But that was before he became her best—and most loyal—childhood friend. The boy who had taught her to ride.
Now she watched him speak to the head guard, self-assured in his stance, despite his beardless face.
Janos’s father, Anastatius Szilvasi—horsemaster to Count Nadasdy—was a close friend of her father, Ales Bende. Ales was the castle smithy and his skill in shoeing Count Nadasdy’s vast stable of horses was appreciated most by the horsemaster himself. Szilvasi and Zuzana’s father had ridden many campaigns together against the Ottomans. Bende ensured that the horses were expertly shod, keeping Nadasdy and his cavalry well-mounted.
The horsemaster was known to dip a ladle into their ale barrel on occasion, breaking coarse bread with the family. Zuzana’s brother Ladislav had worked in the stables during his short life and had been a favorite stable hand.
“Your brother had a way with horses,” said the elder Szilvasi. He chucked little Zuzana under the chin, ignoring her pocked skin and deep scars. He lifted her up on his knee, jogging it under her as if she were on a pony ride. She squealed with delight. She loved nothing more than horses.
“I think my own son, Janos, has the gift as well, but time will tell.”
Horsemaster Szilvasi would bring Janos in tow, a small boy who remained quiet and serious, listening as the two men, blacksmith and horsemaster, exchanged news about horse breeding, the encroaching Ottomans, Habsburg politics, and the Bathory-Nadasdy involvement in the Austrian-Ottoman War.
Zuzana, only five years old at the time, stared across the room at the boy. He ignored her for she was only a baby, a baby with a scarred face.
“Did you fall into a fire pit?” he asked her one day.
“No,” she said, bewildered. “What fire?”
The boy reached out his left hand. For the first time, she saw the long white scar on the edge of his hand.
He stroked the rim of a deep pock on her face, solemnly tracing the scar. Zuzana snatched at his wrist, flinging his hand away from her face.
Zuzana touched her skin with her baby fingertips, ducking her chin down like a scalded swan. “Mama says it was the pox. The angels saved me.”
“Angels? No, you must have had the wink of a witch to save you from death. You are born lucky.”
Janos Szilvasi was the only soul to ever call her lucky.
The next morning, Zuzana woke with a terrible cold. Her throat burned when she swallowed, her nose ran constantly, soaking her linen rag.
How can I attend the Countess in this condition?
Zuzana powdered her nose, to conceal the red swelling and chafed skin. She stuffed the linen rag in her apron, trying hard not to sniffle.
The Countess settled into her high-back chair for her morning toilette. She looked up at her attendant in mirror.
Zuzana sneezed convulsively, her hands flying to cover her face.
“What? Zuzana, you are ill! How dare you approach me in this condition!”
“I am sorry, Countess.”
“I will not have you attend me with your sniffling nose and rheumy eyes,” said the Countess, her finger jabbing toward the door. “Out, immediately! Work in the kitchen toting water, fetching wood for the fire. Whatever Brona the cook orders you to do.”
“Yes, Countess.”
“Only return when you are well again. Not a moment before.”
“But who shall attend to your toilette?”
The Countess hesitated. She dragged her fingertips across her complexion, inspecting her skin in the mirror.
“Send in Vida. She may attend me until you are healthy once more.”
Zuzana ran to fetch Vida from the cold corridor, where she still lay on her palette, straw woven into her long black hair.
“Wake at once! Comb your hair—you are expected in the vanity to perform the Countess’s toilette this morning.”
Zuzana saw the horror cross the girl’s face as she scrambled to her feet.
“Me! Attend the Countess’s skin? But she commanded me never to accompany her again—”
“I have all the unguents and powders laid out. I can teach you. First you clean her skin with ambergris oil, using the white lamb’s wool—”
“Zuzana! I have heard how she attacks those who do not please her. She bloodied the face of the girl who tugged at a tangle in her hair.”
“You must not tug. You must compliment her ceaselessly, entertain her by indulging her before her looking glass. After the ambergris oil—do use it sparingly, it is dear—apply the special clay I have prepared in the crimson glass jar. It whitens her complexion. Leave it to work its wonders for a quarter of an hour. Then remove it with rosemary water. That is in the blue flask. Next…”
Vida composed herself at the door, her heart thumping in her throat.