“But not an adopted heir,” Vlad felt compelled to observe.
Nestor’s smile vanished. “You are direct, Cousin Vlad. Not a good quality for one seeking a long and happy life.”
“Who are the losers going to be?” Marcus said.
Nestor observed Vlad and Marcus for a few moments in silence, eyes gloating. Then he lifted the sackcloth off the model with a theatrical flourish.
Vlad and Marcus gasped. The rectangle, now fully revealed, was formed by hundreds of toy pikemen. At the center, on the far side, there was a viewing stand plastered with colorful banners. At the right end of the battlefield, opposite László’s “winners,” stood a row of ten mounted Sipahis, riders of the Ottoman heavy cavalry.
“You’re using Turkish prisoners as opponents?” Vlad said, breathless. He glanced at Marcus and gathered his brother had the same thought. “Fully armed, like in a real war?”
“You’ve got it,” Nestor said, delighted with the effect his surprise had on Vlad and Marcus. “And Hunyadi will promise the survivors among them freedom, so they’ll fight their hearts out. Of course, we don’t expect any survivors among the Sipahis.”
Vlad’s heart began to pump faster. Here was an opportunity to confront Turks in battle, without having to wait for war.
“And now that I’ve satisfied your childish curiosity, run back to your papa. I don’t want to give him one more reason to dislike me.”
Vlad couldn’t think of anything outside this room just now. He felt as if something he’d wanted for a long time was right in front of him, ready to be plucked. But he didn’t know how to do it. “How could we—er, would it be possible—er...?”
“Could you get us onto the battlefield too?” Marcus blurted, sounding as thrilled by the notion of fighting Sipahis as Vlad felt.
Nestor took a step back and threw his hands up in front of him, as if appalled by the idea. Yet, Vlad spied a suggestion of triumph on his cousin’s face, and knew Nestor’s show of surprise wasn’t genuine. He’d drawn them into making that request on purpose. But what did that matter, as long as Marcus and Vlad got to fight in the melee?
“King Dracul’s sons fighting Turks?” Nestor said, pensive. “That’d be interesting, indeed.”
“We’re both well versed in arms and riding, so don’t fear for our safety,” Marcus said. He rushed at Nestor and took him in his arms. “I could kiss you, Cousin.”
Vlad felt his distaste for Nestor melt away, though he wasn’t ready to hug him. “I’ve always dreamed of—”
“Let me think on this,” Nestor said, his tone unctuous. “László’s the one who’ll make the final decision, but I do have some influence over him.”
“We’d be in your debt forever,” Marcus said, trying to hug his cousin again.
Nestor held Marcus at bay with his outstretched arm. “Not forever, Cousin. I don’t leave my debts uncollected too long.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Come by the bailey after midday tomorrow if you want to see the selection of the Sipahis. I’ll let you know my decision then.”
“You mean László’s decision,” Vlad said.
Nestor shook his head, exasperated. “You certainly know how to make friends, Vlad.”
Cardinal Cesarini displayed neither Norbert’s sincere cordiality nor Hunyadi’s fake one. He received Dracul and his two sons in the castle chapel and wasted no time making his displeasure known.
“I’ve just received bad news about you from the governor, King Drache,” Cesarini said, extending his hand with the cardinal’s ring to Dracul. His desiccated face showed no trace of warmth.
Vlad’s thoughts were still on Nestor’s battlefield model, but the cardinal’s comment jerked him into the present. What bad news could Hunyadi have about Father?
“I’ve always found Governor Hunyadi an effective communicator,” Dracul said, taking Cesarini’s hand and bowing, but not kissing the ring. “I gave him my position on the crusade only ten minutes ago, and already Your Excellency’s been apprised of it.”
A crusade? Did Vlad hear right? The word conjured for him vast, colorful armies, snaking their way across endless fields... thousands of banners fluttering in the wind. The last crusade took place in Opa’s time, before Father was born, and people said there’d never be another one.
“I was hoping the news was false. This person,” Cesarini indicated with a gesture of loathing a man standing in the shadows, “has already ruined my digestion with equally bad news he brought from Vienna. I’m beginning to fear the Antichrist’s arrival on earth is closer than I expected.”
The man who’d affected the cardinal’s digestion was middle-aged and short of stature. He stepped forward with a cheerful air, and said in an accented German, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini of Siena, at your service, King Drache.”
Dracul looked at Piccolomini with an interest that struck Vlad as out of his norm.
“I’ve got the honor of being His Majesty Emperor Frederick’s diplomatic envoy,” Piccolomini continued. He took the hat he’d been holding tucked in his armpit and swept the floor with it in an elaborate salute.
Something in the man’s demeanor pleased Vlad. He had an intelligent air that his overly colorful clothing didn’t manage to spoil.
Cesarini took a step back, as if he feared contamination from Piccolomini. “It’s a grievous commentary on our times when the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire sends his court jester as emissary to a war conference.”
What? War conference? Crusade? Something big was afoot.
“Ah,” Dracul said, “so that’s what this illustrious gathering in Eisenmarkt is, Your Excellency? And I thought it was all about King Norbert and Regent Elizabeth.” Vlad detected mockery in his father’s tone.
“It might be of no importance to Your Grace,” Piccolomini said to Dracul, “but my title isn’t jester, but poet laureate at Emperor Frederick’s court in Vienna.”
Dracul smiled at Piccolomini, but Cesarini gave the poet a vitriolic stare.
“And I’ve served as a diplomat at the courts of many other important—”
“Spare us your life story, Ser Piccolomini,” Cesarini spewed. “The only thing I wanted to hear from you was that Frederick would join my crusade against Sultan Murad. Since you told me he won’t, there is nothing else I wish to hear you say.”
Piccolomini bowed.
“Your Excellency claims the crusade as yours,” Dracul said, amused, “while Hunyadi calls it his. No doubt Norbert also feels entitled to ownership, since he’s pledged his treasury to it.”
“Norbert?” Cesarini said, disdainful. “You know the boy-king is but a figurehead. And one doesn’t buy a crusade with a few ducats.”
Piccolomini said, to no one in particular, “Everybody wants a shot at glory. Like the proverb says, ‘A good meal has many cooks, but a bad one...
Cesarini stared at Piccolomini with creased forehead, and seemed to have a revelation. Then he turned to Dracul. “So, that’s it? If you can’t have the glory of calling it Drache’s crusade, you aren’t interested in joining?” He wrinkled his nose like someone who’d just gotten a whiff of rotten eggs.
An alliance was being formed against the Ottomans, and Father refused to join it? Vlad and Marcus had often asked themselves why their father chose to make peace with the Turks instead of fighting them. When they asked him, all he said was “There is no glory in suicide.”
Dracul gave the cardinal a lopsided smile. “I wish the answer were as simple as that.”
This seemed to push the cardinal’s vexation to new heights. “What then? Don’t you want the Muslim scourge wiped from the face of Europe? Oh, you Orthodox... you’re all the same.” Cesarini spat the word “Orthodox” as if it burned his tongue. “Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbians, Moldavians, Wallachians... you’d rather drop your trousers and get fucked by the Turk than stand with sword in hand on the side of Christ.”
Vlad expected a violent reaction on his father’s part, so was surprised to see him act if he hadn’t heard
the cardinal’s insult.
“Rhetoric and a few thousand mercenaries aren’t going to scare the Turks, Your Excellency,” Dracul said. “The only way you’re going to break their backs is by an alliance with Murad’s Muslim enemies. Make friends with the Sultan of Karaman, and the crusade has a chance of success. Start it without him, and it turns into the bad meal Ser Piccolomini just mentioned. The meal no cook will claim as his own.”
Cesarini’s head jerked backward and a gasp escaped his throat. “Is there anything more debased you can suggest,” his shrill voice filled the chapel, “than that the Pope should make common cause with a spawn of Gehenna?”
“Emperor Frederick came up with a similar idea, Your Excellency,” Piccolomini said. “His Majesty—”
“Get out of my way, clown laureate,” Cesarini hissed. “I don’t want to hear advice from an emperor who’d like to conquer the world while remaining seated.” He stormed out of the chapel with a swish of his black silk cassock. Just before his form disappeared through the door, he turned and pointed a bony finger at Dracul. “With or without you, the crusade will get off next summer. You’ve got a year to decide on whose side you are. Then suffer the consequences of your choice.”
For the first time Vlad felt ashamed of his father. “But why not join, Father?” he asked in Romanian, so Piccolomini wouldn’t understand. “Don’t you want the Turks chased out of Europe?”
“It’s not just another war, Father,” Marcus said, excited. “It’s a crusade, like the one Opa was in.”
Dracul watched them with tired, exasperated eyes. “Not now, boys. One day I’ll explain everything to you, but not now.”
He dismissed Vlad and Marcus and turned to Piccolomini. “You’ll be surprised to know I came to Eisenmarkt for the sole purpose of meeting you.”
Vlad caught his father’s comment and hung back, curious, while Marcus walked out of the chapel.
“But that’s impossible, King Drache,” Piccolomini said. “I wasn’t told about this assignment until a week ago.”
Dracul laughed. “I should’ve said, ‘I wished to meet the emperor’s envoy, whoever he might be.’ See, I’ve got a proposition for your master I believe he’ll welcome.”
Dracul and Piccolomini drifted away and dropped their voices to low whispers.
“I told you,” Marcus said when Vlad caught up with him. “If we want to ever see war with the Turks, we’ve got to run away from home. We’ve just learned that Hungary could be our new home.”
Vlad felt there was something disloyal in Marcus’ way of thinking. Hungarians had been coveting Wallachia since the days of the first Basarab king. Though lately their intentions were masked by friendly talk, one couldn’t forget the blood spilled in the old days to keep them at bay.
“I don’t know, Marcus,” he said. “Take Hunyadi’s side against Father?”
“It’s not like that,” Marcus said, heated. “As the Muslims say, ‘If the mountain doesn’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed goes to the mountain.’ If the war doesn’t come to us, we’ll have to go to it. And we won’t be fighting for the Hungarians but for the Cross, and against the Crescent Moon.”
True. Fighting in a crusade against the Turks didn’t mean fighting for Hunyadi. Even though the governor was going to be the captain general on the battlefield. And even though it was likely to be known as “Hunyadi’s crusade.” But in truth, the crusade belonged to Pope Eugene. That thought lessened Vlad’s guilt at the notion that one day he might join a war their father did all he could to avoid.
CHAPTER 12: Many Called, Few Chosen
“Must we come with you to meet the old lady, Father?” Marcus said. “We wanted to go view the Turkish prisoners.”
Vlad and Marcus had just returned from breakfast in the dining hall and found Dracul and Michael on the terrace of their apartment on the castle’s upper reaches, looking at the scene below. In a pasture outside the fortress walls was a scattering of tents, horse corrals, wagons, and camp kitchens swarming with servants.
When he saw that Dracul ignored Marcus, Vlad said, “Nestor promised to think about letting us partake in the melee.”
“There’s Elizabeth’s pavilion,” Dracul said to Michael, pointing with his finger. He didn’t seem to have heard Vlad. “Ah, she’s flying Sigismund’s imperial standard.” He chuckled. “It’s to remind Hunyadi he’s broken his oath of loyalty to her father.”
“Hunyadi needs no reminder,” Michael said, “and she’d be smarter not to poke him in the eye, seeing it’s he who brokered her marriage to Norbert.” Then he turned to Marcus. “Regent Elizabeth’s only thirty-three. You can’t call her an old lady. And it won’t take but five minutes to introduce the two of you to her, then you’ll be able to go roam around town.”
Dracul faced Vlad with a scowl. “What melee are you talking about?”
Vlad realized that Father hadn’t yet heard about the melee, and that meant it wasn’t smart of him to have brought it up. He glanced at Marcus and got a reproachful scowl in return. The two of them had debated whether to ask permission before, or forgiveness after. Vlad advocated permission and had won the argument.
“Hunyadi’s giving a tournament in Elizabeth’s honor,” Michael said. “Tomorrow, between his victory parade and her engagement banquet.”
“What do you boys know about this tournament?” Dracul said.
Careful now. Father could smell deception miles away. “It’s a melee on horseback,” Vlad said. That was true. Dracul still watched him, suspicious. Better to tell him a little more. “Nestor said we could fight in the melee if—”
Dracul shouted, “That miserable wastrel’s considering putting your lives at risk? Do you have any idea what a melee is?”
“I’ve read about them,” Vlad said.
“It’s only with practice weapons,” Marcus added.
Vlad didn’t like that Marcus had launched into a huge lie. All they had to do was hold back on the truth, and Father might give them his consent. But a lie? “We know how to fight and wouldn’t get hurt,” he said. This was part truth, part hope.
“And it’s good practice for when the war with the Turks comes to Wallachia,” Marcus said.
Dracul’s ire exploded. “War, war, war,” he screamed. His face reddened, and he tugged at the neck of his shirt, tearing the lacing. “I hear you two whisper about war all the time, as if it were a game. What do you know of war? ‘Dulce bellum inexpertis, war is sweet to the inexperienced.’” He spat over the bannister.
Father had to be utterly disturbed to quote a Latin proverb. Perhaps another partial truth would be advisable at this moment. Just to calm him down. “Nestor said we’d be fighting on the wining side.”
Dracul shook his head, exasperated. “I’ve been in a few melees myself, and never heard of calling the winners in advance. As for getting hurt, I got hurt every time, and I was an experienced man, not a kid like you. Blunted weapons aren’t made of cotton. In the right hands, they can still kill. But, of course, that’s what your cousin’s hoping for.”
If Father got this worked up thinking it was a melee with weapons of courtesy, what would he say when he discovered the truth? But it wasn’t fair to accuse Nestor of premeditation. Vlad countered, “Why would he want us dead?”
“Nestor’s not that kind of a person, Father,” Marcus said.
“Oh, God, why couldn’t you’ve given me daughters instead of sons,” Dracul wailed, “so I’d have somebody intelligent to talk with? It’s because the coward would love it if I died heirless, so he could have the throne of Wallachia for the asking.” Dracul stormed off the terrace.
Vlad almost reminded his father that there was still Radu to inherit the throne, but caught himself in time.
“Let’s go,” Michael said, “before your father truly loses his temper and has Baba tie you down in his tent.”
They walked in silence to the stables and mounted their horses. By the time they arrived at the regent’s pavilion, Dracul had regained his good disp
osition. A squadron of riders in the colors of Count Ulrich von Cilli, Elizabeth’s cousin, stood guard, arranged in a square around her tents. Dracul gave them a password and the small party was waved through.
They found Elizabeth surrounded by a group of ladies seated on low stools in front of her throne-like armchair. A chambermaid had donned an ermine-trimmed brocade mantle, and was modeling it for the regent. A wooden coffer that appeared to have housed the cape stood nearby, the lid thrown open. Vlad noticed Hunyadi’s raven painted inside the lid. The chest’s exterior was decorated with King Norbert’s seal. The white eagle of the Polish crown looked painted fresh.
“Ah, my dear Drache,” Elizabeth shrieked on noticing Dracul enter the tent. “You’ve come at the exact moment we were admiring Norbert’s engagement gift. I take this as a good omen.”
Norbert’s gift in Hunyadi’s box, Vlad noted.
Regent Elizabeth had glistening blonde hair, braided and coiled on top of her head. Her robe had a plunging neckline and her bodice contrived to push up her breasts, so that all but her nipples showed above the décolletage. Vlad had never seen a sight like this, and was aroused by Elizabeth’ beauty and near-nakedness. To top the image of perfection, her teeth were regular and white. Now he was glad he’d come along.
The ladies-in-waiting withdrew behind a partition to make room for Dracul and his entourage. Only the chambermaid remained, standing next to Elizabeth. She hid her face behind the fur collar, shy at the sight of the strangers.
“The most beautiful garment in the world can do nothing but conceal your charms, My Queen,” Dracul said. He placed a knee on the ground and kissed Elizabeth’s hand.
Vlad was unable to hear the whispered courtesies that flew back and forth between Elizabeth and his father. His eyes remained fastened on her bosom. Enraptured, he followed the rising and falling of her white breasts with each breath. Then a sneezing fit seized the chambermaid, and it broke the spell.
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