All that night we dined and enjoyed each other’s company. He sat near me at the head of the table in his private dining room and leaned on his hands when I spoke, his eyes lighting up at some joke or bit of news about some mutual acquaintance. He did seem to be lonely, for even after the food was finished and I might have taken my leave for the evening he kept ordering the servants to bring more and more wine, as if to keep me there a little bit longer. He leaned in close to listen when I asked him questions about our friend Bocskai’s troubles with the king, so close his head nearly touched my own. How unfortunate, he said, that István Bocskai would choose now to side with the Hungarian nationalists and the Transylvanians against the king.
But surely on the question of religion, I said, it was best that the Hungarians be able to choose their own faith, rather than have it imposed by the Catholic Habsburgs. As a Lutheran himself, Thurzó must see that.
“It is possible to overlook matters of faith for the good of the state,” Thurzó said. “The Habsburgs remain Hungary’s best hope against Constantinople. Bocskai makes a mistake by forgetting that. Rudolf’s ties to Rome are not as strong as his ties to Hungary.”
I said the fact that Thurzó managed to retain both the trust of Rudolf and of Mátyás in such turbulent times was testament to his shrewdness of mind, his great ability in sorting out the affairs of men. He laughed, because he was no fool—he knew what a woman’s flattery was worth. But my interest in his affairs, and praise for his decisions, seemed to please him nevertheless.
“Rudolf is a friend of yours, isn’t he?” I asked.
“He is. A worthy king, very learned.”
“Not unlike you yourself.”
“His interests are different from mine, but I like to think myself the intellectual equal of any man.”
Or woman. “He spends much time with his artists and astronomers, from what I hear. Even Kepler is there now as his court mathematician. It must cost him a fortune.”
“A fair bit. Many of his Spanish friends come to seek his advice and encouragement, and the great minds of Europe, too, find no better friend than Rudolf. Hungary needs such a patron, if she is ever to be the equal of the great empires of the west.”
“And the king needs such an ally in you, I think, if he is to manage such a transformation.”
Thurzó smiled, but his heavily bagged eyes narrowed to take me in, to consider me afresh. “And so what are you after, Countess? I have never known you to offer a compliment that didn’t need to be repaid somehow.”
“Can I not offer a compliment to an old friend?”
“Yes, you may, but I wonder how high the price will be in the end.”
I smiled. He was a man after my own heart, after all. “You may remember that my younger daughter is very nearly of an age to be betrothed. There are several decent suitors I would consider, if I were in a position to do so. The estate is somewhat short on funds of late that I might use for her dowry.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, his voice rich with sarcasm. “Yes, I can see how you struggle, Countess. May we all have such monetary difficulties. You do not want me to lend you some forints? A few gold pieces to see you through your hardship?”
“Not at all, my friend, and you can remove that tone from your voice. Perhaps you know that my poor Ferenc lent the royal treasury a great deal of money ten years ago, when his majesty was embroiled in the Turkish wars. Now that the Turks are sent back, I was hoping that he might remember us, and repay his debt.”
“You want me to petition the king on your behalf?”
“I merely thought you might help me arrange a meeting with the archduke. I understand he holds a bit more sway here in Bécs than does the absent king, and such a request might be better served coming from a friend rather than a woman he hardly knows.”
Thurzó laughed. “You are a shrewd woman, too shrewd perhaps. Very well. I will arrange your meeting with Mátyás. I will even go with you to plead your case.”
“Thank you. I knew you would serve me well in this matter.”
He paused, looking at me with such frankness that I blinked and lowered my eyes, taking up the cup of wine and sipping at it. Thurzó had always been an unhandsome man, unlike my dear Ferenc, but men of power and authority always had qualities that made up for the lack of physical beauty.
He asked, “How would you be willing to show your gratitude, do you think?”
Without reservation I placed my hand on his arm. The sleeve of his coat was cool to the touch, more roughly made than the ones Ferenc had worn. When I had the chance, I would have a finer one made for him, one of such softness that to run one’s hand down its length would be a delight. But for now I simply said, “How would I not?”
Whores, both of us. But honest ones, at least.
9
Thurzó took me in the autumn to see the archduke, transporting me in his own carriage from the house on Lobkowitz Square into the Hofburg, to the Schweizerhof—the Swiss Gate—with its ornate gate and gilded letters declaring the worth of Ferdinand, Rudolf’s grandfather, the old king who had built it. We sat together, the count absently stroking the fingers of my hand, looking out the windows and away, for we had grown so comfortable together over the previous weeks that often we didn’t need to speak at all. As we passed out of the stone courtyard into the streets of the city I felt a surge of happiness overtake me, the joy that came from loving, for the first time in nearly thirty years, a man of my own choosing.
That summer, while Bocskai had been fomenting his rebellion, my poor brother István had died. His health had never been good even when he was a child, and it seemed that the sickness in the eastern part of the country had sapped the last of my brother’s strength. He died of a rattling cough in the middle of a hot summer. The family stronghold in the marsh at Ecsed passed on to my nephew Gábor and his younger sister, Anna, the orphaned children—Báthory cousins both—my brother and his wife had adopted as their own. Gábor Báthory was sixteen, nearly a man already, and one who could defend the massive keep in the event of trouble. But still I worried about him, and about his sister, and Kata and Pál.
As soon as I heard the news of István’s death I made plans to go to Ecsed for my brother’s funeral. Thurzó, however, deemed it unwise for me to cross the Duna and return to Ecsed while Bocskai and his hajdúks were on the move. I might be vulnerable, he said, since the Báthorys had such strong ties to Transylvania, and to Bocskai. Thurzó said it would be better for me if I remained in the city for the time being and showed my loyalty to the king and the empire. Partly Thurzó wanted to keep me where he could keep an eye on me, I knew, but he also thought staying in the city was the wisest course if I wanted the return of the king’s money. Thurzó was willing to offer me the strength of his protection and friendship, as well as his love, so I agreed. I would remain in Bécs at least until the following spring, when the roads improved, and then go on to Csejthe for the summer, stopping to see to an estate that my brother had left me in his will along the way. I wrote to Gábor that I was sorry I could not join them for the funeral rites, and stayed at the house in Lobkowitz Square. Perhaps it was a mistake to do so, but even more than my desire for his help, I had learned to enjoy the presence of György Thurzó in my bed, and I was reluctant to give him up so soon. Anything that kept me closer to him was agreeable to me then.
For months Thurzó and I had spent our evenings in each other’s company. Three or four times a week we would dine together before the fire, dismissing the servants before the meal was over so that our intimacies would not be observed. He would lean over and take my hand in his, kiss it, then run his fingers up into my hair to pull a strand or two loose, preferring it down over my shoulders. Like a deep pool of still water, he said. After a few such evenings, I began having Darvulia pile it up more simply, so that a single tug of Thurzó’s might bring it down. He would pick it up with his hands and kiss the ends, and then I would go to him and press my lips to the cool bags under his eyes, the tired-lo
oking mouth. He was gorgeous in his ugliness, I saw then, a thing of exquisite tenderness and simplicity, like a frog prince. I began to think that my mother had been right to have more than one husband. As we turned into the courtyard of the Hofburg, with Thurzó pressing my hand inside the belly of the carriage to reassure me, it occurred to me that a second husband might be the happiness I had sought all my life.
The drawing room where Archduke Mátyás would receive us was plain but stylish, with small glass windows in wooden frames and white-plaster walls, though the ceilings were much higher than ordinary, and the windows let in a good deal of light. In the center of the room sat an ornate wooden table set with the richest silver I had ever seen, heavy and bright and newly polished, over which the smell of good wine, freshly poured, hung in the air, and on the walls were dozens of paintings, including one of the king himself, red-haired and heavyset, with a closely cropped beard and an imperious expression. Next to it, a similar one of his brother Mátyás, in a black jacket and white ruff and voluminous red-and-gold pleated pants, showed the two to be brothers not only in looks but in expression, haughty and stony-faced. From what Thurzó had told me, the similarities ended there, for while Rudolf was a dreamer, more poet than prince, Mátyás was a man of action. I had met him once or twice before, when Ferenc was alive, but we had never spoken in depth, and I didn’t know how he would respond to a request from a woman. I would have to watch myself with him, that was certain.
Near the portrait hung a curious, brightly lit canvas, about the span of my outstretched arms, showing a coastline with a ship under sail, the yellow sun like a jewel above the deep blue water and the white hills in the distance, where clouds gathered. In the foreground a farmer with his plow and horse made furrows in the earth, and a shepherd with his flock looked up at the gathering storm. In the bottom-right corner, tiny, the white legs of what looked to be a boy falling into the water went unnoticed by anyone. I leaned over to study it more closely. Yes—the boy’s flailing legs were just about to slip underneath the waves, but no one in the painting seemed to pay the least amount of attention. The plowman, the shepherd, the fisherman on the cliff above, the sailors on the ship all went about their mundane business as if nothing at all were happening.
“Icarus,” said a voice behind me. “Do you like it?”
I turned, and there before me was Archduke Mátyás, who looked considerably older than in his portrait. He wore a black suit with polished brass buttons and a narrow white lace collar, and around his shoulders hung a long gold chain. His hair was short, in the German style, and reddish like his brother’s, streaked through with gray, and a few deep lines had settled in around his eyes and across his brow. His face was serious even when he smiled to show his pleasure at my inspection of the painting.
“I do,” I said. “It’s cleverly done, to make the event such a minor moment. Icarus, who had flown so high, now falls so low, while the world takes no notice of him.”
“Hmm,” said the archduke. “My brother has curious taste in art. I never liked it myself. I always thought Icarus should be the center of the painting, not such an afterthought. But I suppose it is the way of great men to be unnoticed in their own time.” He leaned down and squinted at it a moment, then stood back. “And what may I do for you, Lady Nádasdy?”
I noted the use of lady instead of countess but decided not to remark on it. “I have come to pay my respects, though I would wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Yes. I am sorry for the loss of your husband. He was a brave soldier, the very best of us, and a good friend. He will be sorely missed.” I thanked him. The archduke waved his hand in the air as if thanks were unnecessary, then said, “My friend Thurzó here would not tell me why you wanted to speak to me, though he said I would find your company most delightful. I see in that, at least, he has not been mistaken.”
I bowed again in thanks. “I come to ask for your help. I am seeking repayment of the loans my late husband made the royal treasury while the country was at war. Your brother in Prága would not answer the repeated entreaties my husband made him while he was alive. I was hoping you might be able to convince him to help me now.”
“The country is still at war. Your husband’s friend Bocskai now sees that the Hungarians rise up against us. We must use every resource at our disposal to put down the revolt.”
“I am very sorry for it, but as I am a widow now, it is up to me to see to the estate my husband left behind. My daughter is of a marriageable age, and my son is not yet grown. They depend on me to make certain their inheritance is secured.”
“Of course they do. But the royal treasury is stretched very thin at the moment. It might be best to wait a while longer, until this business with Bocskai is behind us. I would not dare put such a request to my brother before then.”
I was not about to be refused so easily. “Your grace—” I began, but Thurzó put his hand on my arm to stop my protests.
“You have our continued gratitude for your husband’s faithful service in the wars against the Turks,” said the archduke, “but I’m afraid the repayment will have to wait a while.”
“Perhaps I myself should write to the king,” I said, almost a question, as if I were more curious than threatening. “He might be able to find the funds, especially when he has money for court musicians, and mathematicians, and artists.”
Mátyás’s face tightened, a look of annoyance crossed with no little bit of caution. He didn’t like his authority being superseded by his brother’s, and I knew I was risking much by threatening to go directly to the king. Thurzó had told me Mátyás thought his brother a fool, a weak and ineffectual leader who had deserted Hungary and whose neglect had brought about the rift with Bocskai in the first place. It might not be long before the absent king remained absent for good, and Mátyás—or, if the situation turned, even István Bocskai—wore the crown of Hungary. Times changed; power abandoned one man and settled on another. But Rudolf was still king for now, and I needed that money. Kata needed it. I would do what I must to get it back.
“You may do as you wish,” said the archduke. “But do not expect Rudolf to pay much attention. He is far too busy with his astronomers and painters to mind the affairs of state. You will learn as much if you press him in this matter. But write him if you choose.” He waved his hand again, and I had the distinct feeling that he was literally brushing me away. “Thank you for coming, madam. It is always amusing to see you in Bécs.”
Thurzó’s hand on my arm was an insistent pressure, a warning. It reminded me of the way my mother would squeeze my arm in church whenever I succumbed to a fit of laughter. He was not about to let me push the matter further, to what he saw as my detriment, and perhaps his own. The pressure on my arm told me I was to remember my place. And so I would—for now.
“Thank you,” I said, but in my heart the matter was not at all closed. Rage lapped at me. How dare he dismiss me so easily? Rudolf would hear from me about the repayment of his debt, that was certain. A man who could afford to fill his walls with such heavy silver, so many paintings, could surely afford to repay me the few thousand forints my husband had lent him.
The archduke, having dismissed us, now turned away to look at the painting once more, at poor Icarus disappearing unnoticed into the sea. “Such a shame,” he said. “It could have been a good painting.” His finger brushed it lightly, tilting it out of alignment as he swept past us, out of the room.
In a moment we were alone together. The danger past, Thurzó’s hand dropped from my arm, and he sighed. “You should not risk making an enemy of Mátyás.”
“I don’t have the luxury of waiting until the archduke is in a better humor. My children are still young, and they have lost their father. If I don’t fight for their rights, who will?”
“Do not alienate your friends. If you were more patient, and showed more humility, you might win more favor.”
“As you do? How long might the king and the archduke put me off, if I do n
ot make certain they remember their obligations?”
“There are ways to remind them without sacrificing their friendship.” His hands went around my waist now and clasped me to him.
“What?” I asked, tilting my head up to look him in the eyes. “Are you offering to share me with Mátyás? Perhaps you can use Solomon’s approach and divide me between you.”
His mouth was against my hair. “Never,” he said. “I would share you with no man, Erzsébet.”
“Then I’m reduced to threats, I’m afraid.” I sighed. “But perhaps when you are through with me, Mátyás might want me in the bargain.”
He laughed. “Perhaps when you have got what you wanted, you will be through with me.”
“Then perhaps we should marry, and seal the bargain now before either of us is through with the other.”
“A second husband? Wouldn’t that be terribly inconvenient for you, now that you have the estates all to yourself? He might get in the way of your plans for Nádasdy glory.”
“The only glory for the Nádasdys at the moment,” I said, placing my hand on his neck, “is with you, dearest.”
He laughed. “Well said, my lady.”
I allowed him to kiss me there, in the king’s own reception room, before the white figure of Icarus drowning in the sea. Afterward we returned to the carriage, riding out again under the Swiss Gate where the guard stood watch over nothing at all, for the king was away in Prága, and didn’t think of Bécs, or of Hungary, but only of the new Paris he was building in the north with my daughter’s money. With my children’s inheritance, the king was making himself a great patron of artists and scientists. He had not heard the last of me.
10
All that winter I stayed with Thurzó in Bécs, sending letters home to Megyery asking about your studies, Pál, and requesting that your tutor sell off some lands for me in the far western part of the kingdom to pay for Kata’s dowry. She would be twelve soon, and I no longer had the option of waiting. That year I formally betrothed your sister to György Homonnai Drugeth, son of the count of the same name and my brother’s nephew by marriage. The Drugeths were an old Magyar family, distinguished statesmen and warriors, and György, whose lavish estate at Homonna was the envy of the kingdom, had lobbied hard for Kata’s hand. I refused him more than once, which increased his love for her all the more, exactly as I had intended. He sent letters, gifts. He wrote appalling love poems to Kata—to her eyes, her lips. I put him off as long as possible, but then Kata started in as well, telling me what a worthy young man Drugeth was, how much wealth and honor would be heaped on the family through such a marriage, so that I thought the boy might have been coaching her. “Please, Mother,” she begged, flinging herself on me in my rooms at night. “If I cannot have him, I would rather have no one at all. I would rather die alone and childless than marry someone else.”
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