.: TWENTY-EIGHT:.
...
Bells across Hermannstadt were tolling five o'clock when Irina finally left the Governor's Palace and began the short walk across the square towards the Jesuit Church. Having given away her only mode of transport, she had little choice but to walk the distance to her own wedding – and alone. It was only when she felt the fresh, spring air on her cheeks that she realised it was the first time she'd left the relative safely of the old palace in weeks. She'd been confined there since Christmas – practically under house arrest – partly because she'd had very little desire to re-join the wretched society that had chosen to shun her and partly under the orders of her soon-to-be husband, who'd been all too eager to warn her of what was waiting for her if she chose to venture out. After all, the winter snows might have started to melt into spring, but the frosty rumours had lingered.
But now Irina emerged from her isolation as a new woman, brazen, brave and determined to face the world on her own terms. If the world thought her a witch and a wanton, then she'd show them precisely how witch-like and wanton she could be. She'd certainly dressed for the occasion; Fiebe had raised an eyebrow when – for the very last time – she'd asked her to resurrect a rarely-worn satin sack-back from a casket buried at the bottom of her wardrobe. The vibrant, cochineal swathes of satin had shone like sealing wax when they emerged from within a burial shroud of white muslin – springs of dried lavender having been tucked into the folds of crimson fabric to protect the gown from the hungry moths that might have disturbed its slumber.
It fit her like a second skin – tight at the bodice and billowing below it – and she drew sneering, scandalised looks from townsfolk littered across the square as she held the skirts in one hand and a fistful of limp, black anemones in the other one – still bandaged from being sliced open by broken glass. She clipped in her heels across the cobbled square – extravagant diamond girandoles swinging from her ears, black pearls bouncing around her neck, a letter nestled inside the front of her bodice, and a loaded pocket pistol bobbing heavily against her thigh.
She held her head high and met every glare with a look of defiance – but inside, she was shivering horribly. She'd congratulated herself on ignoring all the what ifs and worries that had popped into her head so far, but when she felt eyes on her back and the white bricks and tower of the church homed into view – she couldn't help but imagine all the things that could potentially go wrong – the perilous journey ahead of her – right up until the moment she'd be able to ride away into the darkness to Vlad and never look back.
When she reached the heavy wooden doors of the church – guarded by two soldiers (a couple of Lupesci's lackeys, no doubt) – she stopped, took a deep breath and allowed herself one last look at the sky from over her shoulder.
She couldn't have hoped for a better day; it had been clear and bright all afternoon – and now that the sun was sagging towards the horizon, the moon had appeared – high and bright in the dusky blue sky. She drew some comfort from its presence; an hour – maybe two – and the sun would finally set. And not just upon the rooftops and steeples of Hermannstadt, but upon everything.
Irina lifted a hand and brushed her fingers against the black pearls strung around her neck. As they strolled across the cool surface of each pearl, she thought about her mother and she thought about Vlad; even though they weren't standing there beside her – flanking her, each one holding a hand – she felt as though they were. Comforted by the thought, Irina straightened her spine, took another breath and then strolled inside.
She was met in the draughty vestibule by Herr Carmitru, whose immediate look of relief quickly shifted into one of stunned surprise – his green eyes widening as they drifted the length of her glossy, red bodice.
He bowed his head slightly, his gaze lingering over her breasts. "Duchess," he greeted, offering her his hand. "My, my… look at you."
Irina frowned; in her minds eye she saw Ferenc and his bruised skin – echoes of his time spent as a prisoner of the mayor and his wife. "Mayor," she replied as she unclenched her fist and dropped it into the upturned palm of his hand. "…Or is it Baron now?"
Herr Carmitru stopped mid-stoop – his lips hovering over her knuckles.
"…Oh! Do forgive me, I've been in mourning for so long that I confess I'm a little out of the loop," Irina excused herself with a soft smile. "…You are soon to be made a Baron, are you not?"
The mayor shifted uncomfortably. "…Yes, but I wasn't aware that it was common knowledge," he replied after a beat, kissing her hand.
"You're too modest, Baron!" Irina teased, slapping his shoulder. She arched an eyebrow and lowered her voice, "Because from what I hear you're the talk of the lower town…"
Herr Carmitru glared at her – his mouth opening and closing like a belly-up trout.
Irina grinned; watching him squirm was far too delicious. "…Is your lovely wife here?" she asked brightly, peering around a nearby stone column and chancing a glimpse of the rather meagre congregation. "The soon-to-be Baroness? I'm sure she's overjoyed at the sudden jump in rank."
Herr Carmitru hesitated. "Alas, no, Duchess–"
But of course; it was still light outside. Irina pouted, "Oh, what a shame; I was hoping she'd hold my bouquet," she remarked as she glanced down at the drooping, black-eyed blooms she was holding – thrifted by Fiebe from the garlands hanging in the ballroom.
"A pity. She's in bed at the moment. Wasn't feeling herself this morning, I'm afraid," Herr Carmitru lied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and shrugging. He smiled, "Said she'd rest up now and then hopefully join us all at the breakfast later."
Irina tutted. "Well, I hope she makes it," she said as she smoothed the pleats of her gown over her panniers – her fingers idly tracing the outline of her pocket pistol. "…I'd hate for her to miss out."
"Indeed," Herr Carmitru replied with a nod, before quickly changing the subject. He offered Irina his arm, "Well then, shall we?"
"…Shall we what?" Irina asked.
"Didn't his highness tell you?" he said. "I'm to give you away."
Irina squeezed the flower stems in her hand until she felt her wound open and the warmth of fresh blood staining the bandage. She felt a sharp stab to her heart when she thought of her poor father – and how he'd always spoke distantly of the moment that he'd one day have to give her away – but the feeling was quickly supplanted by a fierce, unrepentant anger. Anger at the thought of being given away by a man who'd had a hand in her father's death and inflicted so much pain on the people he was supposed to protect. And an even fiercer anger towards the man who was behind the decision. The man who had orchestrated it all. The man who was currently waiting impatiently for her at the other end of the aisle.
"I know I can't replace your dear father, of course," he told her. "But hopefully I'll make a worthy understudy."
Irina forced a smile as she took his arm. "No one could ever replace my father," she told him, holding his gaze.
Herr Carmitru shifted his gaze. "Of course," he said as he snapped his fingers at a footman hovering nearby, who immediately hurried away to give the nod for proceedings to start.
When the organ roared from the other end of the aisle and a choir began mumbling their way through a soft Sanctus, Irina put one foot in front of the other and began the long stroll down the aisle towards the altar. After all, the only way forward was forward, she told herself.
It had always been a given that she'd get married someday. She'd suffered through the pox as a child and come out reasonably unblemished and had always known that because of her breeding she'd eventually become a pawn in some dynastic game or another. But out of all the outcomes she'd imagined in her head growing up – of all the Dukes, Princes, Counts, Barons, Kings and Tsars she'd pictured for herself – she'd never – not once – imagined this one.
The rows of pews either side of the aisle were empty – with only a handful of unfamiliar nobles littering the front two or three rows, a few spluttering candelabra illuminating the scandalised looks on their faces as the less than demure looking bride strolled towards them. There were no flowers (other than the limp handful she was holding), no ribbons and no crowds of well-wishers – just the cold and draughty stone surroundings and the even stonier gaze of Archbishop Sigismund.
Prince Lupesci glared down the aisle at her; his lukewarm hazel eyes drawing a severe line from the heaped pile of brown curls twisted on her crown, down to the frilled hem of her gown – gently skimming the flagstones as she walked. He clearly couldn't decide whether he was furious with her or enflamed by the sight of her – his lips pulling into a tight line as he met her defiant gaze – and perhaps any other bride might have turned and run from such a fate. But Irina was undeterred, and when she noticed the prince shuffling his boots and side glancing the muttering congregation she realised – with some delight – that he was embarrassed, and she practically ran the remaining length of the aisle. Oh it was too perfect! She wanted him angry with her, she wanted him to be ashamed of her – and of himself – and once the day was over, he was going to regret ever knowing her.
Irina's lips curled victoriously as she stepped alongside him.
Herr Carmitru handed her over awkwardly – avoiding the prince's gaze as he placed her bandaged hand in his and took her bouquet of flowers. "Your majest… majestic highness," he fumbled as he bowed his head and then scurried aside.
Prince Lupesci gripped her hand tightly as he dragged her towards the altar. "You missed confession," he hissed.
Irina shrugged her lips. "Well, I know that my conscience is clean," she muttered. "…How's yours?"
"You're also late," he added, tightening his grip.
"Well, better late than never, eh?" Irina reminded him – grinning blissfully through the pain. "And I think you should remember the fact that this should have been a case of never in a million years."
The prince silently fumed at her as they approached the altar – and Archbishop Sigismund, who was waiting patiently for them with his bible open.
"…So perhaps you should count yourself lucky that I'm even here at all," Irina added in a whisper as she released her bandaged hand and dutifully crossed herself – noticing patches of fresh blood staining the muslin.
"In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," Archbishop Sigismund pronounced loudly as he raised his hand and crossed the air with two fingers – blessing the couple and the small congregation in front of him. He glanced down at his open bible, "Domine Deus, qui ab initio mundi beati qui incrementum fetus, ostendere gratiam tuam supplicatiónibus nostris, et mittet auxilium tuum benedíctio super hos fámulos tuos: Alexander Matthias Corvinus Lupesci et Irina Eleanora Adelaide Frederica–"
Irina frowned suddenly; he'd forgotten the all-important 'Maria' tacked on to the end of her name in honour of the Empress. It strangely irritated her for a moment, and then she reminded herself that it didn't matter anymore, and that she wasn't even sure she wanted to offer respect to a woman who had to all intents and purposes completely abandoned her. She shrugged it off.
"–Ut in thoro coniugatorum militantes ut sit proximum mutua caritate, in instar mentis, et communi sanctorum. Amen," he finished with a smile. "Please kneel," he added, gesturing to the red, velvet tuffets in front of the altar rail.
Irina scooped up her satin skirts and knelt – neatly folding and clasping her hands over the top of the wooden altar rail. The pistol sagged against her thigh.
Prince Lupesci joined her. "…I suppose this pathetic display is supposed to embarrass me," he whispered as he sank down beside her, gesturing to her gown with his eyes.
Irina shrugged her shoulders. "I simply thought that I'd remind you of the kind of woman you've decided take as your wife," she replied, lowering her voice as the Archbishop began the ceremony.
"An Austrian whore?" he whispered harshly, his scowling gaze dropping to her bodice.
"A woman who refuses to be anyone other than herself – for anyone," she replied, the diamonds in her ears swinging as she turned her head to look at him.
Prince Lupesci tutted.
"And certainly not for some bozgor of watered-down nobility who – for some inexplicable reason – thinks he has a right to be King," she hissed.
The prince glared at her. He looked as though he'd have throttled her if there weren't a church full of witnesses.
Irina raised her eyebrows, "You might want to have a quiet word with your brown-nosing Baron over there, Székelyispán," she added, leaning towards him. She wrinkled her freckled nose, "He's been loose with his words as well as his morals."
Prince Lupesci glanced over his shoulder.
"You know, I thought it… well, bizarre when I found out that the Mayor of Hermannstadt chose to spend his nights – as well as the town's taxes – in a brothel. I mean, positively scandalous – yes – and while there's something to be said for him putting the money back into the local economy, I found it rather strange given he has a young and beautiful wife waiting for him at home," Irina went on wistfully. "But actually, now that I know the truth, it all makes perfect sense. I mean, what's a man supposed to do when his wife sleeps all day and then leaves the marriage bed to lurk in alleyways all night…?"
The prince responded with silence, the voice of the archbishop roaring over his head as he continued on with the ceremony.
"…And it also explains why you – an experienced hunter of bears and beasts – someone who prides himself on tracking elusive quarry – completely failed to track down the monster that attacked me just before Christmas," Irina went on, sending him a severe sideways glance. "You must have been so disappointed when you stopped by that night and found me with barely a bruise."
He blinked at her – not quite in surprise, but almost.
"I mean, what were you hoping would happen, Alexander? Did you think that my grieving father would simply pack up and leave? Leave an empty space for you to oh so conveniently fill with your over-inflated ego?" She scoffed, "That would have been so much easier, wouldn't it? Far less sloppy than forcing a serf to snuff him out while the rest of the town was celebrating Christmas with you."
Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes. "…Where is that maid of yours?" he asked. "I thought she'd be here."
Irina felt her blood chill when she realised that she'd said too much; she couldn't risk alerting him to her plans. "…I dismissed her."
"Dismissed her?"
She shrugged, "She dropped my favourite perfume. It was gift from the Empress' daughter," she replied. "I thought you'd be happy to see the back of her."
The prince raised an eyebrow. "Happy, no," he replied in a whisper. "Surprised, most definitely."
Irina's heart drummed in her ears as she looked up at the stained-glass windows behind the altar. Hazy sunlight was still seeping through the coloured panes of green and blue glass and pooling across the altar cloth and flagstones. Hurry up sunset, she thought to herself; praying for darkness to shroud the church.
Despite all her initial fears and concerns, Fiebe had done everything Irina had asked of her. In a strange reversal, Irina had helped her dress – tonging and powdering her strawberry blonde hair into an elegant updo and lacing her fragile frame into the kind of dress the girl had once watched her mother make but had never expected to wear. When a bruised Ferenc finally appeared – sneaking through the rushed wedding preparations downstairs – he barely recognised the silkworm dripping in diamonds standing in front of him.
After being quickly brought up to speed on the plan it was his turn to get dressed into a footman's uniform that Irina had stolen and set aside for him. Her eyes had widened at the sight of his bruised and broken skin when he shed his rags – his treatment at the hands of Carmelia painfully clear – and for a moment Irina wondered whether it was cruel to even ask him to drive a carriage at breakneck speed all the way to Parma.
"Are you sure you're well enough?" she'd asked as she handed him quite possibly the cleanest shirt he'd ever worn from the other side of her changing screen.
Ferenc peered down at her from over the top – he was so tall that even his bare shoulders could be seen peeping over. His blue eyes were soft and smiling, "Well enough?" he'd snorted as he grabbed the shirt and threw it over his head. When his bruised face emerged, he'd winked at her, "Ducesa, even if I were armless, I'd hold the reins with my teeth."
Irina had smiled.
"You know I'd do anything to protect Fiebe from that curvă – to get her out of this town," he'd said. "And as for you, I'll anything you ask of me. Always."
It had been far too easy sousing the driver and locking him up in the stables – and it had been even easier loading the carriage with Fiebe's new casket of clothes and jewels – as well as the all-important letters and documents to spirit away to Amalia in Parma.
Before clambering up into the cabin, Fiebe had turned back to face her old mistress – to say goodbye, to say thank you, to apologise. There were tears in her pale blue eyes, "Ducesa–"
Irina had known exactly what she'd wanted in that moment, and in spite everything, she couldn't bear to let her leave without it. She wrapped an arm around the girl's small shoulders and pulled her close, "Irina."
Fiebe sobbed, "You have been so kind to me, and I–"
"I forgive you," Irina had told her, pulling back. "I don't have a brother so I can't imagine how that must have felt. I mean I don't think I'll ever understand… But I want to."
Fiebe shook her head, immediately reaching up to check that the diamond earrings she was wearing hadn't swung clear off her head. "…I not deserve it."
Irina smiled. "You deserve everything," she said as she brushed the dog hair from the borrowed velvet cloak Fiebe was wearing. "After everything you've been through – after everything they did to you."
Fiebe looked down, sweeping away her tears.
"Now, no more tears," Irina had told her, forcing her to stand straight. "You're lady now, remember?"
Fiebe sniffed and nodded. She'd grabbed Irina's hand and sent her worried look, "I see you again, yes?"
Irina squeezed her hand. "…I promise," she said as she steered the girl towards the carriage and helped her clamber inside. "You've got all my jewellery, remember," she teased.
Fiebe pulled a face. "It is so heavy," she complained, peering out through the window as the carriage pulled away. "I not know how you wear it!"
Irina had hovered uncertainly in the courtyard long after the carriage had disappeared through the gates, and even longer after Fiebe's waving hand had vanished from view.
Now – as she knelt at the altar and felt Prince Lupesci seething beside her – Irina wondered how far the carriage had travelled. She imagined Ferenc snarling in pain as he viciously whipped the reins – driving the horses faster and faster – and thought about Fiebe curled up in the cabin with the letters resting in her lap. Irina prayed that they were as far away from Hermannstadt as humanly possible, and that the risk had been worth taking.
Prince Lupesci turned and looked at his bride. "…Well. Since you've laid your cards upon the table, allow me to do the same," he whispered. "…And we'll see who has the upper hand."
Irina pretended to ignore him.
"You might have sussed my strategy, Irina, but we're far too late in the game for it to be of any use to you going forward whatsoever," he warned. "And while it's true – yes – the final trick is yet to be played for; I guarantee that I've a far better chance of winning it than you do. The deck has always been stacked in my favour; any attempts to steal the game from under my nose will end in a whitewash, or worse."
Irina arched an eyebrow. "…Don't be so sure."
"You think I don't know that you're banking everything on that – that Jack of Hearts you've been hiding under your skirts?" Prince Lupesci purred. "…The man in black who escorted you back to town after you disappeared on our hunt? The man who so gallantly stepped in to rescue you when you were attacked – only to then disappear as mysteriously as he appeared?"
Irina felt an uncomfortable lump form in the back of her throat. She almost forgot to breathe, "You can't accuse a player of sleight of hand without proof."
The prince leaned in closer. "…The one who was seen leaving the Governor's Palace in the early hours of this morning – flanked by two rather familiar-looking hounds?" he whispered angrily. "Your hounds. Whom I failed to see when I dropped by this morning."
Irina turned and met his furious gaze.
"…There's your proof," he said. "I'm merely surprised you'd risk the game on such a low scoring card."
Irina shrugged her lips. "…What makes you so sure that it was a Jack," she challenged, "and not the King of Spades?"
Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes. He snarled, "Well, whatever – and whoever – he claims to be, I'm removing him from play," he threatened. "He won't set foot on the square without me knowing about it – and if he does, he'll be dead before dawn."
Archbishop Sigismund closed his bible and gestured for the couple and the congregation to stand. He made the sign of the cross and then asked Irina and Alexander to face each other as he began reciting the vows.
Irina sighed as she crossed herself and faced her soon to be husband. "You seem to be forgetting one thing, Alexander," she replied softly, the heavy bracelet of diamonds she was wearing sparkling under the church candlelight. "I'm a Duchess; I've a near inexhaustible stash of diamonds tucked up my sleeve."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for the slightly late update - I'm losing track of days at the moment! I had Chapter Five of Inglorious Basterds in my head while I was writing this chapter (including the music - I bloody love David Bowie's "Cat People"). There's nothing like a woman in red out for revenge, right?
How are you, reader? No really, how are you - because it feels like the world's officially gone into meltdown during the past seven days. Were in Lockdown here in the UK, which means we're not supposed to leave our homes unless we're heading to buy food, or out for our one allowed walk/run a day. It's weird and scary, but hopefully it'll help pull us all through this with as few deaths as possible. Hope you're safe and healthy wherever you're reading this from.
Thanks so much for reading and following everyone - and to Remember and Scarlet Empress as always for the lovely reviews. x
Historical Notes:
(Not sure if there's much to explain or highlight this week as we're nearing the finish line. If there's anything you want to know, just PM me and I'll explain as best I can.)
Archbishop Sigismund's Latin prayers translated, in case you're interested: "O God, who since the beginning of the world have blessed the increase of offspring, show favor to our supplications and pour forth the help of your blessing on these your servants Alexander Matthias Corvinus Lupesci et Irina Eleanora Adelaide Frederica. So that in the union of Marriage they may be bound together in mutual affection, in likeness of mind, and in shared holiness. Amen."
