letters and reorder the stacks. Legs slogging heavily as though through a muddy bog, I cross the room, dread coiling into a tight ball in my belly. Something about that book is...wrong.
I close the door behind me with more questions than answers. Without saying a word, Gizella follows as I descend the stairway.
The great hall is noisy; councilors, boyars, emissaries, pages, squires, Vlad's steward, and chamberlain all gossiping, debating and laughing. Presiding over the gathering, Vlad sits in a carved chair on the dragon-and-raven crested dais. He acknowledges my arrival with a slight tilt of his head.
The nobles are more gracious. They ask about Vlăduţ and inquire about my health.The bachelors flirt with Gizella. The older men compliment me. I hide my disappointment over Vlad's aloofness behind bright smiles and witty repartee. He is busy with affairs of state, I tell myself.
During the meal we sit side by side and yet he pays no attention to me. I barely eat and dull my hurt with too many cups of wine. I pretend interest in the conversation about the Hungarian taxes levied on Wallachia, Radu's misrule, Sultan Mehmed's latest conquests, the death of Skënderbej, and the odd miracles occurring in several villages.
"That village is the talk of Romania," says a boyar with jowls like a chipmunk.
"Are you referring to the one where the fresco of Madonna and child emerged from a heavenly mist during the Feast of Saint Mark?" The red-bearded boyar crosses himself.
"It's brilliant. And a hell...er, a heavenly way of increasing a town's revenues," says a handsome young Wallachian boyar.
"I know several traders who make a good living selling holy relics," says another.
During the final course, Vlad surprises everyone with an announcement. Mihnea, his eleven-year-old bastard son, became a page in Matthias's court. The boy—who I have not yet met—was taken to a remote monastery months before Vlad's capture. After we married, Vlad sent for him.
I leave the great hall later that evening, my throat choked with misery over Vlad's indifference. I burst into tears before reaching my chambers. I am a failure. Only nine months wed and my husband already lost interest.
I rush into the room, order Bernádett and Dădacărip open my bodice, and thrust a huge leaking breast into Vlăduţ greedy mouth.How can I follow Aunt Erzsébet's advice to become my husband's confidant when he ignores me? I lie in bed with Vlăduţ in the crook of my arm and weep.
I awake determined to rekindle our attraction, but the next evening is the same.
Days. Weeks. One month. I dress for the evening meal and play the gracious hostess. Occasionally, Vlad speaks to me. I hang on to these brief exchanges, clutch them tight in hopes it foretells a change of heart. Each night I pray Vlad comes to my room. I wait in vain. My tears dry up. Vlad has a mistress. There can be no other reason for his absence from my bed.
I do not complain to Gizella or Bernádett, but when I am alone I hurl vases against the wall in frustration. Bernádett never comments as she cleans up the shattered pieces of my heart.
#
Cold wind and needle sharp rain batter the manse. The nursery, however, is warm and calm. Vlăduţ, wrapped in a wool blanket, suckles at my breast.
Bernádett embroiders tiny lapis birds on a pale blue blanket. Gizella writes a letter. Dădacă tidies the room. All is well until Vlad bangs open the door and stalks in. Vlăduţ turns his head, his mouth still attached to my nipple.
Vlad holds out his hands. "Give me my son." His tone is more suited for the battlefield than a nursery.
I smile sweetly. "Vlăduţ is nursing, my lord."
Vlad's nostrils flair. "Lady Ilona..."
Frightened by Vlad's tone, I shift Vlăduţ, warm from milk and love, to Vlad's arms. He lays him on the bed and unwraps his swaddling.
I leap from the chair. "Vlăduţ will catch a chill."
Vlad frowns and quirks an eyebrow, picks up the naked babe, and cradles him in his arms. "Today Vlăduţ receives his first lesson."
"What lesson? He is not yet three-months." My breath comes heavy and my body stiffens.
"He will learn to endure the climes of a land he will one day rule." Vlad walks through the doorway.
Bernádett, Gizella, and I look wide-eyed at one another.
I grab the discarded swaddling and race after Vlad. "You're taking Vlăduţoutside?"
Vlad does not reply and begins speaking Turkish to Vlăduţ as he descends the stairs.
"My lord, consider the harsh weather." I clasp my hands in prayer. "Do not subject our babe to its contagions. Teach this lesson when the weather is more suitable to his delicate condition."
"There is nothing delicate about my son." He shrugs his fur cape to the floor and strolls into the courtyard as though it is a balmy spring day.
The hail falls fast and hard, bounces this way and that, blankets the ground with an icy layer, yet Vlad strides to the middle of the courtyard. He lifts Vlăduţaloft and intones a strange incantation.
Vlăduţshrieks. His pudgy limbs flail and jerk.
"What are you doing?" I clutch Vlad's arm. "Stop this! He'll get sick!" Tears and rain pour down my face. "I beg of you, please stop."
"Vlăduţ, first born legitimate son of Prince Vlad Dracula, has no use for tears." Vlad lowers the babe until they are eye to eye.
Vlăduţis drenched and red-faced from crying. His bright green eyes—the same as his father's—glare with indignation. I touch his wee cold foot.
"My son will have a life filled with betrayal and battles, battles he must fight in the rain and snow. Battles won and lost because of his courage and bravery. Because of hisability to lead men. He must be a wellspring for their courage. A source of inspiration. Victorious or not."
I kneel, the icy mud soaking through my heavy skirt and chilling my skin. Vlad's coldness sends spasms of shivers through my body. "Please..."
Vlad peers down with disdain. "You know nothing about the agony and thrills of battle. Nothing of leadership. Look at my son. Imagine his future. Will his bastard brother Mihnea betray him one day? Will his undoing be a front facing wound or a coward's wound in the back? Will he learn the lessons I teach? Or mock them?" Vlad's voice is thick and sharp, his eyes frosty with memory.
My husband is a frightening mystery. I am not strong enough to understand his dark secrets and true motivations. Age and experience make us strangers. And yet, I still feel pulled toward him, a strange bond that is more air than earth. I blink away tears. "Your son will be b-b-brave, strong, fearless like his father. A w-w-warrior. A p-p-prince." I speak through chattering teeth.
Vlad bestows that roguish grin which always twists my heart and extends his hand. "Rise, wife." He kisses Vlăduţon both cheeks and returns his howling heir to my arms.
Our eyes lock, a mutual understanding between us. I break the look I have yearned for all these lonely nights to tend to my baby. I rush inside where Bernádett, Gizella, and Dădacă wait with blankets. Dădacă wraps Vlăduţin fur and soothes his cries with croons and a slow rocking motion.
Vlad, his face slick with rain, watches our fussing with amusement. "My son is strong and robust, a true descendant of the Drăculeşti family." Vlad grips my forearm as I turn to leave and tugs me close. "Never question the lessons I must instill in my son."
"Yes, my lord." I shiver, my lower lip quivering from dismay and cold.
"I look forward to seeing you at supper this evening." Vlad turns my chin and presses his mouth to mine, his tongue pushing inside.
It is like our first kiss, insistent and needy. My knees buckle and my body warms—oh, I want him again.
Vlad pulls away, bows with a gallant flourish, and walks away. Flustered and desirous, I return to my chambers where Gizella rings a tiny bell abovea laughing Vlăduţ.
"He's a sturdy babe, my lady," says Gizella. "It is our way and will make him strong."
"Da," says Dădacă. "He will soon like it."
Bernádett peels off my mud-soaked dress and drapes a woolen shawl over my shoulders. "I think exposing a babe to a storm is cruel."
Her comment makes me bristle and though I do not like this premature initiation of endurance, I defend my husband. "Vlăduţis no common babe. He is the rightful heir of Wallachia, the future prince who must be braver and stronger than his people. Eager and able to lead in battle."
That evening, Vlad is attentive at dinner and my loins ache for the weight of his body and the touch of his hands. But he does not come to my chambers and once again my tears soak the pillow.
The following day Vlad and I visit Buda castle where he meets with Matthias to discuss affairs of state while I keep a sharp ear out for the latest scandals.
I leave Vlăduţwith Bernádett and Dădacă in the Buda nursery and go to the ladies' chamber, the best place for hearing gossip. As usual, Aunt Orsulya plays cards with Zsazsa, and Aunt Erzsébet's ladies-in-waiting chatter about courtiers and emissaries. Margit is there as well, bragging about the young noble currently negotiating her betrothal.
"His name is Mátyus Maróti. Look, sister." Margit unsnaps a filigree locket hanging from a golden chain around her neck.
I peer at the miniature of a fair-haired and round-faced young man with bug eyes and a bulbous nose. "Very handsome."
"He has strategic land holdings and a large castle in Gyönk." She strokes the miniature. "I wonder if his hair is as blonde as mine? Miniatures never give a precise likeness, do they?"
"When do you wed?" I ask.
Margit kisses his portrait before snapping shut the locket. "Who knows? Aunt Erzsébet says there are still many matters to discuss." She wraps cool fingers around my wrist, tugs me close, and whispers in my ear. "I'm worried about the negotiations."
"Why?"
"A certain complication might be discovered." Margit purses her lips and lifts her brows, but she looks more happy than worried. "I'm not a..." Margit's gaze drops to her lap, the unspoken word hanging in the air.
I suck air through my teeth and turn the chair about to prevent one particular lady-in-waiting from reading our lips. "A one-time indiscretion?"
Margit shakes her head, her expression gleeful.
"You took a lover?" I whisper.
Margit's eyes shift sideways, her lips puckered.
"If Matthias finds out..." I do not need to tell her how angry he will be. "You must end it."
Margit lifts her chin, blue eyes blazing. "I don't want to."
I take Margit's hand. "Is he married?"
"Yes."
I take a deep breath. "Do you love him?"
"I love what we do together." Her smile is devilish.
"Why would you jeopardize everything for lust?"
"Revenge." Margit's face is as smooth as a blade and sharp with meaning.
I snatch my hand away. My insides shrivel. I cannot breathe. The room blurs, the world spins...
Not Vlad. He would never...would he?
Aunt Erzsébet's arrival ends my frozen trance. I rise in a daze, curtsy, and the room comes back into focus. I refuse to be bested by Margit.
"I am certain your paramour's wife," my words drip honey, "tolerates her husband's dalliances secure in her position." I leave the room with a haughty chin and sick stomach.
Iflee to the nursery where Vlăduţ gulps my milk while tears well in my eyes. How is it possible that my breasts produce the milk of life when the swill of disgust brews in my heart?
Aunt Orsulya enters the nursery and draws a chair to my side. "What did Margit say to you?"
I wipe tears across my cheek. "Is Vlad unfaithful?"
Aunt Orsulya snorts. "All husbands are unfaithful."
My insides tangle into a knot. "But with my own sister?"
"What? Preposterous." Aunt Orsulya shakes her head. "Is this what she told you?"
I put the milk-drunkVlăduţover my shoulder and pat his back. "I thought...Margit implied ..."
"Bah." Aunt Orsulya flaps her hand. "She is jealous of you and upset that Mátyus Maróti is not titled. Land and wealth are not enough for her. Margit wants a crown. I do not know if Prince Vlad has a mistress—there is no gossip to support that. However, I do know that some men are not content with one woman, even one giving them a son." She strokes Vlăduţ's face. "Men's desires for new conquests and new victories extend past the battlefield. Be realistic, Ilona. Expect infidelities. Whether it's one mistress or a harem, another woman does not threaten your position."
Aunt Orsulya's words add fresh gnashes to my injured heart. How can I tell her that her advice is opposite of Aunt Erzsébet's? How can I explain that I love Vlad so much it hurts? That his loving and needing someone else is like a living death for me?
Aunt Orsulya takes Vlăduţinto her arms. "Go back to the ladies' chambers. I'll be there in a bit."
I kiss Aunt Orsulya's cheek. "Thank you for putting things into perspective," I lie, and hurry from the nursery to a place where I can weep in private. Where only the saints and Jesus see my suffering.
The chapel door closes behind me with a hollow thud.
"I am a failure. I cannot satisfy my husband. I allow my sister to taunt me." My whispered confessions sound trite in the sanctified space.
The crucified Jesus, stone saints, and Blessed Mother are oblivious to my sufferings. Prayers offer no comfort. Hot tears of self-pity roll down my cheeks until the door creaks open. I wipe them away, squeeze my eyes shut, and bow my head pretending fervent prayer.
The pew squeaks as the intruder sits on the bench.
"Praying for our son?"
My head swings around and my heart pulses in my throat. "I pray for future sons."
Vlad slides next to me and wipes a tear from my cheek. "Why are you crying?"
"Those are tears of devotion." My false smile quivers.
"Devotion to what? God? Our child? Me?" Vlad presses his mouth to mine, pushes his tongue past my closed lips.
I want him; feel that primal desire welling inside me. "Not here."
Vlad runs his finger beneath the edge of my bodice. "You want it, don't you?"
I do. My nipples harden, stretch towards him in anticipation of his fingers and tongue. "Not in front of them." I point to the saints and stand to leave.
Vlad blocks my way, wraps me in his arms, and sprinkles kisses across my neck. "I want you, wife. Here and now." His hands wonder over my bodice.
"This is God's house." I struggle in his grip. "It's wrong."
"The act between husband and wife is a sacrament." Vlad spins me about, lifts my skirt up, and caresses my buttocks. "Show your devotion to me, Ilona."
His touch shoots arrows of pleasure to my nethers, the twinging ache of need overcoming my objections. I bend over the pew and offer my bare buttocks like a gift. Vlad grasps my hips and plunges in. I whimper with pleasure as his length thrusts deep.
"Is this what you were praying for,iubirea mea?" He breathes into my ear, his hand sliding around my thigh to stroke my pleasure knot.
I moan and sigh as he teases my slippery core until all piety is gone. Blinded by lust, I stare insensible at the crucified Jesus certain my mounting bliss assures me a place in hell. Together we consecrate our marriage with unholy paroxysms of pleasure.
He wipes our stickiness across my buttocks. "I have stayed too long from your bed."
Two sensations war within me. My skin tingles with the thrill of our naughtiness, yet my soul blisters with guilt.
As we leave the chapel my silent prayer is twofold, forgiveness and gratitude.
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