Vlad: The Last Confession (16 page)

“Well,” he replied, his eyes darkening, “if experience makes us old, then I am aged
beyond my tally.”

“Then we make a pair, my prince,” she said, reaching for the belt around his tunic, “for I am experienced, too.”

His eyes widened. “How experienced?”

She laughed. “Only in some ways of the world. But not in…love, except in a schoolroom sense. You prevented that when you stole me, remember?” She removed the belt, dropped it to the floor. “And you?”

That darkness came again, then disappeared when he smiled. She could see that it was a rare thing, and worth waiting for. “We make a pair indeed then, lady,” he said, pulling the sodden cloak from her shoulders.

Then he was kissing her, kissing her hard, a young man’s kiss. And she, who had been taught a thousand ways to please a sultan, promptly forgot nearly all of them. Nearly all. For, in the house on Rahiq Street, she had been warned about the urgency of a young man’s desires, the rush to fulfillment. She’d been told that many men were sad afterwards and she had already seen enough sadness in her prince’s eyes to know that when it returned it would return him to its cause—to a family unavenged, a throne won and lost. But for the time she kept him there, before the fire…

“Slowly, Vlad,” she whispered, her lips upon his ear. She felt him tense, wondered if her speaking was a mistake. And then, feeling his body ease, she pulled her face back to see his.

He was smiling again. “As my Star commands,” he said.

Obeying, he stripped her as slowly as she did him, laughing with her when her soaked blouse bunched around her face, trapping her. By the time she’d wrenched it off, though, his laughter had faded. And she saw something else in the fire-glow, something she’d never seen before in a man’s eyes. Not lust, she’d witnessed that often enough. Desire—but of the desiring.

“Oh, Ilona,” he said, reaching out. Yet it was she who moved fast now, sliding into him, pressing into his hardness, his every muscle trained and conditioned for the fight; while she was not the waif she’d been when she’d been a Sultan’s choice. She was a woman now, and they matched where they joined, soft to hard, silk to steel.

Wet to dry. He moved his mouth over her, his tongue circling, on breasts, belly, down to her inner thigh. And there he paused, breathing deeply, eyes wide. Raising them, he looking up, murmuring one word: “Sanctuary.”

“Yours,” she whispered.

He raised his mouth to hers then. Joined there, he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He took the two paces to the wall beside the fireplace, pressed her into the tapestry there. He shifted, hovering there like a falcon, the moment before it fell. Until she reached down, clutched him, guided him. And when he sank into her, slower than any falling bird of prey, she gasped, with the little pain, with the delight, the pressing down, the sinking in. On he went, slowly, and when he stopped, when she had him, all of him, she tightened her legs and pulled him in still deeper.

They stood for a while, not moving, eyes wide. Then they began to move, couldn’t stop, as all became blur, became frenzy, all she’d learned, forgotten. Suddenly he was lifting her away from the wall and she had to grip him hard at his neck, holding tight as he walked them backwards, laid her down on the table beneath him. She held his head as he rose up to lick her breasts again, circling her hips on him.

He had only dreamed of this before, never experienced it. A part of him, a small part, was separate, marvelling, above the surrender of his flesh. Then he was brought sharply back because suddenly she twisted, spinning her hips around, causing him to cry out in shock and some pain. He was forced from her, watching as she slid before him and lowered her breasts onto the maps.

She looked back over her shoulder, smiling. “Come,” she invited.

And he was not there. Another memory, another touch—another person, bending thus. Flames moved, casting their conjoined shadows against cloth. Canvas not tapestry…

She was expecting delight in the green eyes. She saw something else—that darkness back again, doubled. So in the moment before it swallowed him, she flipped onto her back, pulled him down hard, reaching to slide him inside her again. “Now, Vlad,” she whispered, biting his ear. “Now.”

The darkness disappeared. There had been moments when she knew he’d been obeying, taking care. She wanted none of that now.

Neither did he.

The Fugitive

She’d been right about the sadness.

Afterwards, lying in the warmth of bodies, upon rugs from the Olt valley that were so marvelously woven with flowers they could have been lying on the river’s banks and not before a hearth, she felt the body she held so tightly change, revert to what she knew had to be his normal way, a rigid tension. She could feel him gathering himself to rise and held him all the tighter.

“Vlad,” she whispered. “Prince. What will you do now?”

“Put on my armor. Gather those few who still follow me. Die with my father’s sword in my hand.” He spoke coldly now, tried to rise once more.

Again she prevented him. “Is that the only choice?”

“I cannot see another. I will not flee to the Turk again, to see Mehmet, fresh from his share of the spoils of
Kossovo
, his hands upon my brother…” He broke off, broke free, wrapped a cloak around himself, dropped into his chair.

Ilona picked up his tunic, pulled it over her head, enjoying his scent upon it. She came to him, lifted his long hair aside, placed her hands upon his neck. “And can you not make peace with Vladislav? You are related, are you not?”

“Cousins. But the Danesti clan hate the Draculesti and always have. As we hate them.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “And only one of us can have the throne.”

Anger came, as well as sadness. “Your life is not worth the throne.”

“It is my father’s. Mine now. He must take it. But he must kill me to do so, unless I can kill him first.”

“Prince…” She moved around, knelt, so she could look up into his eyes, which avoided hers. “He will not give you the chance. The White Knight, Hunyadi, supports him with all his power. Vladislav has his own army, and probably yours as well, Albu cel Mare at its head. All the other
boyars
will join him.”

“They will. Jackals seeking carrion.”

“So it is not victory you seek. Only martyrdom.”

He glared at her then. “You question me?”

“Forgive me, lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “But when they tell your story after you are dead, do you want it to be the tale of an ass or a lion?” She didn’t dare look up, just listened to the sudden harsh breath above her. Then she went on, while she could. “A lion would bide his time, gather his strength, wait for the hour when the jackals fall out over another carcass—and then pounce.”

She’d gone too far. Knew it in the sounds emerging from the constricted throat above her, the fury about to burst over her. And then she recognized the sound and looked up to see Vlad laughing, his face breaking into unused lines.

“Well, Star of my night,” he said, “I think perhaps it is Mehmet I rescued and not you, if this is the way you speak to princes. An ass, eh?” He stood swiftly, jabbed his finger down onto the map. “There, to the north-east. Moldavia, where Bogdan, my uncle, rules. There I can take shelter…”—he turned to her—“…until the jackals turn on each other again.”

Then they both heard it, the clatter of hooves on cobbles. Vlad went to the fireplace, picked up the weapon leaning there. “If that is my enemy, then I shall die with this, the Dragon’s Talon, in my hand.” He lay the sword down in easy reach. “If a messenger, confirming what I already suspect to be true, then I will ride for my uncle’s court…and another chance.”

As he spoke, he was already dressing and beckoned her to do the same. She reached to pull off his tunic, but he stopped her. “It would be safer for you to dress like a man, for only the storm and St Christoph protected you on the road tonight.” He went to a chest, threw up its lid. “Here are some more of my clothes.”

They both dressed, as swiftly as they’d disrobed. They were lacing on boots when they heard running footsteps in the corridor, followed by hammering upon the door.

“Stand behind me,” Vlad said, then unsheathed the great sword. “Come,” he bellowed.

Ion rushed in, stopped when he saw them.

“Are my enemies come?” Vlad asked.

“No, Prince. But a loyal messenger has. He says that Albu cel Mare has joined the Danesti and they march on Targoviste. They will be here before dawn.”

“So.”

Ion looked at Vlad. Then at the woman they both loved. Saw that they were different, both of them. The way they held themselves. Not touching. Not apart. He nodded, took a breath. “Do we fight?”

“You and me against an army, Ion?”

“A hero’s death.”

“No,” Vlad replied, glancing at Ilona, “an ass’s.” He led her forward. “The victors today will tell the story, and they will not make mine the death of a hero.” He looked at Ion. “Will you guide Ilona back to the convent, to my stepmother? And then will you follow me?”

“Where?”

“To my uncle in Moldavia.”

Ion shrugged. “You ask, Prince. You have but to command.”

Vlad shook his head. “By dawn, I will be a prince no more, but a fugitive on the road.” He reached up to the other man’s throat, touched him there on the bruise his previous grip had left. “A road that is likely to end in some alley, under an assassin’s knife. And since I will no longer be a prince, so I cannot command you to such a life, Ion.” He smiled. “But as a friend, I can but ask.”

Ion reached up and took the hand. “I am yours, Vlad, as ever.”

“Good.” Vlad shook Ion’s hand briefly, then placed Ilona’s in it. “Now go.”

“Wait!” It was Ilona who held back, resisting. “Is it because I am a woman, and weak, that I cannot also share this road?”

“No,” replied Vlad, “it is because I love you and if my enemies learn of that they would use you to get to me. I would die, in some room above a tavern, in some alley, trying to protect you. For now, I can only protect myself.”

“Well then,” she said lightly, stepping away, “I will wait at the convent and pray each day for your swift return.”

He caught her hand as she turned. “Do not wait, Ilona. If I survive, I will return only when I am strong enough to take my throne back—and keep it.” He squeezed her hand. “That may take years.”

“Then I will wait the years.” She smiled. “It is the advantage of serving a mistress who lives in a convent.” She glanced between the two men. “No temptations.” Raising his hand, she kissed it and, without another word, walked out of the door.

“See her safe, Ion,” Vlad said. “And catch up with me at my uncle’s court, if not upon the road.”

“My prince.”

As Ion’s footsteps faded, Vlad gathered a few spare clothes, wrapping them in one of the rugs they’d laid upon. He donned his cloak, picked up his sword, walked down the deserted corridors, noting that his last two guards had fled. Waiting in the shadows of a portico, he watched Ion and Ilona ride out. Then he went to the stables.

Kalafat was there, groomed and fed. Her head jerked up and down in delight at seeing him. Aside from his soldiers, she was the only boon he had asked of Murad. He stroked her golden mane, then saddled her himself. He thought the grooms had all gone but then one, a boy of no more than ten, appeared, tears in his eyes, something rolled up in his arms.

“The other man said to give you this, sir,” he said, before flinging it at Vlad and running out.

Vlad lifted a corner of the dark cloth and glimpsed silver, curved into a Dragon’s claw. It was his father’s banner, now his, and it had flown for just two months over their palace.

Vlad knelt. And there, in the straw, he made a vow.

“For Almighty God, whom I worship. For my father, whom I loved in life and revere in death. For Wallachia, my land, which deserves better than to be ruled by jackals that fight for the scraps thrown to them by Turks and Hungarians. For all this, and for the blood of the Draculesti, I swear: I will return.”

Then he mounted Kalafat. On a whisper, the Turcoman mare rode into the rain-thick night, taking rider and herself to their unknowable fate.

The Impaler

I conclude that since some men love as they please but fear when the prince pleases…that a wise prince should rely on what he can control, not on what he cannot control.

—NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI,
THE PRINCE

Wilderness Years

Poenari Castle, 1481

In the hall of the castle, it was the woman who had lately been speaking most. There was still a catch in her voice, and what had once lured princes added to the entrancement of the tale. The scribes’ pens recorded the words, gave the plain account; but the story expanded in the minds of both teller and listeners. Within them, each of them made for themselves a slightly different version, according to their needs and desires.

All had been startled when the hermit finally spoke. He had commented little before. But it seemed that Vlad had told no one of his time at Tokat; and though the two closest to him had read, in the shadows of his eyes, that horrors had been inflicted there, neither had known what they were—until now. And tears fell as they listened.

However, just as each re-made the story in their own way, so each of them had their own reasons for listening. And as Dracula’s first, brief reign ended, each unkinked their limbs and remembered what they were.

Ion had just pronounced Vlad’s vow to return. Taking it as a signal, Horvathy rose and made for the table. With a grunt of pain, as he came onto his swollen feet, the Cardinal followed.

Petru signalled his officer to take more water and food into the confessionals. Then he joined the others at the table. “Is all that true?” he blurted.

The Count turned to him. “What, especially, Spatar?” he said, through bread and goat’s cheese.

Petru gestured irritably at the three confessionals. “That Dracula came to power on the whim of the Infidels? That he reigned…but did not slaughter?”

Horvathy grunted. “He reigned for just two months, that first time. It takes time to organize a massacre.”

“But the Turk?”

“We all make accommodations with the Turk, young man.” The Cardinal took a deep swig of wine. He was enjoying it more now. It was not the velvet produced near his home in Urbino, of course. But its roughness somehow suited the setting and the tale—which had started to intrigue. “What did those of the Greek Church say in Constantinople before its fall? ‘Rather a turban in the Hagia Sophia than a mitre?’” He licked his lips. “Well, they got their wish. For what some called the greatest cathedral in the world is now a mosque, the Aya Sofya Camii.” He sighed. “The problem for the Christian powers is that we usually hate each other at least as much as we hate the Mohammedan. What we heard Vlad say upon the javelin field is true—we can come together and take Jerusalem; but we can never stay together long enough to hold it.” He paused, drank again, continued. “We have always needed something special to unify us.”

The Count studied the clergyman, seeking hope in his words—for the cause of the Dragons; for his own soul’s redemption. It was why they were there, to persuade this man, who would then persuade the Pope. “The Dragon perhaps, Your Eminence?” he breathed, leaning in. Grimani looked up.

“But how did Dracula go from this puppet,” Petru interrupted harshly, through chewed sausage, “this Turkish catamite,” he spat out the word, “to the Impaler of legend?”

“If you’ll just be quiet, Spatar,” the Count replied, furious, “I believe that is what we are about to hear.” But when Grimani did not speak, just kept cramming cheese into his mouth, Horvathy sighed and continued impatiently, “But let me at least fill in some detail, for the record, so we do not live each day of every year of Dracula’s life in the wilderness.”

Draining his goblet of wine, he set it down, returned to his chair. The Cardinal followed, scratching his head. “The wilderness? I thought he fled to his uncle?”

Horvathy faced the confessionals, raised his voice. “For the record,” he announced, and scribes began to write, “Dracula’s uncle, Prince Bogdan of Moldavia, was murdered by a brother three years after Dracula got to his court, in 1451. Vlad fled again, this time with his cousin, Bogdan’s son, Stephen.”

The Spatar smiled. At last, someone of whom there could be no doubt. “Stephen cel Mare.” He turned to the Cardinal. “It means “the Great,” Your Eminence. And he is. Hammer of the Turks. Greatest of Christian heroes.”

“Indeed?” The Count frowned. “Or just another pragmatist? For he too has treated with the Turks when he wanted to steal land from fellow Christians. I have fought beside him, against him…well!” He shrugged. “But in 1451 he was just one more pretender with a purse of gold waiting for the man who could bring his head back to Moldavia. As was Vlad—accompanied, I presume, by the man who sits before us.” He looked briefly at Ion’s confessional, then raised his voice again for the scribes. “The fugitives wandered, desperate, near penniless, warding each other’s backs from the assassin’s knife. Learned to sleep with one eye open.”

Petru shifted in his chair. “But he returned. Took back his throne as he had vowed.”

“Yes. And by this time he had learned how to keep it, too.”

“How?”

Horvathy looked at the younger man. “Do you happen to recall what happened in 1453?” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

The Spatar noticed the tone. “Of course,” he snapped. “Constantinople’s fall.”

“Well done! Yes, Murad had died—of apoplexy, after a drinking bout, it is said—and Mehmet was sultan again. Free to pursue his dream of being the next Alexander, the new Caesar. He prepared long and well, mustered a massive army, brought the best gunner in the world, who built the largest cannon yet seen—”

“Hungarian, wasn’t he, Count Horvathy?” the Cardinal interrupted, softly.

“Yes,” came the reply. “And the cannon was forged by Germans across the border here in Sibiu, while the Serbs sent miners to dig under Constantinople’s walls, which Wallachians scaled to the beat of the
kos
drum…and the Pope sent not one ship, not one company of soldiers to defend them. So what exactly is your point?”

“Oh, nothing.” The Cardinal smiled, sat back. “Please continue with your admirable summation.”

The Count grunted, went on. “There is not much more to tell of the fabled city. Mehmet besieged it, eventually brought down its walls with his cannon, stormed it, ravaged it. The Rome of the East fell. And Christian leaders, who had wrung their hands when they were not sitting on them, realized that an Alexander does not stop with one city, however fabulous. He needs to conquer the world. And that if they did not put aside their quarrels and join together, he would take them one by one.” He licked dry lips. “It was time for all haters of the Turk to unite.”

Petru leaned forward, excited now. “And no one hated Mehmet more than Vlad Dracula.”

“Yes. While the man who had stolen the throne of Wallachia, Vladislav of the Danesti, had fallen out with his mentor, Hunyadi and was now signing treaties with the Infidel. So the White Knight needed a new protégé. He needed Dracula.”

“But…but…” the Spatar stuttered. “Hunyadi had murdered Dracula’s father and brother.”

“Almost certainly.”

“I must say,” breathed the Cardinal, “that you of the Balkans show a…
flexibility
in your dealings that would disgrace no court in Italy.”

Ignoring him, Horvathy continued. “So Dracula swore enmity to the Turk and eternal amity with Hunyadi and
his
liege lord—my own Sovereign, the Bulwark of Christendom, the King of Hungary. With these men behind him, providing gold and soldiers, by 1456 Vlad was ready to try to take back his throne. And with the jackals inside Wallachia falling out over scraps again…well, I do not know those details. I was merely saving us some time.” He leaned towards the confessionals, looked at each in turn. “Who would speak now of the events of 1456?”

It did not need the Count’s raised voice for the scribes to know their cue. They put down the quill with the blue ink, waited to hear whose voice would come, whose color they would need.

The three witnesses had been eating, drinking, preparing. It had not been easy, to relive what had been hard to live once. Each also knew that, if it had not been easy, it could only grow harder. Yet each, in their own way, was ready.

Ion’s whirling mind slowed again. 1456! It was his time. Theirs. A time when he and Vlad did all they’d dreamed of during the wilderness years. Both of them twenty-five years old, with bodies hardened by suffering and trained for war. So now he leaned forward eagerly, as his mind returned to a July day, the first battle in which he’d ever fought…and a comet burning through Wallachian skies.

“I will speak of it,” he whispered. “I will.”

Black ink made shapes across the parchment.