Dinner was served in the newly built hall of Smederevo Castle, and the Branković family gathered under high vaulted ceilings of fresh-hewn stone. Oil lamps cast a warm glow on the long table, illuminating bowls of aromatic venison stew and platters of roasted quail. Steam rose with the scent of garlic and pepper. A loaf of pogača bread, crusty and golden, sat in the center, already broken and shared with a pinch of salt. Katarina sat between her mother and father, eating delicately and listening to the quiet crackle of the hearth. Outside, through narrow windows, the broad Danube's waters gleamed with late twilight, wrapping the castle in a hush of early spring.
Đurađ Branković carved a slice of meat with deliberate care. Though well into his years, the Despot's hand was steady and strong. The silver rings on his fingers caught the lamplight as he gestured for a servant to pour more wine into his cup. "You've hardly touched your stew, Katarina," he gently chided, his deep-set eyes flicking to his daughter. His white beard moved with a faint smile. Katarina managed a small reassuring nod and spooned a taste of the spiced broth to please him. The flavors were rich on her tongue, but her stomach fluttered with nerves. In truth, she had little appetite tonight.
Despotissa Irene observed her daughter in poised silence. Tall and still elegant, Irene Kantakouzene, once a Byzantine princess, now Serbia's Despotess, held herself with the composure of a woman long accustomed to balancing duty and feeling. She noticed Katarina's distant gaze and the stiffness of her posture. Gently, Irene reached to squeeze Katarina's hand under the table, a subtle gesture of comfort. Katarina glanced up and met her mother's calm, dark eyes. In that brief contact, some of her anxiety eased. She took a breath and let the familiar rhythms of home steady her: the low murmur of Serbian prayers Irene whispered before each meal still echoed in the rafters, mixing with the woodsmoke and the sweetness of honey cakes awaiting on a sideboard.
They were midway through the meal when a clink of the great iron latch echoed from the hall doors. A liveried guard entered and bowed low. "My lord, a courier has arrived," he announced. "He bears an urgent letter from his Imperial Majesty Constantine." At that, Katarina's spoon paused, suspended above her bowl. She exchanged a quick glance with her mother. Đurađ's thick brows rose at the mention. He set down his cup at once.
"Show him in," Đurađ said, already pushing back his chair. Servants hurried to clear space at the end of the table as the guard escorted in a road-dusted messenger. The young man was travel-worn, boots muddied and cheeks windburnt, but he stood tall as he presented a sealed parchment. Đurađ took the letter with a steady hand. For an instant, he ran his thumb over the red wax seal bearing the doubled-headed eagle of Constantine The hall fell quiet save for the distant rush of the river outside the walls. Katarina's heart thumped in her chest. She folded her hands in her lap to hide their trembling, and felt Irene's arm go around the back of her chair in subtle solidarity.
Đurađ broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His eyes moved across the page, lantern-light reflecting in them as he read swiftly. Katarina watched her father's face, searching for any sign. The Despot's features, ordinarily shrewd and guarded, softened with satisfaction. A slow exhale left his lips. Finally, he looked up from the parchment, meeting Irene's expectant gaze, then Katarina's.
"It is done," Đurađ announced. His voice was rich with restrained triumph. "Constantine confirms the agreement. He accepts our Katarina's hand in marriage."
For a moment, Katarina forgot to breathe. Though she had known this was likely, negotiations had been underway for months, hearing the final confirmation sent a flush of heat through her. She lowered her eyes, unsure what she was meant to do or say. A proper noble daughter, she reminded herself, remains composed. She clasped her fingers tightly together under the table until the knuckles blanched. God's will be done, she thought, silently reciting the words like a prayer.
Đurađ's smile broke wider. He let out a low chuckle of satisfaction and raised the letter slightly as if toasting with it. "A fine match, is it not?" he said to Irene. There was a gleam in his eye that Katarina had seen before, the look of a strategist seeing his plan unfurl. "My brother-in-arms, Constantine will be family now. Imagine that." He laughed, the sound echoing against the stone walls. Irene gave a measured nod, her lips curving in approval.
Katarina forced herself to breathe and lifted her gaze again. Her father's laughter was genuine, touched with reminiscence. He handed the letter to Irene and sank back into his chair, stroking his beard.
"I recall when Constantine and I stood together at Edessa, not a year ago," Đurađ said, his voice turning a shade softer as memory took hold. He spoke not just to Irene but to Katarina as well, drawing her into the story. "He had little to spare in men or supplies, yet by Saint George he showed a commander's brilliance. His tactics were sharp, and his army, though small, moved with the precision of a blade well-honed. And those firesticks of his, shook the Turk's courage more than any banner could. Discipline like I had not seen before."
A rare pride flickered in the Despot's tone. "He earned my respect a hundred times over that campaign. To see him now a rising emperor, and to join our families… it feels just."
At the mention of "Emperor," Katarina's eyes widened a fraction. Emperor. Yes, she reminded herself, Constantine was now Basileus. She recalled scraps of news: Emperor John dead in a coup couple of years ago, Constantine fighting his own brother for the throne and the Ottomans pressing from all sides. Against the odds, he endured. The thought gave Katarina a small measure of pride amid her uncertainty. Her life, her hand, would serve to bind two realms together. Perhaps some good would come of it.
Đurađ passed the letter to his wife. Irene's fingers, slim and still steady, unfolded the parchment and scanned the lines. Katarina watched her mother's face closely. Irene's expression remained composed, but a hint of relief showed in her eyes. "He writes with much courtesy," Irene noted quietly. "And he confirms he will send a formal delegation within the month to conclude the betrothal." She lifted her head and looked to Katarina, offering a gentle smile. "It seems, my dear, that before the summer's end you shall be wed once more."
Katarina inclined her head, hoping her face did not betray the whirlwind inside her. "As you and Father wish," she answered softly. Her voice sounded calm in her own ears, well-practiced in obedience. Beneath the table, she pressed the toe of her shoe hard against the floor to ground herself in the physical present, the solid stone underfoot, the scent of spiced wine in the air, anything to keep from drifting into worry.
Đurađ raised his cup high now, unable to contain his excitement. "This calls for a toast." The servants refilled goblets swiftly at his gesture. The Despot beamed like a man decades younger. "To Katarina and Constantine," he declared. "May this bond secure peace and prosperity for all our peoples."
"Na zdravlje," murmured Irene, lifting her own cup. Her smile at Katarina was reassuring and oddly wistful. Katarina lifted her wine as well, echoing the toast quietly. The red liquid trembled slightly in her cup; she hoped no one noticed. They all drank. The wine was a dark local vintage, heavy and resinous-sweet, coating Katarina's tongue. She swallowed and managed a small smile toward her father.
Irene set down her goblet, eyes flashing with a thoughtful light. "He was raised in the Orthodox faith, with the same saints we call upon," she said, directing the remark to Đurađ but clearly intending Katarina to hear. "His mother, the Dragas princess, gave him more than her blood, she gave him our prayers, our tongue, our ways. Unlike her first husband, whose Latin prayers and foreign manners were rather more… lets say distant..."
A soft laugh escaped Katarina before she could think to restrain it. There was no bitterness in her mother's tone, just a dry candor that made the corners of Đurađ's mouth twitch in amusement. It was rare for Irene to allude to unpleasant truths so openly. Father always praised Ulrich of Celje as a valued ally (when he lived), but Mother had other measures of a man. Katarina felt heat in her cheeks at the memory of Ulrich, her first husband, a Catholic Count in a far-off land and she quickly looked down at her plate. The mention of him pricked at old wounds. She focused on steadying her breath. I will not think of that now, she told herself. Not here.
Đurađ cleared his throat, his good humor tempered slightly by Irene's pointed comment. "Ulrich brought us the friendship of King Sigismund at the time, which was not without value," he said diplomatically. Then he sighed, waving a ringed hand as if to chase away the past. "But Sigismund is gone to his grave, God rest him, and the world moves on. The Emperor Constantine's acceptance comes at the right time." He looked between his wife and daughter, including them in a rare moment of familial frankness. "With Emperor Sigismund and Sultan Murad dead, a new order is shaping around us. This marriage… by Saint George, it could raise our house higher than ever."
He spoke the last words in a lower tone, the calculating glint returning to his eye. Katarina understood. Her father's fortunes had always risen or fallen in the shadow of greater kings – Hungarian and Ottoman alike. Now both those great lions were gone. A boy-king sat on Hungary's throne, and an even younger sultan on the Ottoman. Đurađ Branković saw a rare opening to assert himself, to be more than a pawn between empires. If Katarina wed the man now called Constantine XI, the Ottoman slayer, Serbia would be bound by blood to him. It was the ideal alliance, Orthodox and Orthodox, Serb and Greek (and half-Serb by blood). For Đurađ, this must have felt like a masterstroke after years of surviving at the mercy of more powerful men.
He laughed again, more softly. "Would you believe it, Irene? When you and I wed, Smederevo was barely a dream. And now here we sit in its hall, arranging an imperial match for our daughter." He reached over and briefly covered Katarina's hand with his; his palm was broad, bearing calluses from sword and reins despite his princely robes. She felt the weight of his pride and lingering astonishment in that touch. "I always told you, my girl, endure the hard times. Our fortunes would turn."
Katarina mustered a true smile for her father. He had indeed always counseled patience and faith. She knew he loved her in his own austere way, he had wept at her first wedding, even as he gained a royal son-in-law. And he had welcomed her back home fiercely when… when that chapter of her life ended in heartbreak. His ambitions and affections were forever entwined. Tonight, seeing him so pleased, she could almost forget her own anxiety in the glow of his approval.
Servants brought out a tray of slatko, wild strawberry preserves, and fresh cheese as a simple dessert. Irene politely offered some to the tired courier who still stood by, and the young man gratefully accepted, cheeks flushing at the honor. The courier was also given a seat at a side table and a cup of watered wine to refresh himself. Bread and salt were presented to him by a steward as a gesture of formal welcome, even at this late hour. Though only a messenger, he carried imperial tidings; old customs had to be observed. Katarina watched him smile in surprised thanks as he partook of the bread dipped in salt, the symbol that he was now a guest under their roof, however briefly.
As the household eased back into the meal, conversation turned practical. Đurađ discussed with Irene the preparations to be made: gifts to be sent, an escort for Katarina, the likely timing of the journey to Thessaloniki, or perhaps Glarentza in the Morea, where Constantine's court resided. Katarina listened in silence, the words washing over her like a distant river. It felt oddly like being talked about in the third person, as if she were not entirely present. She found herself focusing on small sensory details to stay centered: the clink of her mother's silver spoon against the dish of preserves, the rich sweetness of a single candied strawberry on her tongue, the way the chill of the stone floor seeped through her slippers now that the fires had died down. These tangible things kept her grounded while her future was being arranged in broad strokes.
At one point, Irene looked over and noticed her daughter's faraway expression. The older woman's lips pressed together in a gentle line. "That is enough for tonight, my lord," Irene said softly, touching her husband's wrist. "These matters can wait for daylight. Let Katarina retire with some peace of mind." She gave a meaningful arch of her brow. "We have given her much to reflect on."
Đurađ started to protest, he was in high spirits and could have talked all night of plans, but then he caught the subtle plea in his wife's look. He turned to Katarina and saw the weariness she was trying so hard to conceal. His face softened. "Of course, of course," he conceded gruffly. "Forgive me, my dear. A father's pride runs away with his tongue." He stood and came around to Katarina's chair, then bent to kiss the top of her head. Katarina closed her eyes at the feel of his lips on her hair, a rare tenderness. "Go and rest now. We'll speak more on the morrow."
"Thank you, Father," she murmured. She rose, smoothing the front of her dark blue gown. Irene also stood, a hand at Katarina's back.
"Sleep well, child," Đurađ said, beaming still. "Pray for guidance and give thanks tonight. God has been gracious to us."
"I shall," Katarina replied. She managed another small smile for him before turning to leave. Irene kept a supportive arm lightly around her as they walked out of the hall together, leaving Đurađ to share a celebratory cup with the steward and dictate an initial reply to Constantine for dispatch. The last Katarina saw as she glanced over her shoulder was her father's figure, straight and proud in his tunic, raising a cup in a silent toast toward the icon of Christ that hung above the hearth.
In the dim quiet of Katarina's bedchamber, a single beeswax candle cast long shadows on the plastered walls. The room was modest in size but comfortably furnished with carved walnut chests and woven rugs underfoot. High on one wall hung a small triptych icon of the Holy Virgin and Child, a lamp glowing faintly before it. Katarina sat at the edge of her bed while her mother's lady-in-waiting finished brushing out her dark hair. Irene had insisted on dismissing the other attendants tonight; only the trusted Danica remained, quietly tending the nightly routine. Once Danica had plaited Katarina's hair into a loose braid and withdrawn, mother and daughter were alone at last.
Irene took a seat beside Katarina on the bed. For a few moments neither spoke. From the nearby window slit, cool night air drifted in, carrying the distant chorus of frogs from the riverbank. In the courtyard below, a lone guard coughed and resumed his pacing. Katarina's hands were folded tightly in her lap, and Irene gently covered them with her own. The queen's fingers were cool, adorned by a single amethyst ring that glinted in the candlelight.
"You are very quiet," Irene said at last, almost in a whisper. Her tone was not accusatory; it carried a simple statement of fact laced with concern.
Katarina managed a faint laugh. "I… there is much in my heart, Mother. I hardly know how to speak of it." She kept her eyes on their joined hands. How to put words to the swirl of apprehension, relief, sorrow, and cautious hope that warred within her?
Irene nodded slowly. "It is a great change, even if it is one we expected." She gave a tiny squeeze to Katarina's fingers. "And you have known enough of marriage to understand what it may entail." There was a pause, filled only by the distant hoot of an owl beyond the battlements. "Perhaps that is why you are afraid."
Katarina felt tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of her eyes. Trust her mother to cut straight to the truth with so few words. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting for composure. "I… I remember the first time," she admitted softly. "All the hopeful promises. And how quickly…" Her voice caught, and she shook her head. "I was younger then. Foolish, perhaps. I tried so hard to be a good wife, to please Ulrich and his family. And still—" She broke off, unable to continue. A single tear escaped, tracing down her cheek.
Irene lifted a hand and caught the tear with her thumb, brushing it away. The gesture was gentle but her eyes were unwavering, steady on Katarina's face. "My sweet girl," she murmured, and it was rare to hear such tenderness in her voice. "You did all that duty and honor demanded. What happened was not your fault. Some chapters of our lives are written in harsher ink than others. You know that well now."
Katarina looked down. The candle flame blurred through her unshed tears. The marks of her first marriage were invisible to the world, but her heart still bore them.
Irene continued, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "Ulrich is gone. May God have mercy on him. Whatever pain he gave you, it is in the past now." Katarina raised her eyes and saw a flash of something like anger in Irene's expression, quickly mastered, but there. Irene had never spoken in detail of what she suspected or knew of Ulrich's treatment of her daughter, but in that moment Katarina understood that her mother had long discerned more than she let on. "We cannot change what was," Irene said softly. "We can only equip ourselves for what comes next."
Katarina drew a shaky breath. "And if what comes next is more of the same?" she whispered. There, she had voiced it, the fear coiled in her heart. "I do not know Constantine except by reputation. Father speaks of an honorable ally a hero… but men can seem one way in public and be another in private. I learned that." Her voice trembled despite her efforts to control it.
Irene's lips curved in a faint, wry smile. "True. Your father, for instance, is a lion at council and yet coos like a dove to his children." She tried to tease lightly, and Katarina appreciated the attempt. Then Irene grew serious again. "I have not met Constantine myself, but I do know his blood. His mother is a noble woman. And more than that—" Here Irene reached behind her to the small side table. Katarina hadn't noticed until now, but sitting there was a familiar object: a book bound in embossed leather, with a ribbon marker dangling from its pages. Irene picked it up and laid it gently in Katarina's lap.
It was the Bible that her mother had given her a year ago. The very first time Katarina held it, she had been astonished by its regular, printed script – so crisp and identical on each page, utterly unlike the handwritten manuscripts she grew up with. She remembered running her fingertips over the neat lines of Church text, marveling at the idea that a machine could produce the Word of God in such quantity and precision. This copy had come from the presses in Constantine's city; a treasure from the South. It had been her solace on many a long night.
"He had these made," Irene said, tapping the cover lightly. "Constantine and his scholars. Printed Bibles. He has a device to multiply books as if by magic." There was a note of respect in her voice. For a woman raised in the traditions of Byzantium, where ancient wisdom was revered, a man who spread knowledge was something to value. Irene looked at Katarina with a certain keen hope. "Men who make books are often gentler than those who burn them, Katarina."
Katarina absorbed her mother's words. Men who make books... She recalled how not a year ago, soon after she'd returned home as a widow, Irene had presented this very Bible to her. A gift sent "from Constantine's press in Glarentza," her mother had explained then, describing how the printing machine worked. At the time Katarina had simply been grateful for the holy comfort of scripture, something to cling to during sleepless nights when grief and shame gnawed at her. But now, the significance of the gift deepened. This man, Constantine, had thought to print the Bible, to share knowledge, not hoard it. He valued the written word enough to risk controversy, she'd heard how some priests balked at the new art of printing. Such a man might indeed have a different spirit than those who only pursued power for power's sake.
Irene continued gently, "I cannot promise you that this Emperor will be a perfect man or a perfect husband. Life has no such guarantees. But I have a feeling… call it a mother's intuition… that he is cut from a kinder cloth than the last." She brushed a stray strand of hair behind Katarina's ear. "He has known loss and struggle too. By all accounts he is a thoughtful ruler, a man who reads, who builds, who tries to leave something lasting besides bones and battles." Her mouth quirked. "Perhaps that means he will know how to treat a wife with tenderness. At the very least, he will respect what you are: not a girl to be bartered, but a woman who has endured and learned."
Katarina looked down at the Bible in her lap. In the dancing candlelight, the Greek lettering on the open page seemed to ripple. She remembered reading from the Psalms the previous night, seeking calm: He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. A small sigh escaped her. "I want to believe that, Mother," she said, voice hushed. "That this union might be… different. That I might find some peace in it."
Irene nodded, squeezing her hand again. "Hold on to that hope. Cautiously, yes, but hold it." Her own gaze grew distant for a moment. "When I was sent north to marry your father, I was afraid too. I was leaving everything I knew in Constantinople for an unknown land and man. I had heard the whispers, that Serbia was rough, that the Despot Đurađ was stern and battle-hard. But in time I found my footing. I learned my husband's true face and he learned mine. We built this life together, imperfect though it is." She smiled a little. "You have the advantage that you go into your next marriage wiser than I was. Wiser, certainly, than you were a year ago"
Katarina managed a small chuckle through her tears. "That is true," she conceded. She felt a warmth for her mother in that moment that was almost like the glow of childhood again, when she believed her mother could protect her from all ills. Of course, life had proven otherwise, but Irene's steady presence was still a bulwark. "Thank you mother," Katarina whispered, leaning her head against her mother's shoulder.
They stayed like that for a short while, mother and daughter side by side in the candlelit hush. Irene did not hug her tightly or coddle her, that was not her way, but the simple closeness spoke volumes. Katarina closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of her mother's perfume, a mix of rose oil and something herbaceous. It reminded her of being a child in this very castle when it was new, running through corridors holding her mother's hand. How much had changed since then. How much she had changed.
Finally, Irene stirred. She pressed a kiss to Katarina's temple and rose from the bed. "Sleep now, my dear. Dawn will be here sooner than you think." She took the candle from the side table to light her way out. At the threshold, she turned back, her figure outlined by the soft glow. "And remember, whatever the morrow brings, you are not alone. Your family stands with you. I stand with you."
Katarina felt tears threaten again at that, but they were warmer tears. "I know. Good night, Mother."
"Good night." Irene left, closing the heavy wooden door behind her with a muted thud.
Katarina sat in the darkness for a few moments, illuminated only by the faint shrine lamp glowing by the icons. The castle around her was largely asleep now; she could hear nothing but the distant lap of water against the fortress walls and the occasional muffled call of a guard on the ramparts. Sleep, however, was far from her.
A tear slipped down her nose, darkening a spot on the stone. Lord, give me strength, she prayed silently. Help me bear what I must, and protect my heart this time.