Much Fall of Blood-ARC (24 page)

"I . . ."

"You will need them," said Angelo.

"You will need a lot more than just them," said the old soldier. He seemed to be escaping from the grief of losing his son by casting himself into the role of Vlad's advisor. Vlad absorbed it all like a sponge. Perhaps he was coming at rule from a different and wrong perspective. It was not something Emeric had had him tutored in. He would take whatever advice was available, and gratefully.

"You will need a lot more men, and good weapons, sire. The best you can hope for around here are a few boar spears or an old halberd or two."

"I had not thought about all of this," said Vlad humbly. Yes, the man had just been a peasant levy, but he still knew more of war than his prince did.

"Well, Sire . . ." The old man rubbed his temples. "In my day, this was good country to recruit from. There were lots of bowmen needed, and most of the boys around here can pull a bow fairly well, although light bows and fowling pieces are what they have mostly used. But these days, seems to me, you need arquebuses. They can be had, there are some fine weapons being made, especially by those damned Poles, but they'll cost you a fair amount of gold. You will need cavalry and some cannon, too. You'll not find any of our people who would make fit cavalry, Sire. The only trained men are in the service of the boyars.

"My sons will come to join you, sire," said the old man proudly. " Only, I was hoping we could get some of the harvest in. There is Janoz's widow. We'll need to provide for her too, and it will be hard."

Vlad knew that it was in fact his duty to provide for her, now. Father Tedesco had instilled that in him. Perhaps the old priest had been looking to his own future, but Vlad had already seen, first hand, the value of loyalty. The problem was that at the moment he had not as much as one silver piece to his name. Money rested in two groups in Valahia: the tradesmen and the nobility, not the peasants, villagers or a handful of small freeholders. Somehow he must win the support of at least one of the groups of the powerful and wealthy.

A liveried serving man knocked respectfully at the door of the inn which had, by force of circumstances, become his headquarters. The old soldier scowled at the newcomer. "And now, Benedickt? I thought you had become too good for us village people?"

"I have a message," said the servant loftily, "from my master for Prince Vlad. He would offer the duke hospitality. Where do I find him, you old fool?"

The insolence galvanized him. "You speak to him," said Vlad coldly. "And I suggest if you wish to keep your head on your shoulders, you rapidly learn some respect for your betters."

The lackey did a double-take. Quickly he assessed the posture, tone and attitude of the man he was facing—and bowed hastily. "I beg your pardon, Sire. I just came in out of the brightness. I thought it was only the old . . . ah, gentleman."

Vlad had noticed one thing about himself. Although he had been out in the weather, and even some sunlight, his skin was not browned like the gypsies or the locals. His skin was very pale and his hair and moustache were jet black. If this fellow could see the old soldier in the somewhat dim lighting in the inn, he could certainly see Vlad.

Still, he reminded himself sharply, the boyars could provide him with cavalry. And as the major landowners, they had money. He knew that much.

"Very well," he said. "I will come."

The man bowed again. "The master will have a horse sent for you."

"That would be appreciated," said Vlad, thinking that the boyar Klasparuj was very well informed.

* * *

Later that afternoon, two footmen returned with a spirited black stallion, tacked up with a beautiful saddle of the finest leather. It was such a horse that Vlad had always imagined he would ride. The joy of mounting it set aside any doubts that he might have had about the wisdom of visiting the boyar. So, accompanied by a footman on a bay gelding—itself a horse that was a long step up from most of those he had ridden in the last week—he set off for the home of the local overlord.

There was certainly nothing lacking in the welcome he got at the fortified manor house. Klasparuj himself came out to greet him, bowing deeply, and kissing his hand. "It is indeed as the rumor from the peasants had it, my Prince. You honor my humble home."

The boyar's home looked to be a remarkably fine and richly appointed to Vlad. Not up to the standards of the royal palace in Buda, of course, but the man was plainly a very well—to-do nobleman.

"Thank you," said Vlad. "I was not sure what support I enjoyed among my nobles. I am going to need your assistance and your loyalty."

"Of course," said the boyar, bowing again. "Come in! Come in! My cook has a wonderful way with blue trout. I think it good enough even for the capital. I have been there, you know."

He was not quite babbling, but plainly more than a little nervous. Vlad reminded himself that the boyar, like most such, was a provincial. A wealthy one, obviously, but he had probably never entertained anyone of Vlad's rank before.

"Buda is so magnificent. Beautiful. The reflection of the castle in the river! Not to mention"—this came almost with a giggle—"His Majesty's taste in pole-ornaments." Then he seem to recall himself. "But I am a terrible host. Let me give you some wine! Arpad!"

He gestured to a hovering servant, who was waiting with a tray holding large goblets. Next to him was a man holding an ornately enchased silver beaker. That was the same man—Benedickt, if Vlad recalled correctly—who had come to deliver the message. He poured red wine into the goblets.

The boyar took his wine and immediately raised it in a toast to his visitor. "Your health, my liege. May you reign long and prosperously!"

They drank. It was strong, heavy red wine.

"Ah!" said his host. "Bull's blood, Benedickt, see that the prince's glass is filled!"

"I am not reigning yet," said Vlad, feeling a little uncomfortable in his borrowed peasant's Sunday black wool and simple linen shirt, while his host was wearing embroidered puce velvet. "But I do hope to enlist your aid . . ."

"Of course. Of course. You have only to ask, my liege. Come, though, and meet my family."

They walked through into a large sale. A sulky looking plump boy in his late teens stood there, dressed in the height of last year's court fashion in Buda. Sitting next to him on a settee was an older woman—clearly his mother, from the resemblance—wearing a rust-colored high-waisted velvet overgown, with a fine saffron linen shift puffing out from slits in the sleeves and showing at the neckline. It was an opulent garment, although she filled it too generously, especially the low, almost transparent shift studded with seed pearls. So it seemed to Vlad, at any rate—but then, he had been allowed little contact with women by Emeric. Perhaps he was mistaken.

"Anselm, Clara," said the boyar. "Come and make your bow to the prince. My Lord, may I present my wife and son, ardent supporters of your cause. Benedickt. See that we have wine."

More goblets were produced, more wine drunk, as they waited to be called to dine. Vlad could only hope that they would be quick about it. He was very hungry, and everyone, including the factotum Benedickt, was keen to see that his glass was full.

His hostess had begged him to come and sit next to her on the settee. Vlad wished now that he had remained standing. She seemed to find reason to touch him every few words, to run her fingers delicately along his arm, and to urge him to drink more wine. The woman puzzled him. It had been many years since he had been a guest in the home of another person. He really could not remember this sort of behavior. But he'd been a mere boy, interested in boyish things, and heartily bored by social events. His brief encounters with the Hungarian court and the women thereof had not suggested that this was the way they behaved. But perhaps things were different here in the provinces?

He still found it embarrassing. Possibly awkward, as well. The boyar seemed eager to commit his men and money to Vlad's cause. He really did not want the man taking offence about his guest's conduct with his wife.

"I wish you would tell us about what they are wearing at the court," asked the young man, surveying his own raiment. Vlad had never given his clothing a second thought. It was set out for him and he was dressed by his valet. Vlad had found the dresses of women more interesting to look at. He was, naturally, aware of the prevailing mode. But his own dress was not something that he had ever been much interested by.

"Don't bother the prince," said his mother, taking the opportunity to pat Vlad's hand again. "The prince needs more wine, Benedickt."

He didn't. Fortunately, a butler came and called them to eat just at that point.

"I'm afraid," said his hostess almost as soon as they'd taken their seats, "that we have very little to set before you tonight. Some good fish. The blue trout is our pride, but other than that, we only have some venison, some broiled boar, sweetbreads, and a brace of roasted duck."

Vlad did not point out that for the last while he'd been lucky to dine on rather ill-cooked rabbit, and a few scrawny chickens that his conscience pricked him about. The gypsies might possibly have bought them, but he rather doubted it. Instead he just said: "That sounds delightful."

"Can we give you another glass of wine?" she asked, leaning over and brushing her breast against his shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it had come out that the lady Clara was considered a great beauty.

Plainly she had not compared herself to the radiant Lady Elizabeth. His image of beauty, he feared, would be forever colored by Countess Bartholdy's flawless perfection.

* * *

It was a very long meal. Vlad had been awake a long time and ridden many leagues, and the turmoil of the happenings at the inn had not permitted him to rest. The combination of food and lots of wine was making him worried that he would quietly slide under the table, snoring. He could remember some of his father's guests doing that. Now he understood why.

On the other hand, if he remembered right, most of those had become quite rowdy before doing that. Wine did not seem to have that kind of effect on him at all, however. He was just very tired.

Apparently, his hosts must be aware of the effects of so much wine. They were watching him closely, possibly in fear that he would start becoming rowdy.

He must make the extra effort. He needed them. "I think that I need some air," he said, his voice reflecting that inner tiredness.

He pushed his chair back. He noticed that his solicitous host had done the same, as had his son, and Benedickt the majordomo had come to draw his chair out for him. Slightly embarrassed by all this attention, he was paying less of a mind to his feet than he should have been. He hooked one on the chair leg and stumbled.

"Seize him, Benedickt!" shouted his host, surging forward. Moments later, a surprised Vlad was bowled over by his host, his host's son, the majordomo, two other footmen, and even his host's wife. She, admittedly, did little more than try to kick him on the shin.

"By God, he has even more of a capacity than his accursed grandfather was supposed to have!" grunted his host.

"His other appetites are less," said the lady of the house disdainfully.

The boyar snorted. "I was never so embarrassed as by your behavior. You conducted yourself like a harlot."

"You told me to do so, Klasparuj," she said angrily.

"Yes, well, I thought he would be less likely to notice us plying him with drink if he was distracted by a little flirtation. I did not mean you had to engage in that kind of coquetry! Now, go and get us some rope. We need to bind him fast. It will be some hours before the Croats can be here."

"Send one of the footmen," she said sulkily, turning her head away. "I have done enough for you. I cannot see what the fuss is about, anyway. I mean, look at him! Dressed like that!"

Black fury began to rise in Vlad. It had all been a deceit! His memories of the boyars had been correct. He was beginning to feel that he should never trust in anything but his first instinct.

"Emil. Go and fetch us some rope," said the boyar. "I have wasted a great deal of good wine capturing him. It's all superstition. We could just have tied him up when he got here. I hope King Emeric is going to be generous."

The footman got up, and the black tide within Vlad surged also. They were not holding him particularly tightly. He had been so surprised he'd not done any struggling, and they obviously thought him almost comatose with drink. Calling on the furious strength that was welling up inside him, he flung them aside. Or at least, he succeeded in kicking the majordomo away, and cracking together the heads of the plump son, who was holding one arm, with the footmen who held the other.

That left only the boyar himself. He clung fast to Vlad's back, even as Vlad struggled to his feet.

The boyar kicked at his legs, making Vlad stagger back toward the vast hearth. Vlad tripped over one of the fire-dogs and fell backwards, into the burning logs.

His fall was cushioned by the man on his back—who screamed and let go.

Vlad stood up, in time to see the plump son swing a chair at him. Vlad sidestepped—and fell over the boyar, who was crawling out of the huge fireplace, screaming in pain. The man's clothes were on fire. The chair smashed on the edge of the fireplace—and part of it flew into the fire, knocking a log out.

The boyar rolled desperately. He crashed into the wall and the long drapes. Flames licked up from his burning clothes onto the drapery.

The majordomo had fumbled a clumsy wheel-lock pistol out from wherever he had hidden it. With shaking hands, he pointed it, as Vlad advanced from the fireplace. Vlad was far too angry to be afraid.

The pistol boomed. Vlad kept coming forward. If it had hit him, he didn't feel it. But the woman screamed and clutched her throat and sank to her knees, before pitching forward.

The majordomo stared at the tableau in horror.

"It is not a good enough bullet to kill the prince of Valahia. Mere lead won't do it," said Vlad, still walking toward the table, ignoring the screaming and terror. He picked up a branch of candles, and flung it like a javelin at the second footman, who was trying to pull a halberd free from a display of arms. It missed, but as he ducked the footman swung the halberd wildly and knocked over another branch of candles. The candles in the branch Vlad flung had all been extinguished by the speed of his throw. But these remained alight, and the tallow burned in a shallow puddle on the large kist. It must have dripped inside, and whatever was inside was very flammable too. It went up in a tower of flames.