THE IMPALER'S WIFE

7

"I am negotiating your betrothal to Luis della Scala." King Matthias chugs from his waterskin.

My stomach roils with horror. "The Genoan capitano grandewho attended your coronation?" I had hoped to be married to a man I could respect and admire. The capitano grande is a rude, uncouth, flamboyant, blustering drunk.

"Yes, that's him." King Matthias wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "His desire to wed is a bit premature. His wife is bedridden. Dying, but still alive."

"I will pray for her." May she linger for many years.

From under the golden hair grazing his eyebrows, Matthias's eyes narrow with skepticism. "Della Scalla's family ties with the Gonzaga clan make him a valuable ally. Smile, Ilona, this time next year you will be the wife of a wealthy influential man."

"I am honored. It's just that..." I twist the reins, my knuckles white as I clench the leather.

"Speak plainly, cousin."

"You and Catherine were a finely-matched couple of the same age. Della Scala is old and fat." I slide my gaze toward Matthias. Did I overstep?

Matthias bursts out laughing. "Yes, and he farts gold and belches power."

"Margit says she will be wed to Prince Vlad when—"

"Those are Mother's plans, not mine." Matthias's face darkens, his mouth tight with displeasure. "Dracula will not marry into this family. Not now. Not ever."

"I don't wish to be disrespectful, but why not?"

"He's not Catholic." King Matthias pulls a chunk of meat from his bag and feeds it to his white-plumed falcon. "Good day, cousin." Matthias races across the field, his Vizslas loping after him.

My future turns rancid in my belly. King Matthias just doomed me to a miserable marriage. He is heartless!

I swallow the bile in my throat, release my merlin, and watch her climb skyward. Oh, to have my bird's perspective. Such height offers advantage in all things. Matthias's lofty station allows him to locate his prey with ease, like this marriage contract where I am the prey, defenseless against his soaring ambition.

The final horn blast ends the day's hunting. My spine curves and my shoulders slump as I return with two doves and one quail. I dismount and plod slowly to the table, blinking away tears.

Vlad Dracula is waiting for me. "How many?"

I open my quarry bag.

He looks inside. "Your skill adds to my coffers today."

If he notices my melancholy, he is too polite to mention it.

I tug off my gloves. "How is that possible? Others bagged more than I."

"There were other wagers." Prince Vlad wears a lopsided grin and one brow is raised in amusement. Or like he has a delicious secret.

I giggle, his expression infectious, then remembering I am promised to another, drop my gaze and pluck at a loose thread on my glove with false concentration. "Did you bet on my luck or my skill?"

"Both." Prince Vlad leans close, his wine-warm breath tickling my cheek. "Luck and skill are a formidable combination. In all things. Even love."

My head snaps up. "Love?"

"Love most of all. Securing a betrothal requires skill and finding happiness in the union requires luck." Prince Vlad rubs his chin. "Or is it the opposite? An advantageous betrothal requires luck and a loving union requires skill? Which is it, do you think?"