THE IMPALER'S WIFE

8

I listen to the ladies discuss the latest Vatican tragedy while plucking at a knotted thread when a loud throat clearing interrupts the conversation.

"Lady Ilona." A white-haired nobleman leans on his cane, his eyes squinting against the hot summer sun shining down on the courtyard. "Prince Vlad commands your presence in the lower courtyard."

Aunt Orsulya's needle hangs in mid stitch. "Political detainees do not command."

With a pinched smile, Aunt Erzsébet sweeps her gaze over our little sewing circle. "My son indulges this particular guest."

"Sister." Aunt Orsulya lays her embroidery on her lap. "This is a most unusual summons."

It is more than unusual. It is scandalous. It exceeds even King Matthias's lenient standards of court etiquette.

My heart throbs in my throat, and I bite my lips to keep from smiling at Dracula's boldness.

"Prince Vlad detests impropriety of all kinds." Zsazsa looks at the nobleman. "Surely, he is not alone in the courtyard."

The elder scowls as though he feels this errand is beneath him. "There are three others."

Zsazsa pats my hand and leans close. "Go to him. Orsulya and I will squash any rumors of immodesty."

I yank the needle from the sleeve, pricking my finger in my haste, and scrape the droplet of blood with my teeth as my eyes flit from face to face. Aunt Erzsébet's lips are pursed with displeasure. Aunt Orsulya wrinkles her nose. Zsazsa's eyes sparkle with playful collusion. But Margit's face sends a shiver down my spine. Her eyes are predatory, as focused and cruel as a hungry lynx.

Like a frightened roe deer, I avert my eyes , rise, and follow the elderly noble down to the lower terrace.

Mindful of my reputation I pause at the courtyard's entrance. A royal guardsman snaps to attention. A pink-cheeked old scullery woman in a faded kerchief shucks pea pods into a basket. The third is the portraitist, who fusses with his brushes under a white canopy.

As though sensing my arrival, Vlad turns and points his thumb at the blank canvas. "This is a tedious business."

His smooth, deep voice lures me forward. I walk toward him, my disobedient feet overriding common sense. "Sitting too long without something to do does tend to dull the brain."

"My thoughts exactly." Prince Vlad sets his feathered cap atop the velvet dalmatica already draped over the chair. "Did you hear about Pope Pius's death?"

"The other ladies and I were just discussing his untimely end." I survey the pigment pots on the portraitist's table.

"It's a terrible tragedy." Prince Vlad crosses his arms. "A blow for all Christendom. Without Pope Pious's leadership his army will scatter like dried leaves in the wind. He was the driving force behind the crusade."

"Is it true he promised absolution to any man who joined?"

"He did." His brow furrows. "It's a promise I would have liked to make to my own army." He looks past me and into the distance.

I touch the crucifix at my neck, take a deep breath, and broach a subject often discussed by the papal legate, Niccolò Modrussa. "Do you believe God called you to stop the Turks from invading?"

Prince Vlad sets his hand over his heart. "My father's oath to the Order of the Dragon became mine when he died. So, yes, I suppose you could say God called me."

I twist the cross, my fingertips squeezing the sharp-edged crossbar until my skin stings. "Should my father's quest to subdue the Turks become mine as well?" This is impossible. I am a woman with no military power.