Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “What’s the idea, boy?” the older man shouted, brandishing his spear. “Tired of living or something?”

  “What’s that over there?” Vlad asked. He pointed to the west end of the wall.

  “You mean the Saxon beggars?” the younger guard said, and the older one poked him in the ribs with his spear handle.

  “Shut your flytrap, Job,” he said, keeping a mean eye on Vlad. “They got no business meddling in Lord Peter’s affairs.”

  “Come see this,” Vlad said, motioning at Michael and Gruya. “You wait here, Lash, and see that these two don’t bar the gate. I’ve got the feeling we’ll be paying Lord Julius a visit after all.”

  Michael and Gruya rode with Vlad, while Lash remained behind with their packhorses. At the corner of the property, where the wall turned north, a stone buttress jetted into the road. Someone had chosen that place to fashion a lean-to the size of a large doghouse. Michael was aghast to discover a child sitting in the structure’s opening, watching them with vacant blue eyes. It had a rag for head cover and a frayed burlap sack for a smock. The dirt on the child’s face made it impossible for Michael to tell if it was a boy or a girl.

  “Dear Mother of God,” he exclaimed, dismounting and kneeling with difficulty in the snow, next to Vlad. “What have we got here?”

  “What’s your name?” Vlad asked. When the child didn’t answer he repeated the question in Hungarian. Then in German.

  “She can’t speak,” the weak voice of a woman came from inside, in German. “Because of hunger.” The next moment, long bony fingers with broken fingernails grabbed the girl and pulled her into the shack.

  “Who are you?” Michael asked in a gentle tone, trying to peer into the darkness beyond the opening. The stench of urine and feces from within was overpowering. “Come out and we’ll help you.”

  A dirty face emerged, draped in long tresses of blonde hair. Leaves, straws, and clumps of dried mud were stuck to it, giving it the appearance of manure-coated wool. The woman’s chapped lips moved, struggling with a word that wouldn’t come out.

  “You’re from Kronstadt, aren’t you?” Michael guessed this from her southern Transylvanian accent.

  She nodded.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Vlad said. “We’re friends.”

  “Bread,” the woman finally said in a strained whisper, clearly at the end of her tether. Her eyes, blue like her daughter’s, were sunken deep in her sockets and darted about like those of a cornered animal. “For Katharina,” she added in an apologetic tone. “My Schmetterling.”

  “My butterfly,” Michael repeated wordlessly, touched by the woman’s tenderness for her daughter, when she herself seemed to be on death’s doorstep.

  “Gruya,” Vlad called out. “Some bread, quickly.”

  The woman followed Gruya’s moves with quivering lips as he rummaged in his saddlebag. Saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  “How old’s your... Schmetterling?” Vlad said when he handed the bread to the woman. “I’ve got a brother about her age. He’s seven.”

  The woman clutched the piece of bread to her breast and disappeared inside. For the next few minutes, sounds that reminded Michael of pigs feeding at a trough came from the inside.

  “How far is Cozia from here, Uncle?” Vlad said.

  Michael glanced at the sun. “We could be there before the dark, if we kept a fast pace and made no further stops. You aren’t thinking to—”

  “They’ve got a women’s guesthouse there, haven’t they?”

  “Sure, but...

  Vlad stood and helped Michael rise. “We’ll need a sled and horses for the woman and her daughter. Will the Albas let us have them?”

  “We’re getting over our heads, Vlad,” Michael said, rubbing his knees against a throbbing ache. “The Albas won’t like us meddling into their affairs.”

  “We aren’t leaving the woman and her child here, no matter what the Albas say. Besides, what makes you think they’d care if we took these beggars off their hands?”

  “Since Peter’s kept them alive for some time, I bet he’d care.”

  Vlad glanced at the lean-to. “If you can call this living.”

  “He’s probably got something in mind with them, or he wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be.” Vlad sounded more menacing than disbelieving.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s planning to sell them to the Turks.”

  Michael seldom heard Vlad swear. This time he gave vent to a string of curses. “If so, wouldn’t he have taken them inside to fatten, for a better price?”

  The way Vlad’s fist opened and closed over the hilt of his sword alarmed Michael. He knew the more he explained the more he’d make Vlad’s blood heat up, but didn’t see a way to stop. “Much of the Albas’ fortune’s been built on dirty dealings. But one thing they’re good at is keeping their hands clean. As long as everybody thinks these wretches are ordinary beggars living off Peter’s mercy, nobody will talk. Then one day, the Saxons will just disappear, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Red blotches appeared on Vlad’s face and his lips turned pale. He stood and, taking Timur by the reins, began to walk toward the gate.

  “Vlad!” Michael called after him with sudden apprehension. “You can’t take on the Albas by yourself.”

  After about thirty steps, Vlad stopped and turned. “I’m going to buy a sled and two ponies,” he said with a grin. His dark look had changed to one of mischief. “Would you come along with your purse, please? I always forget to keep one on me.”

  Michael’s apprehension graduated to panic.

  At the gate Michael saw the young guard had disappeared, while the old one now held a naked sword in one hand and the spear in the other.

  “This one sent for his master,” Lash said.

  “So much the better.” Vlad kicked the gate open and strode into the courtyard past the startled doorkeeper. “It’s he I wish to talk to.”

  Before the doorkeeper could react Gruya kneed him in the groin and snatched the weapons from his hands. “Hold on to these and use them on him if needed,” he said to Lash, and then hurried after Vlad.

  Michael stepped through the gate too, three paces behind Gruya, and saw Vlad already far ahead of them. He registered a group of about fifteen men, clothed in dirty sheepskins and armed with various farm implements, rushing at Vlad. Leading them was a man in his early twenties, from his rich clothes their master, Julius Alba. The youth was reputed to have a violent temperament. Michael broke into a painful jog, wanting to shout for Vlad to wait for him, but his lungs already struggling for air wouldn’t allow it.

  Julius had thrown a fox-lined mantle over his shoulders, but in haste, he hadn’t covered his head. Locks of dirty-blond hair fell limp on his shoulders. “Who are you, boy, and how dare you force your way into my yard?” he screamed. He covered the last ten feet between them at a run and lunged at Vlad with outstretched arms. Vlad sidestepped him at the last moment, causing Julius to grab air and stumble. It was Gruya who saved Julius from a fall, catching him just in time.

  “Ah, Lord Julius,” Gruya said with facetious politeness, as he helped the man straighten his mantle, “it’s your lucky day today. You’ve got the honor of receiving a visit from no other than Prince Vlad of Basarab, the son of our beloved king.”

  Disconcerted by his near fall and stunned at Gruya’s announcement, Julius stood speechless, staring by turns at Gruya and Vlad with a bovine look. Then he recovered his composure and stalked over to Vlad. “Prince or not,” he growled, “get the fuck off my property, or I’ll cut you to pieces and feed you to my hogs.”

  As he stepped up to Julius, Michael glanced at Vlad and wondered how much time he had to settle the argument. Vlad’s expression was calm, almost bored. From observing him at swordplay over the years, Michael knew that was the look Vlad affected before exploding into a violent attack. It always misled new adversaries into letting their guards down.
“Lord Julius,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “we don’t mean to impose on you. All we want is—”

  “You want?” Julius shouted, turning on Michael, his face crimson. “In my own house you dare use the word want, you old bag of shit?” He pulled aside the folds of his mantle to reveal the handle of a dagger stuck in his leather sash. “Anyone who comes here uninvited and wants something from me must speak to this first,” he said, and patted the dagger’s haft.

  “And anyone who disrespects my grandfather must speak to this,” Gruya said, and drew his sword halfway out of its scabbard. Julius’ retainers, poorly armed as they were, decided to pull back a few paces.

  “There is no need for weapons,” Vlad said. He unbuckled his belt and handed it, together with his sword, to Gruya, to show he didn’t want a fight. Then he approached Julius, deliberately calm. A murmur spread around the circle of onlookers, who seemed to anticipate a bad end for Vlad. “We do want something, but are willing to pay for it,” Vlad said.

  Michael noticed that Julius’ left eyelid drooped a little and fluttered imperceptibly. He towered a foot over Vlad, and Michael feared that in a fistfight Julius would crush him. He wanted to shout “Step back,” but knew that would reflect poorly on Vlad and he’d never forgive him. Michael fretted, close to despair at how he could have let things get to this stage.

  “Did you forget already what I said, you craven runt?” Julius hollered. “Do I have to carve the words on your forehead to make you remember them?”

  Vlad’s hands darted to the sides of Julius’ head. He grabbed hold of his locks, jerked down hard, and smashed the young man’s nose against his own forehead. A collective gasp rose from Julius’ men, and somewhere at a window a woman’s cry pierced the air.

  Vlad jumped backward, out of the range of Julius’ long arms. Then he took back his belt and sword from Gruya. “I told you, there is no need for weapons,” he said as he cinched his belt. “Let’s just talk about what we’d like to buy from you.”

  “Kill them all,” Julius screamed. “Don’t let one of these brigands get out alive.” He yanked out his dagger and staggered about blind with rage. Blood stained his moustache and beard, giving him a ghoulish appearance.

  None of his men moved.

  “I’ll flog you all, you cowards. I’ll skin you, dogs. I’ll—”

  “Enough.” Gruya whacked Julius over the wrist with the blunt edge of his sword. With a shriek, Julius dropped his knife. “Can’t you see your servants aren’t willing to die for you?”

  Julius’ neck veins throbbed and an enormous blood drop hung clotted off the tip of his nose. His drooping left eyelid fluttered violently now, like a moth caught in a spider’s web.

  “My master wants to pay you for a sled and two horses,” Gruya said. “If it were up to me I’d just take them. But then, I’m no prince of Basarab.”

  Michael saw Vlad smirk, and considering last night’s discussion, decided he must be thinking fate brought the beggars into his path just so he could lash out at an insolent boyar. Moreover, at an Alba. But it wouldn’t always be as easy as today. Though he felt proud of his protégé now, Michael couldn’t help thinking that Vlad had earned himself a lifelong enemy. The first of many to come, he feared.

  “Lord Julius,” he said, waving Gruya aside, “you’re right to be upset with strangers barging onto your estate and making demands on you.”

  “This little shit smashed my nose,” Julius said, his finger pointed at Vlad. “And his footman cracked my wrist.”

  “As one of the king’s advisers, I promise to tell His Majesty the truth about what happened here today. He’ll see to it that justice is done.”

  “Yes, my father will be eager to learn the truth,” Vlad said. “Especially the part about Lord Peter holding two citizens of Kronstadt in bondage.”

  “Forgive my nephew his bad manners, Lord Michael.” The woman’s voice came from the edge of the crowd. All heads turned in that direction. “Young Julius doesn’t always know how to behave in the presence of distinguished guests.”

  “Why, Lady Helena,” Michael exclaimed, making his way through the crowd to meet the woman, “what an unexpected pleasure to see you so far away from the capital.” He took her gloved hand into both of his and kissed it.

  “No less unexpected to see you take such a perilous winter voyage at your advanced age, Lord Michael.” Helena gave Michael a forced smile. “I’m dying to learn what might’ve possessed you to leave Lady Mathilda’s tender cares for the rigors of travel.”

  Michael noted the treasurer’s wife didn’t claim that seeing him brought her any pleasure. Helena Alba was a woman at the peak of her physical strength, as her posture and speech proclaimed. Yet Michael noticed that at thirty-nine, her celebrated beauty had vanished.

  “I want to meet the prince, Mother.” A tall girl of about fifteen sprinted down the mansion’s steps, holding up the bottom of her gown. Three women attendants raced behind her in earnest pursuit, tripping over their long woolens and muttering oaths at the girl.

  The girl had her mother’s features, restored to the perfection Michael remembered from the time he first saw Helena twenty years before. The same almond-shaped eyes, straight nose, and full lips. The girl’s fresh beauty made Helena’s looks appear even more wilted by contrast. Perhaps mothers shouldn’t stand next to their beautiful daughters, Michael thought, but instantly regretted his mean-spiritedness.

  “He’s nothing to look at, Esmeralda,” Julius said through a bloody handkerchief pressed to his lips. “Moreover he’s a coward who attacked me when I didn’t expect it.”

  “Shut your mouth, nephew,” Lady Helena said, looking at Julius with loathing. “How dare you call the king’s son a coward? Besides, that’s the sorriest excuse for a broken nose I’ve ever heard.” She took the shawl off her shoulders and wrapped Esmeralda in it, then turned back to Julius. “Now listen! Lord Michael’s an old man, and he’s feeling tired after riding his horse all morning. His Grace wishes to continue his journey by sled, which is understandable. Get your men to harness one immediately.”

  “He’s cute, Mother,” Esmeralda said, loud enough so all could hear. She clung to her mother’s arm and stared at Vlad.

  “It’s not becoming of a young lady to notice such things, Esmeralda,” Helena said.

  True words, yet Michael had the feeling she wasn’t displeased with her daughter’s forwardness.

  “It’d be better if Prince Vlad honored our home with his presence,” Helena continued. “Then the two of you could get acquainted in a proper manner.”

  Vlad turned on his heels and headed for the gate without acknowledging either mother or daughter. “Get the sled and let’s be off,” he said to Gruya and Michael in passing.

  “See, you’ve spooked the prince, Esmeralda,” Helena cooed at the girl, though her look spoke of injured pride. “Boys are so much more timid than girls at this age.”

  “The sled isn’t for me, Lady Helena,” Michael said. “It’s for the two poor creatures outside there. We’d like to—”

  “I know little of matters outside these walls, Lord Michael,” Helena said, and stared him down with puckered lips. “I’m giving the sled to you. As for money, don’t bother. My husband will clear the matter with the king. The Albas always settle their accounts, sooner or later.”

  Michael didn’t need to hear Helena’s threat to know Vlad’s affront to the Albas’ dignity would cost the king dearly one day. He bowed to her. “As it pleases Your Ladyship.”

  Helena gave Esmeralda a hug. “Don’t worry, my little one. One day you’ll meet a real prince.” Then, showing Michael a set of brown teeth that reminded him of a camel’s, she whirled around and elbowed her way through the crowd of servants. Esmeralda walked behind her mother, glancing now and then over her shoulder after Vlad.

  As Michael followed the sled out the gate, he saw Vlad in the distance, dismantling the shanty with blows from his boar spear. The woman and her daughter stood by, clutching arms ar
ound each other.

  CHAPTER 8: A Whimsical Gatekeeper

  “Now a wash, some hot soup, then a decent sleep,” Michael said, easing himself onto a chair with grimaces and groans, as if he’d just endured a pummeling. Yet his voice was cheerful. “By morning we’ll all feel like new.”

  Their guestroom in the male visitors’ quarter of the Cozia monastery came with a washbasin and cots with clean sheets. The soup was a promise from the kitchen monks, yet to be fulfilled.

  Neither the wash nor the soup was of interest to Vlad. As for sleep, that was for old men. “I feel like new now, Uncle Michael,” he said, tossing his saddlebags onto the bed.

  They’d just handed Katharina and her mother over to the nuns, and Vlad had already put them out of his mind. A fever of anticipation had taken over him, making his body quiver. Oma, with all the secrets she held, was here, somewhere behind these walls.

  “I can’t wait until morning. I want to see Oma now.” Vlad saw Michael’s face sag with disappointment and felt sorry for him. “You can stay and rest. But I’ve got to—”

  “I’m afraid if you talk to the abbot by yourself, you’ll say something to upset him and get nowhere.” Michael rose with effort. “You’ll need me to finesse the old man.”

  “Why the abbot? Isn’t Mother Superior in charge of the convent?”

  “In matters spiritual, Mother Superior has indeed authority over the nuns. But when it comes to visitors from the outside, only the abbot can give the blessing.”

  The abbot’s secretary led them to an antechamber devoid of furniture and nearly dark, except for the light of an icon lamp. Then, bidding them wait, he entered the door to the abbot’s office without knocking.

  Vlad paced the floor, Oma’s Bible under his arm. He felt Michael’s eyes on him and was embarrassed at his impatience. “For your sake I hope we won’t have to wait long,” he said, but he saw Michael wasn’t deceived. “Well, for my sake, too,” he added.

  “The Very Reverend Abbot will receive you now, my lords,” the secretary said from the open door, and stepped aside to let Michael and Vlad enter the office. Then he announced, “Prince Vlad of Basarab and Lord Michael Novak, Chancellor to His Majesty King Dracul.” Vlad’s pulse quickened at the thought he was about to meet the man who’d decide the outcome of his quest.