The energy in the city was one of abject dread. Rumors flew about Turks digging under the city, and we could hear the distant detonation of explosives by night, rattling the thick defensive walls.
Religious fervor whipped the churches into a frenzy, and I often heard people talking in hushed whispers about the end of days when I slipped into the chapel to pray in the evening. My piety was a sporadic, half-feral thing, sometimes lashing out at God with teeth bared, other times nuzzling against His loving providence like a kitten, but prayer steadied me. Whether I was talking to myself or something more, it brought me peace.
The world we had all known, it seemed, was drawing to a close.
You did not fear the Ottomans, not their weapons or their foreign ways. You admired their tactical skills, their finely crafted weapons, and spoke highly of their customs to me behind closed doors, the way you might talk about the Swedes or the French. You had lived too long to fear one culture more than another, and you had seen more empires fall than I could fathom even existing. War and desolation was par for the course, and so was the inevitable rebuilding and cultural flourishing that came after.
“Perhaps Vienna will remake herself if the city falls,” you mused once, watching frightened citizens hurry by outside our windows as the encroaching army drew closer. “Perhaps she will become a flower of art, or a trading center worthy of her position.”
You did not seem concerned with the human toll such a remaking would demand.
As the trade routes in and out of the city were choked out by the Ottomans, Vienna’s tables became more and more meagre, but you and I feasted nightly. Chaos ruled the streets, and people were so preoccupied with their own concerns that they were willing to look the other way if someone went missing. There were more young people roaming the streets, restless and wound up with fighting instinct. You welcomed them with open arms, even brought some of them into our bed to toy with before you took your fatal bite.
We grew fat and happy in the city’s discontent, and you quietly began pulling your money out of Viennese ventures and cashing out your investments in gold. Another move was coming, then. There wasn’t much time left.
My killing sprees grew bolder, more indiscriminate. The frantic atmosphere covered my tracks and allowed me access to men whose disappearances would have otherwise been thoroughly investigated. I went after magistrates, keepers of the peace, wealthy merchants, degenerates all of them. I ripped the throat out of a man who had violated his own daughter, then left a whole month’s worth of the allowance you gave me at the foot of his daughter’s bed. I ran a war profiteer through with one of the swords he so happily sold to both sides, then delicately supped from his wrist in his smithy. It was like sitting at my father’s knee as a child, cozy in the glow of a blacksmith’s fire while I enjoyed my simple meals.
It wasn’t a vendetta now, it was a purge; my last-ditch effort to cleanse the city of the wretches who haunted her dark corners. I would not leave Vienna in their clutches. Despite the way you turned your nose up to my nightly vigilante activities, my heart was steadfast. Why else would God allow me to fall into your hands if he did not want me to use my monstrousness to serve the common good?
I began to say goodbye to my beloved city, going for long walks at dusk to try and catch a bit of her color, see a few of her inhabitants before night fell. I was in love with every cobblestone, every bridge, every butcher’s boy and flower-selling girl. Vienna seemed to me a perfect encapsulation of the wonder of city life, and I shuddered to think she may fall.
Either way, you and I wouldn’t be there to see it.
We fled under cover of night, through an underground tunnel known only to a few. I ran with your jewels sewn into my dress, with hidden pockets to hide silver and gold. We abandoned everything in the townhouse; my fine dresses and shoes, Hanne’s lovingly embroidered pillows, your scientific equipment in the basement. We would rebuild even better than before in our new home, you told me.
We were stopped a mile from the city by a band of Ottoman soldiers patrolling the borders of their camp. They brandished their spears, but we made short work of them. We left their bodies in a heap on the ground, blood seeping through their clothes, a spear sticking up out of one of their chests.
“Where are we going?” I panted, struggling to keep up with you in my heavy dress. I thought I might collapse under the weight of it, even with my growing preternatural strength. The night was moonless, and I trusted your night sight better than I trusted mine.
“There’s a coach waiting. I paid off anyone who mattered.”
You pulled me along by the wrist, almost dragging me when I slowed too much. We scrambled through the weeds, the distant sound of explosions battering Vienna’s walls urging us along.
“And then?”
“Spain. One of my associates is expecting us.”
Another explosion sounded, loud enough to rattle the ground under my feet, and I gasped and rushed forward. Sickness, age, and a simple knife wound couldn’t kill creatures like us, but I wasn’t sure that being blown to bits wouldn’t.
The coach was waiting just as you said, with faceless hooded men waiting with two identical black horses. They were the kind of rough folk whose loyalty could be bought for a week or two, highwaymen mostly likely.
You opened the carriage door for me and held out your gloved hand.
“My lady,” you said.
I let you help me inside and pressed myself against the side of the coach, my face an inch from the window. As we took off with a lurch, I watched the city shrink to nothing behind us.
From such a great distance, the faithful torches burning along the outer wall made it look like Vienna was on fire.
PART TWO
We travelled by coach for days, dowsing in the sunlight hours and passing our time with quiet conversation or solitary activities by night. You became more withdrawn the closer we got to the Spanish border, referring to notes and letters you kept tucked into your datebook over and over again. I wanted to ask who exactly it was we were going to meet in Spain, but I would have been met with one of your gentle rebuttals, or worse, a flare of your unpredictable irritation. I had learned by then that it was better not to ask about your plans, since I didn’t have a say in them anyway. Better to ride along as your quiet, beautiful consort, taking notice of everything and everyone without making any demands of you.
I knew we were going to pass a few nights with one of your many correspondents, a Spanish noble of some prominence who had dazzled you with their cutthroat political philosophy.
“Like a modern Machiavelli,” is all you had murmured, half to me, half to yourself as you reread the letters.
I never expected her.
Magdalena insisted on receiving you the instant you arrived. She was waiting for us outside her manor, flanked by her staff. She was one of the most striking women I had ever seen, with a fine-featured face of cutting cheekbones and a soft, thin-lipped mouth, framed by a confection of black curls. Her dusky skin was set off by the high color of her cheeks. Rouge, probably, despite its impropriety for someone of her station. She was dressed in black satin trimmed with crimson silk, and her dark eyes flashed like twin daggers when she saw you, a smile breaking across her face.
She was utterly, wrenchingly gorgeous. I felt my heart tumble down through my ribs and hit the ground.
“What is this?” I whispered to you, suddenly terrified.
You tore your eyes away from her long enough to bring my wrist up to your mouth and press a kiss to my skittering pulse.
“A gift, if you want it. And a few days of reprieve among high society if you do not. You know I love you, Constanta, don’t you?”
“Another woman,” I said, betrayal thick in my throat. “You’ve been keeping another woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been carrying on correspondence with a dear friend, one who is very eager to meet you. I would never discard you, Constanta.”
“But you would collect us, lik
e baubles?”
You grimaced, straightening your cuffs and reaching for your hat. Outside, the servants were deftly unloading our coach. We only had moments together before we were thrust into the scrutinizing gaze of high society, silenced by the demands of decorum for only God knew how long. The entire visit, perhaps.
“You’ve never complained about my trysts before, nor have I complained about yours.”
“We hunt together,” I corrected you. “We take lovers together, or find bedmates to amuse ourselves for a few hours alone. They have never been affairs .”
“And neither is this. Nothing untoward has been going on between Magdalena and I, and I’m frankly surprised by your suspicions. You sound paranoid, Constanta. You need rest. Let our hostess show you the best of her hospitality and then decide how you feel about her.”
I stiffened at your familiar tone, wondering how long she had been “Magdalena” to you, if you murmured her name devoutly to yourself as you read over her letters full of strategy and policy and blood. I knew nothing about this woman except for her reputation as an iron-fisted ruler, and her appreciation of your insight into the control and rulership of local provinces. I didn’t even know how you came into contact with her. Just another one of the many details of your life you guarded jealously, forbidding me the indecency of a simple inquiry.
“We’ll discuss this later,” you said, more gentle as you kissed my temple. “Put on a smile for the staff and do your best to be civil to our hostess. She may surprise you yet.”
I was not permitted another word of argument, because the doors were opening and the thin light of a crescent moon was streaming in. You had timed our arrival perfectly, just at the moment the sun disappeared over the horizon.
I swallowed hard and accepted your hand as you helped me out of the carriage. As we walked arm in arm towards Magdalena, I felt like I was the favored child being presented with an adopted sibling she never knew she had. My head was hot and swimming with thoughts. How long had you been speaking so intimately with this woman, and what did she know of you, of us? Were we to be friends, or was she a prospective victim? Is that what you had meant by “a gift, if you want it?”
My flurry of thoughts came to a screeching halt as Magdalena dropped in a low curtsey in front of me, close enough that I could feel the swish of her skirts. She was smiling at me, her pupils wide and delighted, but her eyes kept flicking over to you.
“My lady Constanta,” she said, her voice rich and musical. “I have heard so very much about you. It’s my pleasure.”
I bowed to her in return, stiffly. She was greeting us both like equals, although you no longer carried your old title of nobility. Who exactly did she believe you were?
“The pleasure is mine, your excellency. Although I’m afraid I haven’t heard much about you.”
I shot you a look, pure poison on ice, and you smiled back at me tightly. That would earn me a reprimand later, but you would not raise your voice to me in the presence of others.
“My lord...” Magdalena said, turning to you. Her voice faltered. Of course it did. I knew very well what she was seeing for the first time: crow-black eyes above a strong, imperious nose and a mouth shaped like a declaration of war. The only thing that ever prevented you from looking fearsome was the amused sparkle in your eyes, more present now than I had seen in years. The hollow at the base of Magdalena’s throat fluttered as she took in an unsure breath, then she lowered her eyes and dropped into a flawless curtsy.
It tortured me, how perfect she looked. I wanted to pull her behind the carriage and drain her dry.
“I’m going to direct the servants,” I muttered. I grabbed my skirts and tramped over to the coach, where Magdalena’s staff were passing my trunks and parcels between themselves. I made a show of ordering them around, knowing that at least I was allowed this luxury in Magdalena’s home, and did my best not to look back at the two of you. Ultimately, I wasn’t able to manage.
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see you bring Magdalena’s gloved hand up to your mouth and press a lingering kiss to her knuckles. You clutched her hand close to her chest and said something softly, too quietly for me or any of the staff to hear. Magdalena’s lips parted in soft surprise, her eyes gleaming.
I wanted to crawl between whatever was blossoming between the two of you and live there. This was my home too, I wanted to shout. I had earned my right in your bed and I hadn’t been consulted on inviting somebody else in, no matter how beautiful she was.
The servants skittered around with downcast eyes, working as efficiently as a hive of bees. I didn’t have to spend much time directing them, and soon I found myself back at your side, looking into Magdalena’s bright eyes. The fabric peeking through the slashes in her sleeves and the stiff ruff at her throat were as white as death.
“My honored guests must have a tour of the manor,” she announced, and clapped her hands briskly. “Then, dancing and dinner.”
The servants scattered like a school of fish, running this way and that to throw open doors and make preparations. I had never seen a household so efficient. You arched an impressed eyebrow at Magdalena and she smirked back demurely.
I already resented the rapport I felt growing between you two. I didn’t know if I wanted all of your attention, or all of Magdalena’s. I was slipping fast into a heady, dark maelstrom of jealousy and want. I needed a glass of water, and a quiet room to sit down in and wait for the world to stop spinning. But there wasn’t time. I was swept along on your arm, Magdalena trotting along on the other side of you like a sharp-toothed terrier.
“The home has been in my family for five generations,” she said as the heavy wooden doors swung open and ushered us inside. “It is my responsibility and pleasure to maintain it.”
I could hear the glow of pride in her voice as I took in the lovely tapestries and the strong grey stone walls, but there was a strange twinge in her words that almost sounded like bitterness. Perhaps the pleasure came with some sort of price.
Servants scattered as she strode through the home, keeping their eyes fixed firmly on the floor, or on the folded linens in their hands.
“You have them so well-trained,” you noted, leaning down over to Magdalena although your voice carried easily.
She practically glowed with self-satisfaction.
“Like many of my contemporaries, they were not accustomed to receiving orders from a woman untied to any man, but diligence and a strong hand breaks all bad habits.”
The two of you shared a private smile, probably remembering something in one of your letters.
“You’ve found cruelty to be an effective tool,” I said airily, following her through the vaulting wood and stone halls of her ancestral home. Magdalena threw a look to me over her shoulder, quirking a plucked eyebrow.
“I am firm, my lady, and I understand leverage. The people only call me cruel because it is easier to think of a woman as cruel than competent. Surely, you can understand that.”
She was clever, and I wanted to smile, but I swallowed down the treacherous gesture. Let her be clever, and pretty besides. I must not let her ingratiate herself to me when she was obviously already so ingratiated to my husband. Perhaps inappropriately so.
Appropriate. The absurdity of the word struck me and I almost scoffed aloud. What, if anything, in our life was appropriate? We killed to live, we lied and cheated and took lovers, we slipped from town to town like ghosts, draining the populace of their money and blood before moving on. Not a month ago we had brought two young men home with us from the streets and taken our pleasure with them before draining them dry in our wedding bed. I had given up appropriate when I had given up my ability to eat mortal food, to walk abroad in the sun.
Then why did my heart twinge whenever you looked at her?
I prayed that we would have a moment alone before dinner. To fight, to reconnect, I didn’t know. I just needed you without pretense, in private. But I was not to get my wish.
We were
separated and ushered into different rooms to dress for dinner. The fashion had been looser on the streets of Vienna, but now I was dressed in the Spanish style, in severe, dark fabrics with jewels at my waist and a ruff at my throat. The aristocracy were merciless when it came to their airs and graces, you had told me, and would not hesitate to mock or excommunicate anyone who didn’t take propriety seriously. I was to be on my best behavior, to remember all you had taught me about high society and keep my mouth shut when I could not.
And so, before I even had an instant to catch my breath, I was laced into a confection of brocade and ushered into the belly of the beast.
The ballroom was filled with twenty or thirty members of the gentry. Her contemporaries, she had called them. They drifted through the ballroom in silk and velvet, drinking from beaten gold goblets while a quartet of musicians strummed on lyres. I suspected some had travelled in for the festivities.
How long had Magdalena been expecting you? Since before the siege on Vienna? And moreover, why did she want to impress you so badly?
I found you among the crowd, looking handsome and impassable in your black doublet and jerkin trimmed with gold. I sank into my place on your arm, suddenly feeling exhausted. The night had just begun, but I wanted to curl up and sleep it all away.
“You look lovely,” you said, smoothing your knuckle over my cheek as though nothing was wrong, as though Magdalena didn’t exist. For a moment, under the scorching weight of your unadulterated attention, I felt like I was the only person in the world.
Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible, a treacherous thought offered, to share you with another if you still looked at me like that when we were alone.
Magdalena was leading the dance, a prim and provincial series of turns and bows. She darted in between her partners, lightly brushing hands and shoulders in a complex series of touches. Every so often, her dark eyes flickered over to you.
A Dowry of Blood Page 5