THE IMPALER'S WIFE

26 ~ILONA ~

ILONA

January 1468

Dracula's Manse in Pest, Hungary

Screams echo off the walls. Through the tapestry-covered stones. Across the hall. Down the stairs. Out into the courtyard. My screams.

"Focus your strength downward. The babe is crowning. Bear down with the next pain." The midwife rubs ointment into my nether regions.

Bernádett presses a cool cloth to my brow. "Another push, my lady. Just one more."

Aunt Orsulya hunches over her rosary, her fingers clenched, her lips moving soundlessly for hours.

Margit gnaws her fingernails.

Aunt Erzsébet paces the room. "Everyone, we must all beseech Saint Margaret's blessed help."

I am dying. Only the patron saint of childbirth can help me now. I writhe. My bones ache. My skin hurts. After a day and a half of labor my body is as weak as a newborn kitten.

The midwife crouches at my feet. "My lady, the last pains are always the worst. Your babe waits for the final push. Let your child enter the world." She sticks a knotted cloth between my teeth.

PUSH! A strength surges from somewhere deep within, and my body and soul bears down into an agony so tremendous it blocks all reason.

The searing pressure slips away as the infant emerges.

"A son. A son." The midwife holds the red-faced babe aloft. "A healthy son."

The child lets loose a loud wail. The ladies burst into happy tears. They hug, kiss their crosses, and give thanks to Saint Margaret. The midwife places my son in my arms. I stare down at his tiny pink face, hot tears running down my cheeks, and my heart blooms with instant love. He is perfect and beautiful and mine. Joyful sobs wrack my weary body.

"Lady Ilona is overcome," says Aunt Erzsébet to a servant. "Bring her watered wine. Hurry." She dabs at my tears with a handkerchief then counts the babe's fingers and toes, inspects the shape of his face, and runs a hand over his limbs. "Well done. I will give the good news to Prince Vlad." With a swish of her skirt she departs.

The midwife tugs on the cord and a hot rush of afterbirth slushes out. She checks it, nods her approval, and sets it in a bowl.

"You must rest, Ilona." Zsazsa lifts my son from my heavy arms and the midwife helps me from the birthing stool to the bed.

I collapse in its softness, feel the midwife cover me with clean linen. I doze in and out, hear snatches of conversation.

"So vigorous. A strong little man."

"Bring fresh linens."

"Cleanse the air with fresh herbs."

"Warm the milk bath."

"Bring swaddling."

My eyes flutter open when the midwife palpates my stomach.

She scrutinizes the blood clots. "All is well, my lady. How do you feel?" The midwife sets my milk-bathed babe in my arms.

"Tired but wonderful." I stare down at the babe's cornflower-blue eyes, which already blink as though determined to take in the world around him. I kiss his wee head, sweet smelling and downy with pale fine hair, and place him at my breast where he latches on my nipple with gusto. Tears flow down my cheeks. My happiness is complete.

Aunt Orsulya, Zsazsa, and Margit arrange their chairs at my bedside.

"May I?" Margit lifts the blanket and strokes the underside of his wrinkled foot. "He's beautiful, Ilona." Her lower lips quivers. Today, Margit shows her sisterly side; concerned, caring, and without guile.