Vlad: The Last Confession (18 page)

Preparations

The Princely Court, Targoviste,
Easter Sunday 1457, nine months later

“Is all prepared?”

“All, my prince. All that I can do without knowing everything.”

“You do not need to know everything, Ion. And I only know a little more than you. For most is in God’s hands, and thus unknowable, is it not?”

Vlad grinned, looking again through the grille he’d lifted from the center of the door. Standing beside him, Ilona looked away from the view onto the Great Hall below, seen through this meshed window and up at him. “You are merry tonight,” she said.

“Why would I not be?” Vlad replied. “Has not the Metropolitan of our realm, Supreme Head of the Orthodox Church, crowned me ‘the Sovereign ruler of Ungro-Wallachia and the duchies of Amlas and Fagaras?’” Vlad pronounced the titles in a perfect imitation of the Metropolitan’s nasal squeak, making Ilona laugh. He turned to her. “And does not the belly of the woman I love swell with my first boy child?”

“You can’t know that,” she said, clutching at herself, feeling a kick. “And you’ve had only girls so far.”

“Ah, Ion, just because she’s lived in a nunnery for eight years she feels I should have lived like a monk.”

She struck his arm. But she didn’t care what he had done in their years apart. He had come back to her, something no one would have believed. He was hers again and their time apart felt like a day.

He winced, smiling still, looked through the grille again. “And here are my friends, the noblest men of my realm, gathered to rejoice with me. In my happiness. In Christ’s Resurrection.”

“Friends?”

“Of course. For do not friends help to achieve one’s desires? They are gathered here to do so.” Ilona clutched herself again and Vlad instantly guided her into a chair. “Rest, my Star. Let Ion stand there and count my friends.”

Ion took Ilona’s place, joined Vlad to peer through the spying hole. It was another thing that Vlad had borrowed from the Turk, for it was said that Mehmet spied thus upon his council, the Divan. And below, in the Great Hall of the Princely Court, were gathered the members of the Wallachian equivalent, the Sfatul Domnesc, their wives beside them, some with their eldest sons. If they had ever cared that Vlad might be watching them, that time had long past in two hours of feasting, while the Voivode dealt with affairs of state. Their cups were never empty, no matter how often they were drained. Jugglers and acrobats performed. Musicians played ceaselessly, brought from the Draculesti estates of the Arges valley, playing the peasant music of that region on tilinca flutes, the strings of the
cobza
, the deeper tones of the
taragot
trumpet. The
boyars
largely ignored them, preferring their own braying conversations, their loudly declared opinions—when their mouths were not stuffed with food. Platter after platter arrived—songbirds on skewers, whole pike stuffed with parsleyed bulgar wheat; most especially pig in all its forms. Blood sausages, ears shredded in vinegar, snouts filled with sweetbreads, roasts glistening with crisped fat. If ever there was a lull, any hungry
boyar
or mate could go and take a slice of cheek from the boar’s head mounted on a stake in the middle of the room.

The noise had grown from subdued murmurs to ceaseless bellowing. Nobles grabbed at serving girls, ignored by their wives who were busy dodging the flying food.

“Friends?” snorted Ion. “I see none. Only a few who are less your enemies, perhaps.”

“How very cynical you are, Ion. One would think you’d had a hard life.”

Vlad ran a finger up the long scar on Ion’s cheek. The finger tipped under Ion’s thick hank of hair, slid into the groove of the brand there, before Ion jerked his head away. “Voivode,” he said, stepping back, smoothing down his hair. He hated it when his prince was playful. It usually meant something was about to happen. Something he would have to react to.

An especially loud shout drew them back to the grille. A man, noticeable for his huge girth and thick neck, had somehow managed to climb upon the table at which he sat, one at the center of the feast and raised a little higher than the others. He was attempting some steps, for the musicians were playing a peasant dance, the
mocaneasca
. They could hear the wood creak beneath him, even above the roars and laughter.

“Careful, Albu.” Vlad frowned, his face only easing when the huge man, to a cheer, bowed and descended. “The Great One is enjoying himself.”

“Why would he not? He is better off under your favor than he was under the usurper. When all thought you would kill him, you made him richer.”

“Of course. Albu cel Mare is a power in the land, second only to myself. Such men must be…” He broke off, turned. “How do I look, Ilona?”

Her love was dressed in a doublet so dark most would think it black. But when he turned into the reed torchlight, its flames showed red in the quilted velvet. The garment, fitted loosely to conceal shoulders and chest grown huge from the ceaseless wielding of weapons, reached to mid-thigh, overlapping the hose striped in alternating crimson and black that gave his legs some length. The only adornment was beneath the left shoulder, where a dragon, no bigger than his palm, was worked in silver thread, its scaly tail curling up to wrap around its neck, the cross of St. Gheorghe in red along its spine.

The face itself had shed all its boyish softness in the fugitive years, and his hair fell in thick waves over his shoulders and halfway down his back. On either side of the long nose, his eyes were bright emeralds…almost dimming the one he lifted now that sat in the center of a golden star, itself set into a band of exactly three hundred river pearls—which she knew because she had sewn each one to the brim. The cap, made from the same velvet as the doublet, was crested with an ostrich feather plume.

Her eyes returned to his, to the question still in them. “Every inch a prince,” she said, starting to rise.

He forestalled her by kneeling. “You know I’d marry you if I could.”

She laughed. “Me? A tanner’s daughter? You can’t. Marriage is another weapon for you, to use against
them
.” She tipped her head towards the hall below. “Rather you should marry the lady who waits for me outside, whom you have cursed me with.”

“The Lady Elisabeta? If I am to marry a horse, I’d rather it was my Kalafat.” They both laughed. “But a prince’s mistress must have a lady from the court to ward her when…” He spread a hand over her belly.

“So it is true. Mistress or not, if we are to have a boy child…”

“We are.”

“Then he is able to inherit?”

“It is the law of Wallachia. Countless bastards have ruled here.”

The smile was only in his eyes. She laughed for both of them, sighed. “Then I will have to put up with my…horse.”

Vlad looked up. “Ion would marry you yet. Wouldn’t you, my friend?”

Ion nodded. “I asked her only yesterday. She refused me for the fortieth time.”

“See,” Vlad said. “You will still have someone when I am dead.”

Her smile vanished. “Saint Teresa! Do not say that. Even in jest.” She groaned, gripped her belly.

Vlad turned to Ion. “Summon her woman.”

He made to lift her; she resisted him. “No, lord. Let me rest here till you have done all you must do here.” She glanced towards the Great Hall, and looked back in time to see the darkness in his eyes. And something else, close to his expression when they came together in love. A different kind of hunger.

“No,” he said, “I want you safe at your house. By God’s good grace, I will join you there tomorrow.”

“Amen,” she said, troubled. It was the first time he’d expressed any doubt about that.

The Lady Elisabeta came in, unable, as ever, to quite keep the disdain from her equine face. “My prince summoned me?”

“Yes,” Vlad said, rising, helping Ilona to stand. “Take my lady back to her house.”

“Prince.” She barely curtseyed, then stepped forward.

But Ilona clung to him, leaned close. “Be careful,” she whispered.

“Always.”

Elisabeta came, took Ilona’s arm, moved with her to the door. At it, Ilona paused, looked back. Her love was settling before the other door, adjusting a short, blue-black cape he had donned. Finished, he turned to Ion. “Open the door,” he said, “then go to your post. Wait for my signal.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Ion bowed. “My prince.”

Vlad stared at the door before him. Then he nodded, and Ion pulled the three bolts. They were greased and slid open soundlessly. The door opened, admitting a roar of noise, a forge-blast of warmth. Vlad stepped through. Ion shut the door behind him, leaving it unbolted, turned and walked to Ilona. “I would accompany you to your home…”

“To your post, Ion,” she replied, controlling the spasms that were starting to shake her body. “And I will to mine.”

He bowed, then left.

Elisabeta kept the door open, but Ilona did not pass through it. “Leave me here,” she said.

“But the Voivode’s order—”

“I will watch a while and then call you again,” she said. “Pull the chair over to that door, and leave me.”

“But—”

“Do as I say.”

“As my lady pleases,” Elisabeta said tightly. She picked up the chair, carried it across. Ilona, following slowly, sank into it gratefully. As the other door slammed behind her, Ilona leaned forward and pulled back the little metal plate. At first, all she could see through the grille was a blue-tinged darkness. Then light came, as her prince began to descend the steps into the Great Hall.

Resurrection

They did not notice him immediately, so silently did he enter, so intent were they on their guzzling. And he knew that few would recognize him instantly anyway. In the half year since the coronation he had only called the Sfatul Domnesc together once, the day after the crowning. He had sent them back to their estates for the long winter with vague memories of a dark-haired young man who drank little and spoke less. He was sure that if they thought of him at all it was only to compare him unfavorably with his father, the Dragon. Ion had repeated the joke that was being told in castles across the land—that Dracul, even without his head, was a good head taller! Twice the man in every way. This youth would be managed. If he proved troublesome—unrewarding—he would be disposed of. In a land where bastardy was no bar to the throne, another bastard could always be found, another puppet to spin in his strings while the great men divided up the spoils.

He knew what his
boyars
thought of him. And as he walked among them, dispensing wine from a flagon he picked up, unnoticed as any slave would be, he thought of them again. This class of men who cared little for their country and nothing at all for their prince. Who bent their knee to God, then violated every one of his commandments. Who believed that the sacrifice Jesus made this day—a life-sized, bloodied representation of which hung above the fireplace—was to give slaves hope and thus keep them quiet while their masters thrived. In former days, Wallachia had been the crossroads of the world and the world’s wealth came to the land. No more. Not since brigands and thieves had made the roads impassable to all but small armies. And the chief criminals sat around his table now, faces glistening with pig grease and crimsoned with wine.

They stand between me and my dreams, Vlad thought, pouring another cup, unnoticed still. Tonight I must step over them…or not.

He swallowed, suddenly unsure. He looked up to his reassurance; to Ion, appearing at the archway entrance to the smaller hall, where the nobles’ bodyguards feasted with Dracula’s. Ion was looking at him now, eyebrows raised.

It had to be done. More, it had to be seen to be done. Power, without its demonstration, was power wasted. It was not only the Holy Qur’an he’d learned at the Turkish court. Besides, he thought, running his tongue around his lips, I have waited a long time for this night. I am going to enjoy it.

He looked again at Ion, shook his head, then turned his gaze to the only other man who had been watching him from the moment he entered. He was the
guslar
, the singer of ballads, who also commanded the musicians. Wondering for a moment if a ballad would ever be sung about this night, Vlad nodded.

The music ceased mid-bar. Yet such was the roar of conversation, it took a while for anyone to notice. The Lady Udriste, sat at that one slightly raised table, tired of the conversation her husband was having about boar spears, finally looked up…and started. Her father had died the previous year, been buried in red and black, and she had seen his spirit three times since. He appeared to have something he wished to warn her about but she could not hear him. However, when she realized who the man was, she tugged at her husband’s sleeve. Irritated, he turned, followed her nod. Whispered to the man next to him.

The roar reduced to a series of whispers, thence to silence. Vlad, standing with head lowered, the slightest of smiles upon his lips, let the silence linger for a few heartbeats before he spoke.

“Welcome, noble
boyars
and fair ladies, bishops of the Holy Church. Welcome, all my loyal countrymen come to share this day with me, this holiest of holies. When Christ rose again in all his glory and gave us the gift of eternal life. Praise him!”

Amens echoed around the hall. Vlad continued. “I know that we have prayed together this day. I saw you all drink his blood in the Bisierica Domnesca. Praising him”—he gestured to the crucifix, Jesus bloodied upon it—“asking him to forgive our sins. Praying too for another resurrection—for Wallachia to be once again a strong and powerful land. Free of the lawlessness that impoverishes us, where a man cannot ride a mile from his home without fear of brigands. For justice within our borders and no fear of those outside them who seek to use us as fuel for their war fires. For prosperity that is our right, shared amongst our people, not gathered into a few hands or sold to foreign merchants for a pittance. For one land, united under a strong prince.”

Vlad paused, looked the length of the high table, before adding, softly, “At least, that is what I prayed for. What about you?” He lifted the flagon, stepped between a nobleman and the lady who’d first noticed him, poured wine into both their goblets. “Did you pray for all this, Manea Udriste?”

The
boyar
, his thin face poking out of an ermine collar three sizes too big for him, smiled. “Of course, Voivode. For all these things. And for your continued health.”

“Ah, how loyal of you.” Vlad moved on, poured again. “And you, my
vornic
, Codrea? Did you pray for your special concern, justice for our land?”

The
boyar
, his jowly, porcine face flushed with wine, nodded. “As chief justice, my prince, I live by its code.”

“Of course you do.” Vlad moved to the center of the high table, glanced across it. If the man who’d just answered was corpulent, the one opposite was enormous. He occupied nearly three places, his wife half as much again. It was not only his deeds that gave him his name “the Great.” “And you, Albu cel Mare? Were your prayers also as noble?”

“I think they will suffice,” came the reply, the tone bored. “And I usually get what I want. But you know that, do you not, Dracul-a?”

It simply meant Dragon’s
son
. But all knew it should have been preceded by a title, heard the emphasis on “a.” Further down the table, someone giggled. Smiles came, some hidden again, as the two men, young and older, slim and fat, stared at one another.

“You get what you want, Albu cel Mare.” An equally slight emphasis on “the Great.” “Of course you do. You recently got the villages of Glodul and Hintea, did you not?”

“They bordered my land.”

“They do now.” Vlad tipped his head to the side. “And the people who lived in them?”

Cel Mare snapped his fingers. “Vanished. It was such a surprise.”

“Indeed. Vanished like the gold from the monastery at Govara.”

“Oh no.” The big man leaned forward, his smile broadening. “That is in my cellar. When the monastery mysteriously burned down it was my Christian duty to give its gold sanctuary.”

He’d glanced up at the crucifix while he spoke, crossed himself. More laughter came, less restrained. And Vlad, looking around the hall, joined in.

Above, shocked, Ilona pressed closer to the grille. Her prince would sometimes smile with her. It was a rare thing, worth waiting for. But he laughed so rarely. And never before others. She curled her fingertips into the mesh and felt a pain push her inside.

Below, the laughter faded to silence. Vlad leaned forward, filled the goblet before him. “A toast to that then, Albu. To Christian duty.” The big man did not pick up his wine. “Do you not drink, my lord?”

Albu smiled. “I will if you will.”

Vlad pointed at the small metal trees positioned every few paces down the tables. The light from the single candle atop each of them glistened in the tiny pieces of red flesh upon them. “Do you not trust the fruit of the tree, my lord?”

Albu grunted. “Snake tongues hung on languiers are one thing. Many say that they can detect poisons. But nothing detects it better than a man drinking what he offers.” He nodded to the flagon in Vlad’s hand. “Will you drink?”

“Of course. What was the toast? Ah yes, Christian duty!” Vlad lifted the flagon, drank, wine spilling round the wide rim. After a moment, Albu took a sip, then put his mug back down.

“Duty,” murmured Vlad. “I wanted to ask you something. All of you.” He looked the length of the high table, then around the hall. “How many princes of Wallachia, in your lifetimes, have you pledged your duty to?”

Men glanced away, avoiding his eyes. Only Albu did not lower his. “Princes?” he said, his voice strong. “I’ve lost count. Ten? Twelve? It’s hard to remember. They come and they go.”

No one laughed now. “They come and they go,” echoed Vlad. “And you remain.” He looked around again. “All of you remain.” Then he looked back at the man opposite, spoke now so softly that those at other tables had to lean in to hear. “There’s another story I heard about you, Albu. That you were there when my brother Mircea died.”

A hiss of breaths. Everyone stared at the two men, who stared at each other. “It is not true,” the large man replied.

“No?” Vlad inclined his head. “Then my informant was mistaken. For he said you were there, along with my loyal Manea here, and my dispenser of justice, Codrea.” He glanced briefly at the two men, who flinched, murmured denials.

“Prove it, Dracula.” Albu cel Mare had pushed himself away from the table so he could look about the hall. But there were no guards to be seen. Only thirty
boyars
and some of their sons, his own included. Each had a carving knife before him. And there was Dracula, alone, with nothing but a flagon in his hand. Albu, seeing all, eased back, smiled again. “Prove it.”

Behind her grille, Ilona cried out. The pain had come again, doubled, intense. She knew she should call her maid. But she could not leave. Not when she saw her lion surrounded by so many jackals.

“I wonder if I could,” Vlad said softly, laying down the flagon, reaching to the corner of the rich, red damask cloth, one of several that covered the high table, rubbing a gold tassel between his fingers. “Possibly not. But if I cannot prove who was there, perhaps I could prove another story I heard—the manner of his dying. For I was told that he wasn’t beheaded like my father. That Mircea was tortured, had his eyes burned out…and then was buried alive.”

“I heard that rumor, too, Prince,” said Chief Justice Codrea, glancing uneasily between the two men. “I looked into it, as was my duty. Of course, it was impossible to investigate fully because, alas, his coffin was never found.”

“You are right. It never was…” Vlad looked across the hall, nodded once at Ion, then looked down again to the piece of cloth in his hand. “…Until
now
.”

On the word, Vlad bent and ripped the table-cloth aside. Goblets and cutlery, flagons and snake-tongue trees rose to soak, strike, smash. And then all saw that the noblest of guests had not been dining on a table. They’d been dining on a coffin.