by Lana Popovic
Judit cowers like someone stranded in the path of a rockfall, hounded by a danger so inexorable it cannot be averted. “It was not me, my lady. It was—That was Anna.”
One of Elizabeth’s pale hands darts out like a flitting bird and grips Judit by the hair—exactly as Ferenc caught me by the braid. I can see the echoes of him now in every taut line of Elizabeth’s face, the way she has learned to reenact his cruelty. As though she knows no other way to make herself be heard.
“Then why, you stupid, useless simp,” she hisses through gritted teeth, her lovely face contorted beyond recognition, “can you not manage so much as a simple tune?”
Overcome, the chambermaid dissolves into sobs. “I’m sorry,” she wails, at such a volume that Elizabeth winces. Why can Judit not see, I think wildly, that she is only making this worse for herself? “My lady, I am so sorry, sometimes the strings snap of their own accord, it cannot be helped—”
“Oh, can it not?” Elizabeth grates back, releasing the girl and slapping her smartly across the face. Once, twice, and thrice, the last in a ruthless backhand that wrests a shrill, helpless cry from Judit. “And could you not have found the time to check on it, before you brought it to play for me tonight? Do I pay you to laze about with your equally indolent accomplice”—here she slices a vicious look at Margareta, who whimpers and stares at the ground, blinking in spastic twitches—“while someone else tends tirelessly to my needs? Does that sound familiar, you wretched little leech?”
“I will fix it, my lady, please,” the girl begs, hand clasped to her blotched cheek. “Just, just grant me another chance to show—”
“Oh, I intend to,” Elizabeth snaps, her chin lifting imperiously. “Margareta, fetch me my switch.”
When Margareta scuttles off, I turn warily to Elizabeth, my thoughts spinning like a spider’s web, fast and intricate. “Elizabeth,” I say casually, making as though to suppress a yawn. As if I am not quaking on the inside, fault lines webbing through my composure. “Why tire yourself over such a worthless ninny? Instead, maybe we could play a game of chess, did you not wish to teach me how to—”
I cut myself off when she darts me a quelling look, dark and implacable and a touch incredulous that I would think to test her now. “Later,” she says shortly. “Do you not see that I am occupied with discipline?”
“Of course, beg pardon,” I correct myself smoothly, though my heart is lodged in my throat like a peach pit. “I only meant that maybe you should not overexert yourself, as you’re only just risen from the sickbed.”
She nods, appeased. “You are sweet to worry over me, Anna. Do you see, Judit? That is what proper care looks like. Take heed and learn from your betters.”
“Yes, my lady,” Judit whispers miserably.
Margareta slinks back in like a whipped cur, offering Elizabeth a slender little switch. Though it looks innocuous, almost delicate, I know the kind of bite its slim girth can inflict.
“Undo her stays, Margareta,” Elizabeth orders, her eyes ablaze. “Bare her back.”
When the chambermaid is naked to the waist, Elizabeth orders her to play.
Shuddering all over, the girl complies. The song is faltering and weak, and each time the strings twang sour, Elizabeth brings the switch hissing down onto her back. The first few times, Judit swallows back any sounds—Good girl, I find myself rooting silently for her, stay strong—but when the third lash coaxes a stippled trail of blood from her skin, she can’t bite back her shriek.
“The more you weep, the worse it will be,” Elizabeth warns, struggling to restrain the wide, rapturous grin splitting her face. After the first blow, the mask of restraint had begun to slip, until it hung dreadfully askew. Now that blood has been drawn, her aspect has shifted fully, from fury into something almost transcendently inhuman. As if she’s become an instrument of an unholy thing, a bloodthirsty deity working through her hands—perhaps even the thing she calls her choler. And for the first time I find myself aghast, truly terrified of her. “Remember, your fate is in your own hands. Play well, and it will stop.”
“But it’s broken, my lady,” the poor wretch cries, her fingers plucking feebly at the instrument. “I, I cannot make it sing sweetly, not when I’m missing a string, please . . .”
“Then you will break!” Elizabeth roars, unleashing a volley of merciless blows. Eventually, though she tries, Judit can no longer keep her seat. She thrashes herself to the floor, writhing and screeching. As Elizabeth rages on, I almost marvel at the expanse of Judit’s fear, so vast that no matter what agony she suffers she does not even consider an escape. It’s almost a kind of twisted courage, that she finds it in herself to endure this interminable punishment.
Or perhaps it is not bravery, but merely that she is trapped just as I am. By the shackles of a family who can abide only so long as she provides them with coin.
And is it truly Ferenc’s abuse, I begin to wonder, watching the corded muscles in Elizabeth’s neck, the wild elation flooding her face with every fall of the switch, that casts her to these abject depths? Or might there be some black vein of malice riving through her, too, nothing at all to do with him?
But that cannot be, it cannot. I could not love someone evil, and yet I love her so dearly, shudder with yearning for her touch.
By the time Elizabeth tires, what feels like hours later, Judit is slumped unmoving on the stones. The room reeks of her acrid sweat and the cooling, copper tang of blood.
“Come, my lady Elizabeth,” I say softly, taking her by the arm. She sags against me, wrung out by the force of her own wrath. “I’ll take you to bed.”
“Thank you, Anna,” she murmurs into the curve of my neck, head lolling. I glance back over my shoulder at Margareta, who is patting at Judit’s slack cheeks, trying to rouse her. When she meets my eyes, I mouth, “I’ll come see to her later.” The girl’s face shutters, grows frigid—I can see she holds me complicit for Judit’s plight—but she nods curtly before looking away.
“You were right,” Elizabeth continues, yawning hugely. “I should not have pushed myself so hard. I am fearsomely weary.”
You are certainly fearsome, my love, I think to myself, my heart sinking like lead. And how am I to contain you?
“But now the discipline is done,” I soothe her. “And you may rest.”
Though she barely managed to stumble into bed, Elizabeth wakes not long after me, hearty and refreshed, as if the blood spilled last night has rejuvenated her.
“Good morning, Lady Sage,” she murmurs languorously to me, stretching her arms high above her head and arching her back like a cat. “Did you sleep well? And enjoy our night?”
“The feast was lovely,” I say, allowing her the opportunity to repent for the grotesquely outsized ire that followed it, to make even an attempt to explain herself. But she merely beams at me, making no mention of Judit—though I spent an hour cleaning and tending to the welts on her striped back.
It is like a nightmare dissolving in the dawn, dispelled as if it never even happened. In a way, I am relieved, for the longer the memory of Judit’s anguish is allowed to draw breath between us, the more abjectly guilt-ridden I would feel for having merely stood aside, a silent, useless witness to her suffering.
When it’s clear that she does not intend to bring it up, I continue. “We have our first snow,” I remark placidly, gesturing at the window as I drip almond oil into her wash basin. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing the curtains for once, as the day is so densely overcast that no sun will dare threaten Elizabeth’s precious skin. A frosty flurry wheels beyond the glass, flakes so fat and perfect they seem almost unreal. Like a child’s first dream of snow. “Winter is truly here.”
She gasps, delighted as a little girl, tumbling out of bed. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she exclaims, crossing her arms over the sill, her cheeks flushing with excitement. “I do love snow. We must go outside, Anna, and catch it on our tongues as I used to do when I was small. Perhaps we will even take a winter ride!”
Snow is usually no cause for rejoicing in the village, as the harbinger of even emptier bellies and ruthlessly cold nights, but her enthusiasm seems to be catching as brushfire. “I would love that. It’s been a long time since I sat a horse by myself.”
She turns, cocking her head at me in question. “Have you ever had one of your own?”
I chuckle at the thought of such luxury. “Not even close,” I say ruefully. “But my best friend used to let me borrow his. A lovely dappled mare.”
“His?” She raises an eyebrow. “Your best friend was a man?”
“Yes.” I tilt my head, considering. “Though I suppose I often still think of Peti as a boy, not the man he is.”
“How funny,” she ponders. “I’ve never even considered befriending a man. I would not know how to trust one.”
“Usually I would feel the same. But Peter is a rare person,” I say fondly. “Clever, well-mannered, so gentle. I’ve never heard him so much as utter an unkind word.”
Her lips twitch, and I am run through by a sudden spike of fear—what if she takes these compliments as backhanded criticisms, for her own distinctly ungentle behavior last night? “You sound as though you are half in love with him,” she retorts, almost accusingly, and I relax a fraction. Jealousy I am equipped to handle. “Despite what you told me yesterday. Is he so very handsome, then? Enough to sway even one such as you?”
“He is handsome, but it has never made me want him, not even for an instant,” I assure her, purposely leaving out his proposal. It would only irk her further. “We were raised together. He is more like a brother than anything else.”
She nods, satisfied that he poses no threat to her. “And I’d venture that for all his admirable qualities, he has never given you a horse,” she offers coyly, widening her eyes in delight. “As I am about to do.”
“Elizabeth!” I gasp. “That is far too generous, I cannot accept, I—”
“Nonsense,” she counters. “Let us get dressed, and then we will visit the stables and pick one out for you.”
“I . . .” I falter, wrapping my hands in my apron. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, then.” She reaches over and presses a soft kiss to my mouth, drawing back to wink at me when my breath hitches in response. “And let me spoil you as you deserve.”
After a breakfast of hot milk porridge and mulled wine, we cross the courtyard and traipse to the stables, swathed in Elizabeth’s luxuriant furs. A fluffy dusting soon gathers on my borrowed ermine hood. Elizabeth has dispensed with hers altogether, letting a sugared sprinkle gather in her hair and sparkle in her lashes.
“How lovely everything looks,” she gushes, parting her lips to shape the billow of her breath into neat little puffs. “So clean and new. All the dirt and ugliness concealed, hidden away until the spring.”
“You think Nadasdy Castle ugly?” I ask, surprised that she might unwittingly mirror my own feelings on the keep.
“There is ugliness everywhere, when you peel back the skin,” she responds darkly. “But let us not ruin this day by speaking of it.”
“Certainly, not when everything is so . . .”
The words sour in my mouth as we step over the stables’ threshold and into the musky animal heat—to find the stable boy who had accosted me pressing a girl against one of the stall doors. They’re tangled in an impassioned embrace, the girl’s smock pushed down to reveal the sharp jut of her collarbones, the pert bob of her breasts. Unlike me, at least she seems more than willing.
“What is the meaning of this?” Though Elizabeth’s voice is soft, it slices like a scythe. “Have my stables become a bordello for my servants to rut in at their leisure? How extraordinary. Here I thought they were for the keeping of horses.”
The two spill apart, the girl frantically arranging herself back into her dress. I recognize her now, though I don’t know her name; she’s one of the scullery maids, a particular friend of Krisztina’s. By the flash of revulsion that gallops across her face before panic chases out everything else, she recognizes me as well. My stomach hollows out at the look, at having my worst suspicions confirmed. The rumors of my doings must already have reached the cellars.
“Beg pardon, mistress,” the boy croaks desperately. “I was—we was just stealing a kiss and a fumble to warm up in this blasted cold, not—not rutting—”
“Silence,” Elizabeth orders, sparing barely a glance for him. “You, girl. What is your name? Beyond shameless harlot, I mean. I assume your mother saw fit to give you one.”
“Orsolya, mistress,” the scull whispers, flushing beetroot as she drops a frantic curtsy.
“Orsolya,” Elizabeth repeats, articulating the name so delicately she might be tasting some delectable dessert. “What a fine, unlikely name for such a filthy strumpet. My husband’s mother is called the same. Your parents must have had lamentably high aspirations for you.”
The poor girl trembles like cornered prey, her eyes darting this way and that, unsure what she should say or do to save herself. Don’t bother, I wish I could tell her. There is no way out, save to endure.
“Come, Orsolya,” Elizabeth commands with another mocking emphasis on the name, turning on her heel and sweeping out of the stables. “And you, too, boy. I have a mind to teach your trull a lesson while you watch.”
“Why spare him the punishment, Elizabeth?” I hiss under my breath as I fall into step with her, ahead of the other two. I find myself desperate to protect this hapless girl, shield her from Elizabeth’s wrath. “He is the ruffian I told you of, the scoundrel who accosted me! Perhaps she had no choice!”
“Come, Anna, you saw that the trollop was acting of her own volition just as I did,” she responds, casting me an acerbic glance. “Sullying my stables with her wantonness.”
“Of course I saw it,” I agree hastily, though in honesty I cannot see the harm at all—not when she and I were lustily sullying her own bed only the day before, and certainly not when she herself has a son out of wedlock. “But he—”
She lifts a hand, silencing me. “As to why I will not discipline him as he deserves, that is simple. Punishing men is simply not worth the trouble. A family will take even a broken shambles of a daughter back without raising a ruckus, but harming so much as the hair of a boy, a precious carrier of the bloodline . . .” Her voice curdles with disgust, her lip lifting into a half snarl. “Men are assigned a great deal more worth than women, be they common or noble. And I would rather not bring a slavering mob down on my head.”
The unfairness of it, and the undeniable truth, rankles me as we tramp through the courtyard and beyond the castle’s western wing like some solemn congregation, forging through the gathered snowdrifts until we reach the little pond just behind the keep. When I first arrived it was a lovely spot, shaded by aspens and firs and ideal for gathering water-loving herbs. Now the trees extend eager, naked limbs above it like pilfering fingers, and cloudy slabs of ice float on the surface like blind eyes. Elizabeth draws up short at its edge, turning to rake Orsolya with her contemptuous gaze.
“When you were little,” she begins. “Did your mother ever scour your mouth clean of foul language, using soap and water?”
“O-once, my lady,” the scull stutters, so terrified I can almost see her bones clatter with her shaking.
“Then you’ll know I do this for your own good. To purge your filthy body.” She gestures toward the water. “In you go. And do not make me ask you twice.”
The scull flings a desperate, disbelieving look at the icy water. Her lips part in question, but before she can entreat Elizabeth and secure an even worse fate for herself, I break in. “Did you not hear the lady, trollop?” I demand harshly. “She said get in. And if you disrespect our mistress further by tarrying, I shall flog you myself until you’ve no blood left.”
The girl’s eyes fly open wide—she is as afraid of me as she is of Elizabeth, I realize with a wash of horror—and she takes a shaky step toward the pond, then another. Her halt
ing progress proves too slow for Elizabeth’s liking; she reaches out and calmly shoves Orsolya into the water.
The girl’s shriek as she pitches into the icy depths pierces me directly through the heart.
When she surfaces, she is dangerously purple-lipped and pale, trembling so hard she can barely master her mouth enough to form words. “P-please, m-m-mistress,” she begs piteously through chattering teeth, wrapping mottled arms around herself. “It—it—it is freezing! I, I will die!”
I think of how desperately cold I was the night I arrived at the keep, and that was months ago, and dry besides. How much worse must this be for her?
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allows airily, and I realize with a dread knell of shock that she is perfectly willing to let Orsolya die. “Or you will abide and be the wiser for it.”
The girl begs for mercy a while longer, but her energy ebbs quickly as the cold pervades. I can see her become woozy and witless, her lids drooping over foggy eyes. If she does not emerge soon, she will die; even the dullard stable boy, the cause of all this trouble, can see as much. He weeps silently, clear snot gushing from his nose, but even he knows better than to plead for her life.
There is no one left to help her but me. And if I do nothing, her death is on my soul.
“Elizabeth,” I murmur low into her ear. Careful, so agonizingly careful not to overstep. I must dilute her ire by offering what seems like a more complex punishment—more interesting than this, but one that will spare the girl’s life as well. In the moment, I can devise only one. “The slut is at death’s door already. And what have you accomplished, if you merely let her freeze?”
She whips her dark gaze to me, canny and shrewd. “What do you mean? What would you have me do instead?”
“Take her out and strip her,” I suggest. “Since she is so proud of her nudity, have her walk naked to the castle and through the corridors until she repents.”
Elizabeth weaves her head back and forth in the same considering motion I remember from when she was deciding how to deal with me, the first day I came to her. “I like it,” she finally decides. “It is fitting, and just. Presents a certain pleasing symmetry. Orsolya! You may come out, you slattern!”