CHAPTER 10: Come for the Feast, Stay for the Fight
March 1442
“There’s our destiny man,” Marcus shouted the moment Vlad entered the armory. “Come, Brother, let’s see how your skills have improved after spending near a month visiting ghosts and chasing legends.” He barked an order at his sparring partner, and the man handed his longsword to Vlad.
Perhaps before meeting Oma, Vlad wouldn’t have cared if anyone had called her a ghost. But now the slight infuriated him. “A thrashing before breakfast should quench your curiosity, I’d think,” he said, reaching for a doublet hanging on a hook.
“Oh, no,” Marcus said, and stepped between Vlad and the rack of padded swordplay garments. “Someone predestined for great deeds doesn’t need the protection of cotton batting. He’s got higher powers at his side.”
Vlad glanced at the group of loitering attendants and saw they were listening. That was how rumors spread. “We don’t need you anymore,” he said, and the men left the hall with disappointed looks.
Why did he have to tell Marcus about the prophecy? True, that was before he’d gone to Cozia, when he himself had doubts there was more to it than a chain of coincidences. But still, a mistake. “Since you can’t keep a secret I’ll have to blot it out of your mind.”
He lunged at Marcus and delivered an upward cutting blow that caught him under the armpit.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready,” Marcus yelped, and struck back with a downward cut.
“Tell that to the Turk when you fight him.” Vlad stepped in to stifle Marcus’ move and received his cut on the flat of his sword. “You’re ready now?” he said and slashed at his brother’s undefended shin with his sword’s blunt edge.
Another squeal, and Marcus launched a flurry of ineffective blows that Vlad parried with ease. “So, are you going to tell me what you learned from Oma before she died?” Marcus said, panting.
Vlad and his party had returned to Targoviste only the night before, yet news of Oma’s death had already spread. “Uncle Michael told you?”
“Father. He’s quite shaken.”
Vlad stepped back to let Marcus recover his breath. Then he rushed forward, striking at his arms and legs, drawing shouts of pain from him. What should he tell Marcus about his talk with Oma? Just enough to stop him from asking anymore, but not too much to invite ridicule. The mention of lions, dragons, and psalms was certain to prompt Marcus’ derision. Add to that the numbers from the Book of Life, and Marcus would have something to laugh about at Vlad’s expense for years to come. It would be better to make up a little story. “One of the interesting things Oma said—”
“Wait, wait.” Marcus took off his helmet, and steam rose from his hair. “I don’t really care about any of that. I’ve got good news to share.”
Good news for Marcus might mean anything. Last time it was his favorite hunting bitch that got pregnant; before that, a kitchen girl he’d made love to who didn’t. But if it got them off the subject of Oma, any news was good enough for Vlad. He nodded for Marcus to continue.
“After two years of warring, King Norbert and Regent Elizabeth have decided to make peace and get married instead.”
“Oh, Brother,” Vlad said, sighing. “Two people we’ve never met and likely never will have decided to fuck. News just doesn’t get better than that.” He let the sword fall to the floor and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“How wrong you are about not meeting them,” Marcus said, crowing. “I’ve talked Father into taking us along to their betrothal in Transylvania. We’re leaving in five days.”
It made one long for news of puppies and server girls. Yet Vlad was more amused than upset at his brother’s doltishness. He put on a mien of sham concern. “Will that leave me enough time to find a suitable gift? It wouldn’t do to meet two strangers empty handed.” Then he pushed Marcus aside and walked away. He’d already taken a few steps when something made him glance over his shoulder. Marcus flashed him a mischievous grin.
“Aha, so you do have something to add that isn’t pure idiocy?” Vlad said, and he turned back.
“If you’re tired from your trip to Cozia, stay home,” Marcus said, with studied casualness. “It might not be worth your while to get on the road again, just to see a royal reception and a melee on horseback.”
“What?” Vlad had read about such contests of arms, once popular in Western Europe. “For once you’ve got real news, and you’re carrying on about a stupid engagement ceremony?” Elated, he rushed at Marcus with raised fists.
“Wait, Vlad.” Laughing, Marcus ducked behind one of the columns supporting the ceiling. “Don’t kill me before I tell you the best part.”
“Give it to me all at once, Marcus, or I swear I’ll... Vlad chased him around the column, but failed to catch him.
“Here it goes,” Marcus finally blurted, stopping his run. “It’s a fight to the death. With real weapons, not weapons of courtesy.”
The air rushed out of Vlad’s lungs as his shoulders slumped with disappointment. “You prick,” he said, and felt embarrassed at the brief joy he’d allowed himself. “How gullible do you think me? Emperor Sigismund outlawed such contests in Hungary and Transylvania when you were still in Father’s nut sack.”
This time Vlad stormed out of the armory ignoring Marcus’ calls. He walked across the yard to the castle kitchen, letting the morning chill cool his anger. Lash met him there with a ewer of water, a towel, and a trencher of cold meat. Vlad washed his face and hands standing over a bucket, then sat at a trestle table by the fire.
“I know Sigismund banned fights to the death, but he’s been gone for five years,” Marcus said from the kitchen door. He entered the room and sat at the table opposite Vlad, then helped himself uninvited to his breakfast. “But if you’re still skeptical about the melee I’ve got one word for you: Hunyadi.”
Vlad couldn’t tell if Marcus was still toying with him. Janko Hunyadi, Governor of Transylvania, King Norbert’s right-hand man and the recent winner in a skirmish with the Turks. Yes, that name would make a difference. Still cautious, Vlad shrugged, feigning he didn’t understand the implication.
“You think Hunyadi cares about a dead man’s legacy?” Marcus said. “He didn’t when he stole the throne of Hungary from Sigismund’s daughter Elizabeth and gave it to Norbert.”
“You’re sure Hunyadi’s behind this?” Vlad’s hope rose again, timid this time. “He’s known to make his own rules, I grant you that.” He turned the issue of the melee over in his mind while Marcus chewed meat on both sides of his mouth and nodded. Would Hunyadi find people who’d kill each other at his behest? It would be like a gladiators’ fight. And what if he did find such people? “Would Norbert let him get away with a public massacre?” he asked, hoping for a reassuring answer.
“King Norbert’s only two years older than I,” Marcus said. He licked his fingers on both hands then wiped them on his trousers. “If I were an eighteen-year king with both Poland and Hungary as my realms, I’d let Hunyadi do whatever the fuck he wanted, as long as he raised my banner.”
Watching a fight where most of the participants would be killed in front of you was like seeing real war up close. Few things could be more exciting than that. One doubt lingered, though. “How did you learn about this?”
“Cousin Nestor sent me word through the messenger who brought Father Norbert’s invitation to the betrothal. Nestor’s the one Hunyadi put in charge of organizing the melee, so he ought to know.”
Neither Vlad nor Marcus had ever met their second cousin Nestor, Dracul’s first cousin once removed. He lived in self-imposed exile and had made Hunyadi’s court his home. Nestor fashioned himself a legitimate heir to the throne of Wallachia, and was alleged to forever plot against Dracul. But lacking money and allies among the boyars, no one took him seriously. Still Father’s advice to his sons was, “Trust him like you’d trust a viper nesting in your drawers.”
All Vlad wanted was to see a gladiators’ fight. What did
that have to do with trusting Nestor?
By the time Vlad saw the towers of the Hunyadi Castle poking above the Eisenmarkt fortress walls, he was beside himself with eagerness to meet Cousin Nestor. A look at Marcus told him his brother was equally impatient. The ten days on the road had served to whip their restlessness to an unprecedented level. They’d ridden apart from the rest of their company and speculated endlessly about the fight. Who’d be the fighters? How many? What weapons? What rules of engagement? Neither the snowstorms in the Carpathian passes nor the rains on the Transylvanian plateau had dampened their enthusiasm. They couldn’t wait to learn all there was to know about this rare tournament—then, see it unfold in front of them.
“The first thing we do is look up Nestor,” Marcus said, and Vlad agreed.
But once inside the castle, Dracul ordered them to bathe, put on clean linen, and be ready to meet Governor Hunyadi, King Norbert, and Cardinal Cesarini. Regent Elizabeth, who’d elected to raise her pavilion outside the fortress walls, would be left for the next day.
“There is a suite in the castle Emperor Sigismund kept as his love nest, when Janko’s mother was his lover,” Dracul said, with a smirk. “Hunyadi offered it to Elizabeth but she didn’t trust him enough to take it. Yet the lady craves luxury like the priest craves his tithe.”
Vlad was surprised his father knew such details already, when they had just arrived in Eisenmarkt. Then he remembered Michael’s mention of Father’s spies on their journey to Cozia. “But you said the Lord Governor gave the regent his word of honor as a safe conduct,” Vlad said. “What’s the lady got to fear?”
Both his father and Michael chuckled.
“If Hunyadi had given Elizabeth his son as hostage,” Michael said, “she’d be taking over an entire floor and ordering his castle staff around as if it were her own.”
Dracul pursed his lips, no longer amused, and said, “You’ve got to have honor, before you attach it to a word.”
Hunyadi’s reception hall was an immense room with a high rib-vault ceiling supported by clusters of stone columns. The tall windows were crowned with pointed arches and the stained glass in them depicted battle scenes. It reminded Vlad of a French church he’d seen in an engraving among Father Lorenzo’s manuscripts.
Governor Hunyadi stood in the middle of this empty hall, arms raised like someone ready to hug a dear friend. A portly, jowly man, with a receding hairline, Hunyadi was younger than Dracul by a few years. He radiated the untrammeled energy of a tethered bull kicked in the balls. In Vlad’s view, here was somebody who knew what he wanted.
Hunyadi waited for Dracul and his sons to draw near before he shouted in German, “Brother Drache, how good of you to come.” The hall resounded with his deep voice. He took a step toward Dracul and reached his arms out to embrace him. “Fifteen years haven’t changed you a bit.”
Dracul watched the governor with neutral eyes, and made no move to receive his embrace. Hunyadi let his arms fall to the side, his face turning cold.
“Nor have they taught you the futility of flattery, Janko,” Dracul said, his words calm but loaded with import.
Hunyadi frowned and seemed to contemplate a retort. Then, resuming a jovial air, he turned to Dracul’s sons. “And these lads must be your sons Nestor’s mentioned so many times. Marcus and Vlad, if memory serves me.” Hunyadi shook hands with the two brothers. His handshake was powerful, and to Vlad’s mind, honest. “Nestor’s telling me they’re ready to fight under the banner of any man who’d take them to war against the Turks,” Hunyadi added.
Hunyadi’s comment both surprised and pleased Vlad. Here was the most formidable Ottoman fighter Europe had today, and he knew Marcus and Vlad’s names. He glanced at his brother and saw him stand taller than his custom, all smiles.
Dracul took Hunyadi in his arms and met his eyes. Then he said in Hungarian, “I’ll kill you with my own hands, you piece of shit, if that’s what it takes to keep my boys safe from you.”
Hunyadi blanched, but remained impassive.
“I’m fascinated with the Hungarians and their language,” a tenor voice said in German.
Vlad turned to see a tall blond youth with large blue eyes, and took in the man’s fur-lined satin mantle, riding breeches, and soft leather boots hugging his thighs.
“Yet try as I may,” the man said, “in two years of being their king, all I’ve managed to learn was a few curse words. I’m told there is no more suitable language on earth for that purpose than the Hungarian.”
King Norbert, shaved and perfumed, had the delicate face of a woman. Vlad found it difficult to imagine him using Hungarian gutter language.
“I hope cursing’s the only bad habit you’ve learned from the Hungarians, King Norbert,” Dracul said. He shook hands with the youth and Vlad observed genuine pleasure on his father’s face. “Alas, they have others much worse.”
“Believe Drache when he speaks, My King,” Hunyadi said, jovial. “He and I spent a decade together in Sigismund’s service, and there was no vice Drache and I didn’t indulge—”
“If you’re referring to perfidy, King Drache,” Norbert said with a thin smile, “rest assured my Polish barons have duly forewarned me.” He turned to Vlad and Marcus, but continued to address Dracul. “I heard you brought your sons along.” Vlad and Marcus bowed. Norbert saluted them by raising a finger to his forehead, then took Dracul by the arm and walked with him past Hunyadi. His steps had the deliberate slowness of someone comfortable with his surroundings.
Vlad was grateful he and Marcus hadn’t been invited along; he had something far more interesting on his mind that political posturing. “Come,” he whispered to Marcus. “We’ll find Nestor, talk to him about the melee, and be back here before Father notices we’ve been gone.” He dashed on tiptoe out of the hall, followed by Marcus.
CHAPTER 11: Threats and Promises
“I was afraid your father would keep you away from me,” Nestor said when Vlad and Marcus were ushered into his apartment. From the looks of the rich furnishings and Turkish carpets scattered throughout, Vlad could tell Hunyadi held their cousin in high esteem. Or, at least, wanted to give that impression.
“What would make you think that, Nestor?” Marcus said. “It’s true Father thinks... He glanced at Vlad, lost for how to complete his sentence.
“We came to learn about the tournament,” Vlad said, fearing the discussion would degenerate into gossip. “We’ve only got a minute. Father wants us to meet Cardinal Cesarini after he’s done with King Norbert.”
“But of course.” Nestor raised his palms and cocked his head, understanding. “Then go. Don’t let me delay you. There will be plenty of time to know each other later.” He passed his fingers through his hair, limp and dandruff-speckled. Then he turned his back to them, dismissive, and walked over to a table laden with artifacts resembling the model of a battlefield.
“We do have more than a minute, Nestor,” Marcus said, plaintive. “Could you at least tell us—?”
Nestor pivoted on his heels and showed Marcus a broad grin. “Then you’ll have time, perhaps, to tell me what your father really thinks of me.”
Vlad observed that Nestor’s front teeth were chipped and covered in a yellowish, slimy film. He’d learned from Father Gunther to keep his teeth clean according to the Turkish custom. Not a day passed he didn’t polish them with a powder of charcoal and eggshells. The look of Nestor’s mouth gave Vlad an instant loathing for his cousin he struggled to conceal.
“Father doesn’t talk to us about you,” Vlad said. “But as you are of royal Basarab blood, it’d be silly to think he doesn’t consider you a potential threat to his throne.”
“Well, well, well,” Nestor said, raising an eyebrow in admiration. “Here’s a man who’ll tell it like it is. No beating around the bush with you, Cousin Vlad.”
“Is that model related to the melee?” Marcus said.
“Come, boys,” Nestor said, generous. He took Vlad and Marcus by the arm and led them to the
table. “I know you didn’t come all the way from Targoviste for the engagement of Norbert and Elizabeth. It’d be cruel of me to keep you in the dark about the only thing you came to see.”
Vlad felt ready to overcome his antipathy for Nestor. Perhaps he wasn’t the bad sort Father made him out to be.
Half the model was covered with sackcloth. In the exposed area, Vlad saw part of a rectangle formed by toy soldiers holding pikes. The backs of their tunics were emblazoned with Hunyadi’s device, a raven grasping a gold ring in its beak. At the left end of the rectangle, ten toy riders lined up facing the center of the battlefield.
“These represent the winners of the melee,” Nestor said, leaning over the table and spreading a rider’s mantle to expose the same raven device. “Some of Lord Hunyadi’s best fighters.”
“How can you declare them winners in advance?” Vlad said, suspicious.
Nestor chuckled, condescending. “Even down there in peace-loving Wallachia you must’ve heard of our fight with the Governor of Vidin, a few months back.”
The sarcasm in Nestor’s voice restored Vlad’s dislike for him. “Peace-loving isn’t the same as Turk-loving,” he said in a controlled tone. “We all were thrilled to learn Lord Hunyadi killed Mezid Bey and thousands of his soldiers.”
“Then you’ll understand why I call these men winners,” Nestor said, letting his hand hover over the row of riders. “They were selected by László from among the best Hungarian fighters in that battle. So how could they lose?” Nestor glanced at Vlad and Marcus. “Ah, you don’t know László. Governor’s only son and heir, of course. László’s your age, Vlad, but... how should I put it...?”
“He’s been to war already?” Vlad asked, flummoxed, his envy poised to strike.
Nestor’s smile betrayed pleasure at Vlad’s reaction. “Not exactly. But he’s been exposed to war matters more than you’ll ever be, given your father’s love for peace at all cost. Now he’s in charge of the Turkish prisoners, under my supervision naturally. I’m like an older brother to László, you know. I’m practically an adopted son to Lord Hunyadi, myself.”
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