THE IMPALER'S WIFE

10 ~ ILONA

ILONA

Winter 1465

Buda Castle, Hungary

Snowflakes flutter past the narrow window. It is a chilly reminder of time's quick pace. With icy foreboding, I contemplate the unopened letter in my hand.

Margit, sitting near the fireplace of the ladies' chamber with the others, looks up from her embroidery, her brows lifted with mean-spirited glee. "Another love letter from the capitano grande?"

My mouth slumps into a frown. "The second since we returned from Visegrád."

"Open it." Aunt Orsulya flutters her hand. "Maybe his wife finally died. God bless her soul."

The letter is heavy in my hand, the weight of duty pinning me into the chair. I do not want Luigi della Scala's wife to die. But it is unchristian to wish for her continued suffering.

"Fine, I'll read it." Margit snatches the letter, cracks the seal, and unfolds the vellum. "Ahem." She waits for the ladies to look up from their needlework. "'My dearest Lady Ilona, it is with burdened heart and tearyeyes I write to tell you that my devoted wife's infirmity grows worse."

The weight falls away and I exhale with relief.

"Not much of a love letter." Aunt Orsulya's pinched lips move sideways.

Zsazsa jabs her needle in the air. "At least he gets right to the point."

"Ladies, save your comments until the end." Margit waves an outward palm. "'Though her body is weak, her faith in God is strong. So strong, the selfless woman urged me to waste no time in wedding another when God calls her to His bosom. My self-sacrificing wife also extracted a promise from me to find a god-fearing woman capable of giving me an heir and lamented her failure in this great commission. As I am a faithful and loving husband, I told her King Matthias offered his cousin's hand in marriage. Oh, how virtuous is my wife! She wept with joy, laid her pale hand on mine, and wished me happiness. To satisfy her curiosity, I expounded on your beauty, youth, and noble family. I am certain you will strive to be her equal in Christian virtue. My sincerest wish is for your happiness and'—oh, by my virtue, such nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, Margit," sniffs Aunt Orsulya. "I thought it quite nice, although the emphasis he puts on his wife being self-sacrificing and selfless is a bit tiresome."

"He makes his wife to be a saint." Skepticism sharpens my voice.

"It's a stupid boring letter." Margit tosses it into my lap.

Two can play this game.

"What does your alleged betrothed write to you about?"

"Prince Vlad doesn't need to write." Margit's mouth puckers as she lifts her pointy chin. "Anyway, he's being transferred here this week."

My heart skips a beat. "Is he coming to the masquerade?" I look to my aunt for confirmation.

Aunt Orsulya draws the needle through a linen collar. "I am not privy to King Matthias's guest list. However, Erzsébet did mention something about Matthias requiring Dracula's knowledge of Turkish. Evidently, he speaks like a native."

Margit rises from the chair. "This dull embroidery can wait another day. I have a more amusing task—designing an enchanting costume."

"A pointless undertaking," says Aunt Orsulya when Margit is gone. "I hear Dracula is more concerned with politics than flirting."

"Undoubtedly." Zsazsa tears the thread with her teeth. "Everyone's talking about Stephen of Moldavia's attack on the Chilia fortress."

"Matthias will have to walk a thinner rope than the ropewalkers he hires." Aunt Orsulya chuckles at her joke.