THE IMPALER'S WIFE

3

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."