An Embarrassment of Riches by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

audience with the Comes in the hope of learning more of his activities here in Praha, but so far he has continued to delay offering me any time for a discussion. His obvious wealth has made him wary of those less fortunate than he, and given the envy his riches inspire, I am sure he has cause to be cautious, but I will persist in my efforts. It is my hope that as the time of the Konige’s delivery grows nearer I will be able to take advantage of our shared interest in her well-being and turn that to the acquisition of information that I may relay to you.
    This, with every promise of my devotion to you and to the mission you have entrusted to me; I pray daily that God will bring you victory and the esteem of the world as well as a place of honor in Heaven,
     
    Hovarth Pisti of Buda (his mark)
    by the hand of Lukash, scribe to Konige Kunigunde’s Court

3
     
    Konige Kunigunde lay back on her padded-leather Byzantine couch, frowning with discomfort. Five months into her pregnancy and she was feeling miserable; her back hurt, her feet were swollen, her guts were in turmoil, and the heat had given her a vise-like headache. If only she might be allowed to remove her heavy damask-silk bleihaut and lie about in her linen chainse, as a merchant’s wife might do—but that was unthinkable. She was Konige, and that imposed certain duties upon her, no matter how she felt; she was obliged to maintain her appearance for the sake of her position. She would have to endure as best she could. But this afternoon not even her solarium offered her any relief from her distress; the open windows brought only the odors of the middens. She felt her baby shift inside her and she made herself lie still, thinking as she did that she had to carry herself as if her womb were made of thin glass, and everything she did required her to consider first the potential heir she carried. Hating what she saw in her mirror, she made a sound between a groan and a sigh.
    The two of her ladies assigned to her company came to her side: Csenge of Somogy and Imbolya of Heves, both of them dressed on account of the heat in light unbleached cotton bleihauts with the thinnest of linen chainses beneath them. Csenge, being the older of the two, spoke first. “What would you like us to get for your relief, dear Royal?”
    “I don’t know,” muttered Kunigunde. “Cover my looking-glass. If you could make the room cooler, or the day less oppressive…” She waved her hand to show she knew this was impossible.
    “Pray God, we shall have rain soon and the air will clear.” Csenge, too, was enervated by the sultry weather, but knew she did not have the right to rest while the Konige was in her care.
    ”Shall I fetch Klotild? Or ask her to prepare a cordial for you?” asked Imbolya, tentatively, her face flushed from the heat. She was younger than Kunigunde was when she married, not quite fifteen, a slender birch of a girl with a generous mouth, a straight nose, light-brown hair, and hazel eyes; she had a youthful lack of certainty in herself.
    “What use is a midwife now?” Csenge challenged as she selected one of three chairs in the room and moved it nearer to the couch. “There is no sign of trouble.”
    “She is also an herb-woman, cousin,” Imbolya reminded Csenge with the kind of helpful eagerness that made her cousin flinch. “She may have some means of making our Konige more at ease. For the good of her baby.”
    “Pray God it is a son,” said Csenge piously, and all three women crossed themselves.
    “For the sake of Bohemia and Hungary,” said Imbolya.
    “Do you think Klotild could help me?” Kunigunde asked, trying not to whine; she reminded herself again what was expected of her as Konige of Bohemia—the production of a viable heir and an example of conduct worthy the wife of a Christian King, as well as securing the terms of the treaty between her grandfather and her husband.
    “I’ll go and ask,” said Imbolya, and left the Konige’s