The Lord Count Drakulya

by Paul Doherty

  Griskra and the garrison commander stood poised and tense as I read both letters. The first was addressed to King Stephen of Moldavia in which Drakulya begged for his help in a fresh invasion of Wallachia, asked for forgiveness, arms and peace ‘in perpetuity with Moldavia’ and offered to concede certain border fortresses to Stephen in return for military help against the Turks. The most damning part of the letter, however, was that Drakulya promised to assist Stephen in a war against Hungary, pledging that he would personally arrange for the Hungarian king to be delivered into Stephen’s hands. The second letter was equally damning. A servile, humiliating plea to Mohammed begging forgiveness and asking to be restored to the Wallachian throne with assurances that he, Drakulya, would convert to Islam and assist the Sultan in any and every war against the Christian West. The letters were dated 7th November, 1462, and signed with Drakulya’s own signature. I felt a terrible pity for the lonely, isolated figure who stood with his back to us, both hands clenched behind his back as he stared out into the nothingness he now realised faced him.

  The letters were very clever pieces of diplomatic trickery. Drakulya had lost the war against the Turks, lost his country and his crown, and now he was depicted as a traitor to his liege lord, a traitor to his faith and the ready tool of any person that bore a grudge against the Hungarian king. I tossed the letters back at Griskra. “These are forgeries,” I announced quietly. “How can a man who has spent his life fighting the Turks make such promises? Matthew must be very proud of himself! What is to happen now? A secret trial and summary execution? Or sudden oblivion in some deep forbidden dungeon?” I walked across to the table on which there was a copper tray and a flagon of wine and some cups. I filled a cup until the wine brimmed over the lip and took it across to Drakulya. He stood tense and drawn, his mouth working furiously but quietly as if arguing to himself or talking to someone or something none of us could see. “Drakulya,” I whispered. “Drink the wine.” He stared at me with dead eyes and then turned his head to gaze again out of the window. “Drakulya,” I insisted. “You must drink. You must stay calm. You must think. Above all, you must think and not act hastily. There will be other times. Other occasions. Other chances. We are their prisoners. Don’t act rashly. For God’s sake don’t give them cause to kill us now!” Drakulya turned and looked at me and was pleased to see a glint of recognition in his eyes. He took the cup and drained it in one gulp and then flung it to the floor. Whilst he drank I eased out the dagger which was stuck in his belt and threw it across the room to lie at Griskra’s feet. “The Prince,” I announced, “Drakulya, Voivode of Wallachia, rejects the lies and treasonable statements contained in both these letters. We are your prisoners and we appeal to the Hungarian king, and to His Holiness the Pope, for a fair trial and hearing on these ridiculous charges.” I watched a flicker of disappointment cross Griskra’s face and was pleased that my assessment of the situation had been correct. They had thought the letters would provoke Drakulya into one of his notorious murderous rages and so give them good cause to slay an unarmed man.

  I walked across the room, picked up the flagon of wine and then returned, took Drakulya by the arm and led him from the room. No one stopped us, not even the soldiers now concealed in the passageways; through a window I could see more men gathered in the courtyard below. We had been sent to Konigstein to die. A quite deadly trap carefully contrived by Matthew.

  Once we had returned to our quarters, I made Drakulya drink more wine until the tension within him evaporated into a drunken stupor. I then laid him on his narrow cot, covered him with blankets and waited. I watched by him all that night as he stirred and muttered in his sleep and was pleased to see the following morning that he had regained his composure as he rose, washed and dressed himself carefully. He did not speak to me, but after finishing his careful preparations, simply stood by the window studying the activity in the courtyard below.

  Later the same afternoon, Griskra and the garrison commander, together with a large body of soldiers, arrived outside our quarters and announced that both of us were under arrest and would be taken into Brasov. They attempted to strip Drakulya of his clothes but I protested so loudly that the garrison commander, in a moment of pity, ordered Griskra to stop. The Bohemian mercenary shrugged and tossed each of us a shabby yellow cloak to wear, and when I saw them, I knew what lay in store for us. Drakulya put his on without protest and I followed suit. We were then led down to the courtyard where a military escort awaited us. Two sorry nags were provided and both of us were hustled into the saddles. Iron gyves were clasped round our ankles connected by a chain which ran under the horse’s belly. On each of our heads a jester’s hood was placed and a stick with the inflated bladder of a pig fixed on the end thrust into Drakulya’s hand. Griskra, hands on hips, sat and scrutinised his handiwork. Then, raising his voice so all could hear, shouted, “Behold, Drakulya, Voivode of Wallachia. Kazikulu Bey. The Great Warrior!” This brought roars of laughter from the surrounding soldiers, though I did notice a few simply stared sullenly, or turned away in acute embarrassment at what was happening.

  Our cavalcade then left the castle and made its way along the Transylvanian border, passing through every available village where Griskra repeated his scurrilous announcement to the open joy and public satisfaction of the villagers who began to pelt us with mud, stones and any other filth they could lay their hands on. Drakulya simply sat rock hard in his saddle, his eyes staring in front of him like a man in a dream or trance, impervious to the insults and occasional missiles which struck him on the face or body. It got worse as we approached Brasov. Careful preparations had been made for our humiliating entry into the town and the city authorities had spared no efforts in spreading the word that the dreaded and hated Drakulya was now a prisoner, an object of ridicule, spite and, of course, retribution. The narrow winding streets were packed with citizens, all armed with missiles, and I began to wonder whether it was here that we would meet our deaths. At one time the rain of rocks, mud and rotten fruit and animal dung became so intense that even our military escort objected. Swords were drawn and some attempt to control the hostile crowd was made. I tried to protect Drakulya with my own body, not that it made much difference. The Prince simply stared before him, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but sat straight in his saddle and rode as if he was a conqueror and not the object of public derision. His cold imperviousness eventually brought results. I heard some of the soldiers murmur about his bravery and courage and, almost perceptibly, the cavalcade quickened its pace to shorten the humiliation and protect the Prince from the worse effects of the hatred he had provoked in this German city.

  Eventually we reached the broad avenue leading up to our destination, the city citadel. The crowd thinned out on either side but behind us we could hear the murmur and roar of the angry mob. Then, just as I thought the worst was over and we would be given the protection of the citadel walls, Drakulya stirred himself. His hands were chained but he managed to grab the reins of his horse from an astonished soldier, and superb horseman that he was, brought the horse to a halt then turned to face the taunting mob. Griskra was now too far ahead of us to prevent this happening, while the soldiers were too surprised and curious to intervene. They knew that Drakulya could not escape and were keen to see what would happen. Guiding his horse with his legs, Drakulya dropped the jester’s stick, raised his chained hands, knocked the cap from his head and wiped the dirt from his face with the palm of his hands. A hush fell upon the astonished crowd as the Prince nudged his horse towards them and many fell back in terror and alarm at seeing the dreaded Kazikulu Bey, chained and captive, riding directly towards them.

  Then in a loud and surprising clear voice, speaking faultless German, Drakulya shouted, “I am the Voivode Drakulya! What I did, I did in war and have no fear of you. If I was free, with a sword in my hand, you would not dare to do what you have done today!” He paused for effect. “I tell you this,” he proclaimed, “I shall not forget nor forgive what has ha
ppened and one day, dead or alive, I shall return to exact a terrible revenge!” His words rang clear and loud like a trumpet. Then Drakulya turned his horse, the escort surrounded us once more and we entered the huge yawning gate of Brasov citadel.

  Of course, Griskra was furious at what Drakulya had done but, for the first time in days, Drakulya smiled. “Master Griskra,” he said. “I meant every word I said, and I include you in my promise!” Griskra slapped him in the face and a dark trickle of blood ran from the corner of Drakulya’s mouth. But the Prince only smiled, bowed mockingly, and allowed himself to be led off to a waiting dungeon. That was the last I saw of the Prince. I was put in a different cell above ground. A few days later Griskra had me taken back to the courtyard. I was given the same old nag I had ridden into the city, a cloak (which Griskra said would hide my appearance) a few coins and a safe conduct across the Moldavian border.

  20

  They sent that fat, pompous clerk back to me, honey-voiced but cold-eyed. He wanted to question me on what I had written. Was Drakulya that brave? So cunning? Why did he launch the offensive across the Danube? He was mad? I know what they want. To belittle the Prince’s achievements, to cover up the fact that Matthew took the Pope’s gold but never used it for its proper purpose – to help Drakulya. Matthew of Hungary was and is a liar. He said he would descend into Wallachia to help Drakulya but he never came. If he had things might have been different! A great victory might have been ours!

  Of course, you could say that about anything. When I left the city of Sibiu I thought Drakulya and I were done, finished, the embers of a spent fire. We had been so close, gone through so much in over twenty years. I felt bittersweet about it, sad because he had gone but happy that it was all over. When I met Anna in Suceava, my happiness was complete. King Stephen welcomed me, tactfully avoiding his recent attack on Chilia, diplomatically praising Drakulya’s offensive against the Turks but politely implying that it was the work of a madman. I was the perfect courtier in return, thanking him for his hospitality and protection, being diplomatic enough not even to look at the grievous wound in his arm sustained during the attack on Chilia.

  Anna was not so diplomatic. She greeted me ecstatically, swearing she thought I was dead or, as she pouted, in pursuit of another woman. I showed her, to both our satisfaction, that she was wrong on both counts. A few weeks after my arrival in Suceava we were married in a small, wooden church in one of the villages on the outskirts of the capital, a beautiful chapel with its ornate tableaux carved on both inside and outside of the church. No one knew that I was a pagan. I did not care. I had seen God’s creation and that was enough. The priest, a simple peasant transformed by the gold-shot silk robes he wore, blessed us, with the thick heady incense swirling around us, then we were gone in a carriage which skimmed behind the sure-footed horses across the new-fallen snow.

  Of course, I was famous for being a member of the inner council of the dreaded Impaler, the Voivode Drakulya. There were some with grudges, but King Stephen and Anna’s powerful kinsfolk protected me; most were just curious and to these I refused to talk while Anna would not let me even utter the Voivode’s name in her presence. Of course, there were those I met from the past; Cirstian, smooth and urbane as ever, considering a request from the new upstart prince of Wallachia, Radu, to return and become a member of his council. Mihail, now white-haired, shame-faced at his desertion of Drakulya, his eyes ever-shifting, a broken man, a shadow of his former self, the fire in his heart and belly extinguished in hasty excuses and evasive answers.

  I ignored them all. Anna insisted on it. Full of loathing for what Drakulya had done, she still had nightmares about that terrible Easter feast, the seizure of her parents, their tear-filled eyes and horrifying death. I knew what she meant, for at night the shadows come for me, sliding by the walls, rasping my name, shrieking vengeance through blood-clotted mouths and smashed yellow teeth. God knew my terror but shadows pass. Anna had taken considerable wealth with her into Moldavia and a pension from the court for work I did in the Chancery gave us a comfortable, even luxurious life. Time passed, the shadows went, the scars healed and I learnt another lesson, that the love of a human being can cure any ill the world inflicts on you.

  Of course, Stephen demanded his price for sheltering me. I was too experienced in diplomacy, an expert in Wallachian affairs, and Stephen always watched that country like a cat watching a mouse-hole. Drakulya may have been driven out and Radu was on the throne but treaties had to be made and who better to advise them than I? I dared not tell Anna as she would have been furious and used all her power and considerable strength to block my involvement in Wallachian affairs. I told lies and evasions and then travelled south on a diplomatic mission to meet Drakulya’s brother, Radu, outside a village on the Moldavian-Wallachian border. I was to see Radu again after a lapse of thirty years. Then he was a child, now the dangerous puppet of the Turks, the sworn mortal enemies of his brother, my former master.

  I was not leading the diplomatic mission but was there as a ‘peritus,’ as diplomatic sources would put it, an observer or adviser to the envoys themselves. We met Radu in a narrow river valley which stretched across both our frontiers. Radu’s troops would hold one end, Stephen had massed his troops at the Moldavian end. In the centre was a broad silken canopy where Radu would meet us. The captain of our military escort, caparisoned in glittering mail armour with the royal insignia of Moldavia on his breast-plate and long tapered shield, galloped down the valley, together with a herald, to plant the Modavian royal standard outside the silken canopy which we could see faintly in the distance. Once this was done, the herald flourished his long trumpet and its faint but melodious sound was taken up by trumpeters around us and, in a fanfare of braying music, our escort consisting of leading members of Stephen’s court began its slow ride into the valley. There must have been about a dozen or so of us, nobles, advisers and a token bodyguard. All wore costly robes or dress armour, an easy target I thought for treachery as our gaily caparisoned horses picked their way along the valley floor. The pavilion, its silken canopies billowing in a fresh breeze, beckoned us on while around it the huge ceremonial banners of Moldavia, Wallachia and the Ottoman Turk snapped bravely in the wind.

  I knew it was a diplomatic function, that we were protected by protocol and the sworn assurances of Radu and his Ottoman allies, but I felt uneasy. This would be the first time I had peacefully met Turks since I had left their court so many decades before, accompanying Drakulya back from exile to seize and hold the Wallachian throne as a Turkish puppet. Matters had turned out completely different and I wondered if the Turks might still remember me. By the time we reached the pavilion, my heart was beating fast and I had to wipe the sweat from my palms, taking deep breaths to control my fear. We dismounted, grooms ran to hold our horses and a Turkish official hurried forward, bowing, hands outstretched in welcome to lead us under the huge cloth of gold canopy. A broad, thick woollen carpet of deep purple with a gold motif covered the ground in the pavilion. In the centre were a line of small pinewood tables with trays of fruit, dishes of sweetmeats, gold-chased goblets and flagons of wine or ice-cold sherbet. On either side of the tables were a long row of thick, heavy cushions on which we would sit. Our leader, however, ensured we did not but made us observe courtesy and stand till the Wallachian contingent arrived. Instead he arranged us in order of precedence on either side of him and I inwardly groaned as I found myself on his right, a mark of great honour reflecting my elevated position as King Stephen’s expert on Wallachian affairs. Nevertheless, it was one which pushed me into the centre of the stage.

  We took our positions and the flap at the other side of the pavilion was raised and the Wallachians finally entered. I recognised one of the Wallachian Boyars who caught my eyes and looked sheepishly away. He had been one of Drakulya’s greatest supporters. The rest were Turks in costly brocaded robes, jewel-encrusted belts, soft leather boots and snow-white turbans with two or three officers in the dress uniform of the Jan
issary or Sipahi corps. They were led by Radu, clad in expensive silken robes with a scarlet sash round his middle and a dark blue, fur-lined robe round his shoulders clasped at the neck with a large gold brooch fashioned like a wheel with each of the ‘spokes’ encrusted with small mother-of-pearl and a large fire-red diamond in the centre. His head was bare, the dark hair spilling down his shoulders like a woman’s veil. Radu was still beautiful; his long face was smooth as a girl’s and the long-lashed startingly blue eyes still sparkled with mischief. Yet the lips were small and pursed with spite, there were dark rings round his eyes and, as I looked closer, I noticed his face was cleverly made up. He waved us to sit with one beringed hand, slouched onto his own cushion and immediately poured himself a brimming goblet of wine which he drank with one gulp. I felt the Count beside me stiffen at Radu’s lack of etiquette but I knew different. Something was very wrong with Radu, hence the make-up and the way he kept pressing his fingers into the soft upper part of his stomach.

  Radu beckoned to servants, and wine or sherbet was poured according to taste. I glanced again at Radu; there was nothing to link him to his brother, Drakulya, except the way he narrowed his eyes when he objected to one of our military escort and demanded his removal from the tent. Our leader demurred and then gave way but only when Radu agreed to dismiss a Sipahi officer the Moldavian party had suddenly taken a dislike to. Until then Radu had not even looked at me but, when he did, his face broke into a boyish grin so reminiscent of his brother and recalled memories of that little pretty boy I met so many years ago when he, Drakulya, and myself were held by the Turks at Egrigoz. He did not say anything to me but took off one of his rings and, stretching across the table, placed it on my hand. I bowed my thanks, conscious of the Moldavians watching me in hushed silence. Then Radu patted my wrist, turned away and the discussions began.