The Lady at the River's Edge

8 - The Spoils of Victory

"My lord Count," called Mihaly, who was serving as guard of the lord's chambers this afternoon. "Your daughter is here, with Sir Janos."

"Thank you, Sir Mihaly," was her father's swift response from beyond the thick oaken door. "Send them in."

The guard bowed to her and opened the door. Within was the great chamber of her parents–though in truth it was largely Peter's, as Zsofia had seen fit to claim the adjoining room and arrange it to her liking. Since coming to the fort, Erzsebet had seen her mother in this room but a handful of times, though their ostensible marriage bed stood proud at the rear, demurely screened off such that only its tall posters could be seen.

The lord of Petervarad sat at his dark pinewood desk, parchment and inkwell before him, though he had not yet taken up the quill. "My flower, is all well?" he asked. "I thought you would be entertaining young Benedek for much of the afternoon."

"That's precisely it, Father," she explained. An awkward hesitation swelled within her, making the words a struggle to voice, but she forced them out. "There was an incident with the young lord."

"God be good, do not tell me he was injured again!" The count's eyes flicked to Janos, concern and suspicion both therein.

Erzsebet shook her head quickly. "No one was hurt, and Janos had little part in it, Father. We were playing–"

"Ah, please wait, sweetling." The count rose, strode quickly over to the side door and knocked. "Are you in, my love?" He spoke with a low gentle tone, as if fearing to wake someone. "Erzsebet is here–"

"So I heard," her mother replied, and the door swung open. The countess must have been in the midst of freshening up: her hair was half unpinned, and through the brief glimpse of the room beyond Erzsebet could see a few handmaidens shuffling out of sight. Her mother pulled the door shut behind her, then strode over to stand before Erzsebet, giving Janos a curt nod of recognition before settling the full weight of her regard upon her daughter.

If speaking was difficult before, it now became a full endeavor to relay what had happened, but she did her best. At times she struggled, and Janos would step in and provide a few choice words to clarify. Between them, the breadth of unpleasantness was laid out before her parents, and as the tale concluded, the lord and lady fell to contemplation.

Her mother was the first to speak: "You must apologize. It won't help much, but–"

"Me, apologize?" Erzsebet demanded. "For what? He was the boor, I did nothing wrong."

"It does not matter whether you are at fault," Zsofia replied, with the rigid tone she employed whenever she was interrupted. "He is an honored guest, and through your actions he was shamed. You will apologize–they are only words, only a diplomatic formality."

But this Erzsebet could not accept. "He was shamed–it was a simple game! I'm to apologize because he cannot suffer the indignity of losing to a woman?"

"You are to apologize, Erzsebet, because it might save this family from greater harm."

"What do you mean, greater harm?" Erzsebet asked. There was more to her mother's tone than simple annoyance, she realized: there was fear, real fear. She had hardly recognized it, because she had never before seen her mother afraid. "There's something you aren't telling me," she said, looking from the countess to the count. "Something more at stake than my marriage prospects."

Her father looked eminently guilty, glancing at his wife and wringing his hands.

"Perhaps it would be best if I leave, my lord," said Janos–Erzsebet had nearly forgotten he was there. "This is a matter for your family–"