They did. “What news, Prince?” It was Turcul who spoke, his tone testy. “I hope it will be hot enough to shrink the piles I have grown sitting on this chair.”
“It may do.” Vlad nodded. “A fire has been lit to heat us all.” He leaned forward. “The Crow flies south in the spring.”
Men gasped, looked at him, at each other. Ion studied their reactions, a blend of desire and dread. If the King of Hungary was coming to their aid, bringing his army through the passes at first snow melt, then they would have no choice but to fight. Indeed, as their Voivode had already urged, they would have to begin that fight.
But Ion also knew that Corvinus had actually promised no such thing.
“This was the news we were waiting for, wasn’t it, lords?” Vlad continued. “While other princes in Germany, Poland, Venice, Genoa and Italy hesitate, Hungary moves. With that force behind us, we can beat the Turk.”
Far behind us, Ion thought. Sat in Buda waiting for Vlad to fan spark into flame. Only then would Matthew Corvinus, the cunning Crow, decide if he would stir from his nest or not.
“And so, lords, I say again, yet with more urgency: it is time for war.” Vlad, who had not sat, bent forward, resting his fingertips upon the table. “Mehmet Fatih has now dealt with the White Sheep Uzbeks in the east. It was their rebellion that made him agree a treaty with us two years ago, one he had no intention of keeping. Now he demands what was agreed: the gold tribute we must pay as his vassals.” The tone was mocking. “And, worse, he has reinstated the devsirme. Fifteen hundred of our finest, strongest, most gifted boys must be sent from our lands to be trained as the Sultan’s warriors, to live as the Sultan’s slaves. I would prefer them to be Wallachian warriors…and free!”
There was a murmur of assent. The boy levy that most vassal states sent to the Sublime Porte sucked lifeblood from the land. “I have never sent it. I know what is learned under their…tutelage,” Vlad went on quietly. “Most succumb. Some, a rare few, do not.”
“And you were the Dracula who did not, Prince, is that not right?” It was another boyar, Dobrita, who spoke. “While your brother Radu knelt and offered his arse to the Sultan’s pleasure?”
A low laugh came. Vlad straightened. “My brother is still a prince of this realm, Dobrita. Any of the blood of the Draculesti must be treated with respect.”
The boyar flushed red. “I…I…I meant no disrespect, Prince, I…”
Vlad cut him off. “It does not matter. My brother will ride at Mehmet’s side. Many of the enemy will not be Turkish but what of that? They have bowed before the Crescent, seek now to plant their horsetail standards on our walls and erect a minaret above the dome of the Bisierica Domnesca as they have over the Hagia Sophia. So we must be the first to answer the call to crusade. For our land, our people, our faith.”
“Which faith, Voivode?” It was the Metropolitan who spoke now, his voice deepened by a lifetime of chanting his faith. “This crusade was called by the Bishop of Rome.” He spat out the title. “And what do we in the Orthodox Church have to do with him? What do you?”
All turned from the prelate to the prince. It was a question all had asked. But only the Metropolitan, who was not appointed by Vlad, who controlled wealth and resources nearly as large, dared ask it aloud. There had always been rumors about Vlad’s beliefs.
He replied softly. “You know that I believe as you do, Eminence. That until they recognize their errors, the two faiths must remain separate. I believe the Romans are learning, slowly.” He nodded. “But the Pontiff’s call at Mantua cannot be answered slowly. Hear what he said.” Vlad lifted a paper from before him. “‘Mehmet will never lay down his arms except in victory or total defeat. Every victory will be for him a stepping stone to another until, after subjecting all the princes of the West, he has destroyed the Gospel of Christ and imposed the law of his false prophet upon the whole world.’”
He lowered the paper, looked up. “However the Bishop of Rome might err in doctrine, he is right about the peril all Christianity faces. The Gospel of Christ, however we interpret it, is what Mehmet seeks to destroy. He will raise the Crescent on our sacred Mount Athos and in Rome. Each country between is but a stepping stone along the way. And little Wallachia is the first he would stand on.”
Vlad left the table, walked to the dormant fireplace. On its mantel the crucifix still stood, as it had that Easter almost five years before, Christ’s ordeal clear in the figure upon it. “We have a choice, lords,” Vlad said, staring up. “Do we call ourselves Mohammedans? Or do we fight?” He turned back to them. “Mehmet has summoned me to meet his ambassadors at his fortress of Guirgui on the Danube—the fortress my grandfather Mircea built. There to bring his tribute in boys and gold. I have a mind to answer with men and steel. And then to cross beyond Giurgiu into the Bulgarian lands the Turk rules and begin to destroy my enemies there. To take gold, not give it. To slay his boys before he enslaves ours.”
Reaching up, he lifted the crucifix from the mantel. “Who will join me for the glory of Christ? For the redemption of all sins? For Wallachia?”
Half the men stood, cheered, though the cheers were not full-throated. So, lowering the cross, Vlad reached to the other side of the fireplace and lifted what was there—a stout ash pole as tall as a man, and half again. It was stained red and brown. Its end was blunted. Hefting both cross and stake, he shouted, “Who would not follow his prince to glory?”
No one, it seemed, for the remaining men rose, the three jupans cheering as loud as any. The shouts soon settled on one word, becoming a chant.
“Crusade! Crusade! Crusade!”
– TWENTY-NINE –
Farewells
After the boyars had been dispatched to rouse their followers and the Metropolitan to gather gold, Vlad and Ion sat on in the Great Hall but close to a hearth now blazing. They planned, studied maps and rosters. Messengers were summoned, dispatched. It was deep in the night before they could sit back and talk of other things.
Ion poured wine into both their goblets. “You never told me which illustrious representative Mehmet is sending for us to grovel before?”
Vlad had picked up his wine. Now he lowered it, unsipped. “Hamza pasha.”
Ion whistled. “Our old teacher? The falconer? And a pasha now? He has risen in the world.”
Vlad stared into the fire. “He was always much more than a falconer, though his skills were great. Mehmet made him High Admiral at Constantinople, during the siege. Since then he has undertaken a dozen embassies for the Sublime Porte. Become a pasha. It is rumored he’ll be Grand Vizier one day. Second only to the Sultan.”
“An eminent man. What an honor for little Wallachia!”
Vlad shook his head. “It is a move on the chessboard. Mehmet sends someone who I…will remember.”
Ion looked up, catching something in Vlad’s voice, not understanding it. But his prince and friend still stared into the flames. “Of course. You were more than just his pupil, weren’t you?”
Now the eyes came to him, flame in them still. “What do you mean?”
Ion flinched. “I…mean nothing. I just remember you talked with him in a way that no one else did. And…didn’t you make something for him?”
“A hawking glove.” Vlad’s gaze returned to fire.
“That was it. And didn’t he rescue you from Tokat?”
“No,” Vlad murmured, sipping at last. “He came to fetch me. It is different.”
There was something his friend was not saying, although that was not unusual. “Do you think Hamza comes with treachery in mind?”
“I do not know. It may be that Mehmet expects me to kiss his ambassador’s feet, to give over what is demanded. It is what most people in my position would do.”
“Yet he probably still has your jereed mark upon his back. I am sure he remembers your nature.”
“True. And even if he does not plan to kill me, why would he not do what his father did to mine at Gallipoli? Chain the Dragon to a cart wheel for
a month. Take his sons as hostages.”
“You have no sons to take.”
“No. I do not.” Vlad stared for a moment then stood up swiftly. “Ilona,” he said. “I promised I’d visit her this night.”
“Prince,” said Ion, following him to the stairs, “you must rest a little, if we are to ride at sunrise.”
Vlad pushed open the door to his chamber. He looked back, the darkness gone from his face. “After all this time, you are still trying to keep us apart?”
Ion looked down, mumbled, “Of course not. I—”
“Thirteen years she has been my mistress. Yet you still love her?”
Ion looked up, spoke softly. “I would marry her tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Vlad reached for his riding cloak. “Might not the fact that you are already married interfere with that?”
“I’d get it annulled.”
“On what grounds?”
Ion frowned. “Non-consummation.”
“I see. And your three daughters?”
“Virgin births, each one. You know how hard my Maria prays to her namesake.”
Both men laughed, Vlad laying a hand on Ion’s arm. As the laughter faded, he kept it there. “You know, there are times when I wish she was yours, not mine. I think she would be happier.”
“No.” Ion shook his head. “From that first look upon the dockside at Edirne, there was no one in the world but you.”
Vlad squeezed his friend’s arm. “If all…all goes wrong at Guirgiu. Afterwards. You will look to Ilona, won’t you? The boyars hate her. They think my love for her prevents me marrying one of their horse-faced daughters.” He smiled. “Maybe they are right.”
“I will kill the man who harms her. Be he ever so high.” Ion placed his own hand on top of Vlad’s. “This I swear, my prince.”
“Good.” Vlad stepped past him. “For whether I am in heaven or hell I will hold you to that oath.”
—
Candle-light bewitched her. There was something in dancing flame that soothed, freeing her mind, letting it move where it would around the aura of yellow, the core of blue. Her life moved there, as it had been, as it might have been. As it was.
Her life was this. Waiting for him, for his increasingly infrequent visits. She had lost count of the number of times he said he would come and didn’t. She knew he was busy, knew also that it was not purely with affairs of state. He had another mistress, perhaps more than one.
What her life might have been. Meeting someone like…Ion, who would love her, perhaps even only her. She would have had his children, raised them in some quiet corner of the realm…
She blinked, dissolving the vision. No, she would never have met a boyar’s son. Raised in her remote village, a tanner’s daughter, she’d have married the tanner’s apprentice at fourteen, borne the brute a dozen children. If she’d survived them, by now she’d be bent-backed, gray-haired, fat. Not sitting in her own house, still pretty enough, her hair still all hazel, dressed in rich damask. Though she was thirty now, she did not look it. No children will do that. No children and an easy life.
She waved her hand, saw the flame lengthen sideways, changing the story. She would never have met the tanner’s apprentice. Because she was pretty she’d been enslaved and prepared for a life as a concubine. Mehmet would have visited her even less than Vlad, what with his many wives, his other girls, his boys. She’d have lived her life in the indolence of the saray, first in Edirne, later in Constantinople until such time as she either bred or was given as wife to some provincial official or soldier.
The flame lengthened again. Somewhere in the house, someone had opened a door perhaps. She shivered, pulled a rug around her; then leaned forward and blew out the candle. He would not come now. He had forgotten…or chosen to go elsewhere. Chosen someone else over her.
Then her door opened and there he was. She could not see his face with the candle out and the fire banked low, but a reed torch lit the corridor beyond and his silhouette was clear against its light.
“Ilona.”
“Prince.”
He did not come from the door, held there by the coldness of the title. “I am sorry,” he muttered, “I…”
“Let me get a light,” she said, snatching a taper from the table, going to move past him into the corridor. But he grabbed her arm, held her in the doorway. A little light spilled onto his face and immediately she regretted her coldness. “Let us stay in the dark,” he whispered.
“But I have food for you, wine…”
“Nothing,” he said, drawing her in. “Nothing but you.”
As he drew her to the bed, her anger flashed again. Did he not have whores he could use thus? But when he laid her down and lay beside her she realized that she had mistook him. “Ah,” he groaned, “praise God for the softness of goose down.”
“Does my prince require nothing more than feathers for his back?” she asked, her tone amused.
“A pillow, perhaps?” He stopped her hand as she reached for one. “No. Here,” he said, lifting his head. She slid under him and he lowered himself onto her with a sigh. “And praise God for the softness of a woman’s thighs.”
“Any woman’s?” she enquired, raising the fingers that caressed his forehead, flicking them hard down.
“Ai!” he yelped. “Your thighs, I meant. Only yours, Ilona.”
She decided not to point out that this might not be true. But perhaps he felt his cushion harden. “Only here, lying thus, do I have peace, my love. The only place in this wide world.”
“Flatterer,” she said, her hands returning to run through his thick hair.
“Truth-teller,” he murmured.
She stroked and listened to his breaths lengthen, felt his body ease on her. After a while she thought he must be sleeping. Then she watched his eyes slowly open.
“You know I leave tomorrow. Today. In a few hours.”
“Is it to be war, then?”
“It is to be crusade.” There was a tremor in his voice. “The triumph of the One Cross over the Crescent. The Dragon perched on the horsetail. Mehmet bent under my sword.”
“And of all of these, is not this last the greatest?”
“Perhaps.” He smiled. “As Christ’s warrior I know I should only be a conduit for his glory. But I seek my own. I am ardent for it. To conquer the conqueror.”
“And can you,” she said softly, moving his hair to one side. “Is the Turk not too powerful?”
“Powerful? Yes. Unbeatable? No. As Hunyadi did, at Belgrade, at Nis, as Skanderbeg does again and again in Albania, I can do here. With a little help.”
“From Hungary?”
“Yes. I can start the war, prosper for a while. But if Corvinus does not start to use all the gold the Pope has given him to fight…”
“Then?”
“Then we are doomed.” He looked up. “You understand it is only to you, here, I can say that?”
“Yes.”
She stroked. He breathed. After a while she called, “Vlad?” but he did not stir. She took off his boots and, after a moment, her dress, leaving only her shift, then pulled a soft Olteni rug over them both and curled into him.
She didn’t think she slept. Yet she opened her eyes to a faint glow beyond the shutters. Quietly, she slipped away from him, opened them a crack. There was indeed a lightening in the east.
“Is it the dawn?” he called, his voice drowsy.
“No, love,” she said, closing the shutters, coming to his side again, “just Targoviste in flames. Go back to sleep.”
“Good.” He breathed again, then said, “You jest, yes?”
“Yes. Go back to sleep.”
After a moment, he said, “Could your feet be any colder?”
“They are hot coals compared to my hands. Feel!” And she slipped a hand inside his shalvari and wrapped her fingers round his cock.
“Jesu!” he yelled, rising up, falling back. “What do you do to me?”
“This,” she said, moving her ha
nd upon him. “And…ah! You don’t seem to mind.”
“Ilona,” he groaned, turning towards her, his hands moving, too, sliding up under her shift.
“Whose hands are cold now?” she laughed, clutching him harder.
“Do you mind it?”
“I mind nothing you have ever done to me. Nor ever will.”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” she replied. “I am yours, in any way you want me. Here. Now. Forever.”
“Here and now will do,” he said, and ripped the shift from her body.
He had come to her in many moods. They had made love in many ways. But she liked it best this way—lost in the heat of it, with him most lost of all. He never was anywhere else, with anyone else, she knew that. He always needed to show some face to the world but not here, not with her. That he lost himself in her excited her beyond measure. For in his abandon, she could be abandoned, too.
They moved, above, below, cold to hot, getting hotter. The faint light grew stronger beyond the shutters and she dreamt that Targoviste was in flames, devouring flames that would take them both. Then she felt him tense, the first time in an age and she knew, as he tried to pull back, as he had done ever since he made a vow to a priest to have no more bastards in exchange for her life. And she knew also that now, when she might never see him again, she could not let him go. “No, my prince, stay,” she whispered, wrapping her legs tight around him.
“Ilona…” he groaned.
“It is safe, my love, safe. I know my times.”
“You are certain?”
“I would never lie to you.”
“No, you would not. The only one who would not. It is why you are my sanctuary.” He smiled. “Then thank God,” he cried, easing down again.
The pause gave them a moment, which extended. Cries came, their flesh, meeting, mingling.