Vlad: The Last Confession (26 page)

It was Gales who spoke. “I am not certain I understand this, Voivode. How many men are in their camp?”

“They will have raiders ranging wide. Forces have been detached to seize different places. I estimate they will have close to thirty thousand around the
tug
. More or less.”

“More or…” The
boyar
’s mouth opened wide. “And you plan to ride in with the four thousand we have left?”

“No,” said Vlad. “There will be two thousand with me from the south. And, a short while later, you will bring the other two thousand from the north.”

“I…I…” Gales spluttered. “But even if your way to the Sultan is blocked by feckless, drunken…spleenless men, there will still be close to ten thousand of them in that quarter alone.” The thought removed his fear. “Have you lost your mind?”

Men hissed. Vlad was not one of them. “And have you lost your heart?” he said, stepping close. They were of a height, their gazes level, locked. “You have seen what Mehmet has wrought upon our land. You know what he will still do if he is not stopped. We cannot beat him in the open field. We can only slow him with raid and destruction.” His eyes gleamed. “But we can stop him with a single sword-thrust. In the terror of the night, in the chaos of their camp, a few men who know exactly what they are doing can end the war. They can save their country. Perhaps they can save Christendom.”

He had spoken to the
boyar
but every man there heard him. He turned to them now. “Crusaders,” he called, his voice ringing
beyond the glade, carried by the rising slopes to the soldiers who had gathered on the far side when word of his return had spread, “our destinies hover at the point of our swords, raised under the cross of Christ. If we die in this Holy War, we die as martyrs and we go to heaven to sit at God’s right hand, all our sins forgiven. If we triumph, then we avenge Constantinople. We conquer the Conqueror.” Snatching up the sword, he held it aloft, his voice rising to a shout. “So will you follow the Dragon’s son to victory or to Paradise?”

The cry had traveled far over the glade. Now the sound crashed down, from the officers within, from their men
beyond: “Victory!”

Vlad let it roll on for a while, then raised a commanding hand. “Go to your fires. Hone your blades. Feed your horses, eat what you can, sleep if you can. Make your peace with God and your fellow man. Gather at the eastern edge of the forest two hours
beyond midnight. And prepare to ride to glory, in this world or
beyond.”

It came again, one shout: “Victory!”

The officers turned, scrambled from the glade.

One remained, his one eye rolling wildly. “Tonight? You attack tonight?”

“
We
attack,
jupan
. Or must someone else lead the forces of Amlas and Fagaras?”

The one eye centered. “I will lead them, Prince. As ever.” Then he turned and followed the others up the slope.

Vlad and Ion watched him go.

“He will not come,” said Ion.

“I think he will. He knows what will become of his family and himself if I succeed and he has failed me. But if he doesn’t…” He turned, handed his sword to Stoica, who sheathed it, bowed and ran ahead. Vlad began to follow, walking slowly up the slope towards his own encampment. Ion could see how weary his friend was, now the course had been set. “If he doesn’t, then you will be there to kill him and lead his men yourself.”

Ion stopped. “Me? I shall be guarding your back as ever.”

Vlad halted, too, looked back. “Not this time, old friend. I need your sword in Gales’s back or through his throat. I need the second attack to happen.”

“Then why not let me lead it?”

“You will, truly. But Gales must be seen to lead it. The other
boyars
are wavering. In Targoviste especially. If Turcul
jupan
sees his brother still fighting by my side, they might hold firm a little longer. Then my back truly will be safe.”

They had reached the ridge. Paths furrowed the ground within the thick oak and beech forest of Vlasia, hiding the Wallachian army from Turkish eyes. One led, in a few short steps, to Vlad’s tent.

And to the two men standing before it. Ion could not see their faces at first, so swiftly had the gloom taken the woods. He hurried forward, preparing to shoo them away, whatever their news, for his prince must rest if he was going to lead his army into battle in a few short hours. But then he saw who they were, and he could not speak.

Vows

Vlad saw them, too. “Your Eminence,” he said, kneeling to kiss the Metropolitan’s ring, “what make you from Targoviste?”

The churchman was tall, and lean with it, taking his spiritual role of God’s Appointee far more seriously than many who had grown fat on the profits of the position. His serious face was troubled now. “I have news, Prince. And I could trust no one else to bring it.”

“I see. A moment.” He turned to the other man, who stood in battered armor encrusted with dust, his face so filthy it was barely distinguishable. “And you, Buriu, most loyal of my
boyars
? Could you trust no one with your news, either?”

“Alas, my prince,” the man replied, “I had no one left alive to trust.”

Ion flinched. Vlad had been forced to send Buriu east with half his army to defend the key fortress of Chilia. Not from the Turks. From his own cousin, his former fellow fugitive, Stephen of Moldavia, who had chosen this moment to betray him, and Christ, by trying to seize what he most desired. That Buriu was here again, alone…

Vlad must have realized the same. “Inside, friends. And speak quietly, I pray you.”

The old
boyar
’s news was spoken quietly enough and swiftly. There was not much to tell.

“My scouts failed to return. I knew I must proceed with speed, lest that accursed Moldavian seize the fortress. But it must have been him who warned the Turk…” Buriu’s voice cracked. “They waited for us in reeds either side of a bridge. They let half my men across then attacked from both sides. They had five times our numbers. I…was with the rearguard. I still don’t know how I escaped, why I was spared…”

The older man began to weep. Vlad sat beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. “You did not die, Spatar, because I needed you beside me, Dracul’s oldest friend.”

The man looked up, wiped his eyes. “Is it true what I heard? That you ride this night against Mehmet’s camp?”

“It is.”

The old
boyar
rose, every joint creaking. “Then I must go and knock the dents out of my armor.”

“My lord.” Vlad rose, too. “You have done enough. Rest this night.”

“When the Dragon banner flies against the enemy?” A little smile came. “Your father would never forgive me.”

He stooped under the tent flap, was gone. Stoica entered, with bread, meat and wine. Vlad turned. “Will you pardon me, Eminence, if I…?”

The priest gestured him down to his truckle bed. “You will need sustenance, Prince, for what you attempt tonight. And, alas, for what you must hear.”

Vlad sat, drank and chewed. “Go on.”

“You know that when you took the throne, I was uncertain of your intentions. I thought that perhaps you were just another in a line of voivode, seeking power only for your own glory.”

“And now?”

“I have seen what you have wrought. I may have questioned some of your methods…”—the prelate swallowed—“…but I have seen the results. A land free of brigands, where men and women can live without fear of another man taking their little. A land where the Church flourishes, for you have been a keen benefactor. And what you are about now, this crusade…”

Vlad interrupted with a sigh. “Your Eminence, I am glad you approve. I have always tried to follow the Church’s dictates—with a few personal adaptations.” He glanced at Ion. “But in hours I will face my greatest enemy and all my work may be undone if I do not succeed. And the look in your eyes fills me with fear. I do not need that. So please, tell me why you have come.”

The older man nodded. “Then hear this: the
boyars
plot against you.”

Vlad smiled. “You could have saved yourself the ride from Targoviste. Every time a crow caws in the forest they sing me that same song.”

“But now they believe they have a weapon to use against you.”

“What weapon?”

“The woman, Ilona Ferenc.”

Ion stepped forward. Vlad rose. “She is well?”

“My lord, she is with child.”

Vlad closed his eyes. For a moment, he was not there, a prince preparing for battle. For a moment he was back in her house, on her bed, a lover only, and Ilona was promising him release, with no consequences. “
It is safe, my love, safe. I know my times
…”

She’d lied. The only one who never would, had.

The priest stared at his prince’s quivering eyelids. He glanced at Ion, swallowed, went on hurriedly. “And the
boyars
, who have always hated her for her hold on you, for the fact that you will marry none of theirs while she lives, see this as a chance to hurt you.”

Vlad, eyes still shut, nodded. “Because of my vow.”

“Yes. Your vow to have no more bastards, spoken to your confessor, re-affirmed to me before the altar of the Bisierica Domnesca. They think you still will not marry her. That you will break the vow, dishonor her and yourself. Most of all break your covenant with God just when Wallachia needs Him most.”

“I see.” Vlad lifted his head, listened.
Beyond the canvas, an army was preparing for battle. The whistle of steel being honed on the whetstone. The strike of mallet on armor as dents were hammered out. Somewhere close a man was singing a
doina
, a sad lament of a shepherd’s lost love. Vlad listened for a moment to the plaintive tune, waited for the harmony…which came, beautifully, from a higher, boyish voice. Then he nodded, accepted God’s Will and called out, “Stoica!”

His servant appeared. He carried an arming doublet. Vlad began to strip off his Turkish garb. “Your Eminence, when we gather, you will bless the host and kiss the banner of the Holy Cross. Then you will return to Targoviste and make preparations for my wedding.” Stripped to a long shirt, Vlad held out his arms and Stoica slipped the arming doublet over them, immediately beginning to cinch the leather cords. “One week from now, at midday on the Feast of the Saints John and Simeon, I will come to the Bisierica Domnesca. I will either be in my coffin or on my feet. If the first, let a mass be sung for my soul, for I died a warrior Prince of Wallachia. If the other…well, let the wedding bells ring.”

Stoica, his initial task complete, picked up the first pieces of steel, the sabaton and greave for the lower leg. Vlad stared at the black armor piled to the side. A fortune paid for it, to the craftsmen of Nuremberg. Very different from the borrowings he’d worn to take the throne.

Such a long road since
, he thought.
So many sins
.

He stayed Stoica’s reaching hands. “Hear my confession, Your Eminence?” he asked, kneeling. “Though I do not know if I have time for any penance.”

For the first time, the Metropolitan smiled. “Bring the head of Mehmet Fatih to your wedding feast, Prince Dracula, and you will have done penance for a lifetime.”

“I am not so sure. I have much to atone for. With more to come.” Vlad crossed himself. “But I will try. For God’s love, for all my sins, I will try.”

—

They gathered just inside the canopy, on the long ridge-line where forest gave way to sloping meadow. In the clear sky a full moon turned the contours of the land silver, lining them in black. It looked as if a hundred thousand stars were reflected in the center of the plain far below. But it was the Turkish camp, its four roadways a dark cross within the circle.

Vlad nudged Kalafat forward, Ion and Gales following. “It will take us two hours to ride around to the southern side. Then, with the moonlight near behind us, we will charge down that road. Gales
jupan
, ride to the crossroads of the blasted oak. As soon as you hear the fight begin—and I think the wailing of the enemy will carry clear to you there—charge in along the northern road. With God’s good grace, we will meet again beneath Mehmet’s
tug
.”

“How will we recognize your men in the fray, in the dark, Voivode?” Gales said. “Your own fine armor is, of course, so distinctive. But many of our men have picked up the enemy’s armor along the way.”

“I have prepared for that.” Vlad raised his voice and it carried clear along the canopy’s edge. “Let each man dismount now and, kneeling, ask for a remission of his sins, paid in Infidel blood. And let each man tie the white ribbon, symbol of Maria the Holy Mother’s purity, to his helm.”

The word spread to those who hadn’t heard. Soldiers dismounted, came
beyond the tree-line, knelt on the slopes. Priests in tall mitres, carrying the staffs of the faith, moved among them, uttering blessings, dispensing white, silk scarves, which the men affixed to their helmets.

Vlad and Ion knelt side by side, were blessed by the Metropolitan, rose and returned to their mounts together. Each began checking straps and weapons. “You know who will likely be there, beneath the Sultan’s
tug
?” Ion asked quietly.

Vlad nodded. “For years I have dreamed of freeing my brother from Mehmet’s embrace. I only hope that, when we meet again, Radu remembers that he is also the Dragon’s son.” He reached for his Turkish bow, the one he’d carried since Guirgui, which no other man there could pull, and slipped the bow-string over his head, making sure the weapon rested easy on his back. Then he turned. “So, Ion. I will see you there.”

Ion’s reply was soft, for one man only. “Right in the middle of the fight, Vlad. As ever.”

His prince smiled, then watched as the white banner with the red cross was waved a last time before being brought back into the forest. Vlad waited for Christ to have His moment. Then he turned to his left side and the huge, dark man there. “Now,” he said.

Black Ilie bowed, then urged his horse forward, halting twenty paces before the forest. Clear to all those within it, he rose in his stirrups and began to swirl the tall pole he held, unwinding the cloth upon it. When it was free, he leaned back, brought the banner shooting forward. Lit by moonlight, the silver dragon soared. “Dracula!” Ilie cried in his huge, deep voice.

“Dracula!” came the echo from four thousand throats. And on the cry, with the Dragon flying before them, the host of Wallachia swept down the slope.