"What can I write for you my lord?" asked the scribe.
"I think I shall do it myself," Ban Alescu said. "But I will still need the parchment and quills. Leave them there on that table."
"Yes, my Lord."
The fellow was obviously disappointed. So Vlad was taking the fancy of the middle rank of society. And the scribe plainly knew more—rumor if nothing else—than his master. Rumor had to be sifted, but there was usually a shred—-just a shred—of truth in it somewhere. "So do many of the Nobles of Valahia make their submission to the Prince," he asked, idly.
The scribe scowled and shook his head. "A handful of boyars only, my Lord. They'll pay a high price for that, I think. Although . . . it's said that the countess Bartholdy has joined our prince." He sounded doubtful about that.
Countess Elizabeth did own several estates in Valahia—one not more than thirty miles from here. She also owned extensive lands in Slovenia and Hungary. She was the aunt of the King. And a stunningly beautiful woman, apparently. There were many rumors about her. But why would she back a young Prince Vlad against her own nephew?
Ban Alescu had met King Emeric, and after due consideration, he rather thought hecould imagine several reasons why. The question was, which side should he himself to back? It did not seem that Vlad had much support. All the same, natural caution suggested that he stay out of it all, until he could clearly see who was winning. One didn't want to be the first to make one's submission . . . or the last. It wasn't an easy, clear decision, like hanging gypsies.
The scribe cleared his throat. Ban Alescu roused himself from his thoughts and waved him away. It would take a little more investigation, and a lot more consideration. Whatever happened, he, Ban Alescu of Irongate, was going to emerge richer and more powerful from this.
* * *
Oddly enough, at that very moment,. Vlad was receiving his very first submission from the nobility of Valahia. It was a fairly rough and ready submission. The Székely people of Carpathia might have been expected to stand with the King of Hungary—their language was much the same. And, in their seven seats along that part of the montaine region, they far outnumbered the Vlachs. Unfortunately, King Emeric had decided their status of being untaxed and able to administer themselves, and provide their own judges and juries, was not one that suited him. He'd forced Radu, Vlad's father, to introduce the feudalism he preferred, and the taxes he preferred too. Radu hadn't managed to prevent it, or stop the Buda-bred district overlords being sent in, but he had managed to let the Székely know that this wasn't his idea.
All three Székely classes had ended up subservient to the new Barons . . . Not just to the Count of Valahia. Suddenly they remembered, remarkably, that they were the proud Kabar people with their own traditions and beliefs, and not Magyar. All this Vlad discovered when he spoke to the messenger who met his column on a pass near B lan.
Primore Gabor Peter wanted—said the messenger—to know whether Prince Vlad respected the rights and privileges of the Székely, as his grandfather had agreed to. Vlad had had a long day's ride, and was still deeply disturbed by Elizabeth's departure and Rosa's disappearance. He was more than usually blunt. "What are those? And do these Székely recognize me?"
The messenger—with interspersions from Mirko—not always polite ones, as the Székelers were not much loved by the Vlachs—explained.
Vlad sighed. He could remember his father's bitterness with the boyars. But he could not recall these . . . Primores? "What is a Primore?" he asked.
"A captain of the Horseheads," explained the messenger, making things clear as mud.
"He's like a sort of lord," said Mirko. "But they're not born to it. There were some serving with me in the Corfu campaign. I'll say this for them, they're nearly as good fighters as the Croats."
"Better!" said the Székely messenger. "I am a Horsehead. I am a freeman and own my own horse!" he said proudly.
"And how many Vlachs serfs do you have?" asked Vlad.
"They don't mix. Székely live together with other Székely," said Mirko.
"We live together on the seats that were granted us, to keep our traditions," said the Horsehead messenger. His head looked fairly normal to Vlad.
Vlad thought about it. His support, so far, barring the few boyars that had come with Elizabeth, was entirely from the Vlachs peasantry, Vlachs townsmen and occasional freemen. He turned to Mirko. "Tell me what you think?"
The sergeant grimaced. "We need them, Drac. And they're not the worst. Not Germans or Magyar."
Vlad nodded. "Tell Primore Gabor Peter I will meet him. If he will recognize my rule, and provide me with support, I will restore the privileges of the Székely, at least of those who recognise me."
The Horsehead bowed respectfully. "I will tell the Primore," and mounted and rode off with the sort of skill that did lend some credence to what he had said about the Croats.
A little later—not very much later—they must have been near at hand and waiting—a group of well armed horsemen came up and dismounted. "The infantry are back at our fortress," said their leader, dismounting. Up to this point Vlad and his ragtag army had operated from the high Carpathians to the west. The east—a narrow strip of foothills and debated lands—had been somewhere they'd not ventured. The Golden Horde lived over there.
The Primore and his Székely lived where the Golden Horde stopped . . . Or perhaps, where the Szekely had stopped them. The Primore Peter looked like a fighter, there were tales in the scars and the broken nose, in his armor, that was somewhat dented in spots, although well polished. "I have hung a few Magyar troopers on the gates as a welcome flag, Drac," he said, cheerfully, going down on one knee. "My bandits brought me the news you were coming at last. Welcome, Drac, to Ghîmes."
It was a small welcome, from a small place. But it came with a fortress—really a castle—and thirty Horseheads and a company of a hundred and twenty-five footmen—archers and pikemen.
"Bandits, Primore? "
The scarred man grinned, showing a missing tooth. "It's easier to use them than to chase them. I collect tolls from caravans passing through to trade with the Golden Horde. A few merchants try to avoid that, and me. And there has always been a problem with bandits in the high Carpathians. So I rounded up a few and told them that I'd pay a bounty on any parties they spotted for me, but nothing if they robbed them first. If they robbed them I would hunt for bandits. I hate competition," he said, laughing heartily. "I'll house them in winter. You don't want to ask too closely whose serf some of my men used to be, before they ran off and tried their luck on the highroad."
Vlad found himself torn between an instinctive liking of the hard bitten Primore, and disapproving of the fact that he was plainly little more than a robber himself. But he had come to offer his fealty, his men and his home, to his overlord. That had to count for something, surely?
They ate, and drank at the Primore's table that night. Vlad was not afraid of treachery this time. His own men patrolled the walls, and they outnumbered the Primore's by ten to one. Vlad noticed details. Weapons were well cared for and clean. The food was on the rustic side—better than they'd had for the last while, but simple and wholesome. This was not a rich castle. It was also one that was no stranger to attack. So Vlad asked who did the attacking—besides merchants who did not wish to pay toll, and bandits who did not wish to accept a small share of the spoils.
His host laughed. "Besides those two groups. The Golden Horde. We trade with them. And the young bucks in their number will raid up here. We don't try to return the favor too often. Got the pants beat off us last time we did. Never even think about stealing their horses. They don't take kindly to it. But the clans don't try Ghîmes itself. I spent good money on cannon. We command a good field of fire from up here. Outlying farms are more the target."
"Can you buy them?"
"Cannon? Not as easily as I'd like."
"I meant horses."
The Primore nodded. "Yes. Mind you they sell us their breakdowns. Never th
e best. And they want a steep price for them. You're better off buying in Valahia or even further afield. The Horde sell sheep and even cattle cheaply enough, but they have more horses than cattle, and don't part with them as easily. Their horses are tough but not overlarge. You'd struggle to find a horse big enough to carry you, my Prince.
"Well . . . I want them for my infantry."
The Primore blinked. "Why? They are infantry. You can't turn them into cavalry, Drac. A man needs a lot of experience in the saddle to be good enough to stay in it in battle."
Vlad smiled. "We play 'hide and seek' and 'catch as can' with King Emeric's forces all over the mountains, Primore Peter. We need to move far and fast, and still be reasonably ready to fight and then run again. And we may be able to help you with a few cannon. I have my own gunsmith. Come winter I will need a better work place for him."
The Primore tugged his beard. "I can see that. Mind you, you will need men to hold the horses. It's a bit like what our bandits do here in the mountains. Shoot at us, and by the time we get there, they've moved to where we've just come from because they know the mountains better than we do. Makes it hard work to chase them. Well, if that is what you need them for, the Mongol ponies will be the right animals for you. But you'll need a lot of horses. You'll have to go and treat with one of the clan-heads for that. It'll cost you some gold, Drac. But I'd love to have your gunsmith. He can have whatever he needs here. King Emeric is not going to take this place by force, and if he tries by siege, well, winter is coming fast. We are provisioned for it, and they can freeze their butts off out there. The snow will be thick out there. You will just have to come and relieve us, Drac, if we need it in the spring."
Vlad was fairly sure that a mere twenty well provisioned and armed men could hold this little fortress on its little promontory on the gorge edge for a long long time. Getting siege cannon up here—if you could get them up the mountain road (and the carts had had a hard enough time of it), meant bringing them along the road below the castle. The Ghîmes defenders could roll rocks on them, never mind the fact that they would be right under cannons and bowshot from the castle.
"So . . . how do we trade with the Golden Horde? I have some gold, and I need some horses. We could probably use some mutton for winter provender too."
The Primore sucked at the gap in teeth. "Normally I'd say wait around for a clan rider to come up with some sheep or a few ponies. It happens most weeks. But they're not coming up at the moment. Something is going on out there. Still, for the numbers of horses you'll want, Drac, that wouldn't work anyway. You'll need to take a fairly strong party out there, with truce and trade flags—we can help you with those, and deal with a Clan head. They have plenty of stock. It's all a question of their being prepared to sell much. Mind you, going out into their lands is always a chancy business."
Vlad sighed. "I need to get my men provisioned and quartered before winter. I certainly can't wait. We will have to go out there, whatever the risks."
"You need to go looking like merchants, Drac. Take a good few carts. But you also need a good strong force of well armed men. Normally a trader negotiates for an escort . . . they get much better prices out in the lowlands. It's a balance with the Golden Horde. You need to be worth trading with, but too strong to make raiding and looting worth while. That's the advantage of doing it here, under the guns. It's a pity you can't take a fortress and cannon with you. They're a bit heavy to move," said the Primore Peter with a chuckle.
Vlad bit his lip. "Cannon. Well I can't take the fortress, but we have some good four pounders. Stanislaw has made us some special ball shot. Many little balls. It will devastate cavalry at close quarters. It will devastate anything. But we tried firing from the carts. It shakes them apart worse than mountain trails do. We have to take the cannon off and fire them from a mount on the ground."
It was the Székely Primore's turn to look thoughtful. "Draw the carts and wagons around and put the horses inside and cannons in the gaps. There are very few firearms among the Golden Horde. They're too good with their wicked little horse-bows. It takes heavy armor to stop those arrows. But a cart and some faggots should do it nicely. We can spare you the faggots."
"Thank you. But won't they burn very well? "
The Primore smiled. "There is a hole in every great idea. Bags of sand would be heavy."
"What about bags of wheat?"
"Well, it would be lighter. And you could eat it. Put the faggots in with it and if they used fire against you, you could always make bread."
It was said in jest. But Vlad could see how it could work for his Arqebusiers. A wagon would be better than a cart. But you could take a cart where the wagon would struggle. In more open terrain, and possibly with some oxen—far slower but stronger . . . He would think more about it. And ways to defend against arrows.
* * *
He bedded down that night in a private spot, but bivouacking like most of his men. They assumed that it was to show solidarity with them. It was actually because he hoped, desperately, that Rosa would come to him. He'd been trying to spot her for the last two days. She could be in one of the carts . . . He was afraid to ask. He had ventured a vague question to Mirko. "Are all the camp-follower women still with us?"
The Sergeant had shrugged. "They come and go, Sire."
He did not own her. He knew that. She'd said as much to him.
Chapter 52
Manfred had never seriously weighed his own mortality. He would live or die. It was a philosophy that was common among the Celts with their rather inverse view of the world and afterlife. What he found himself doing, on this expedition, was to suddenly start thinking of the mortality of others, and he didn't like his own conclusions. These were men who had come thinking they were merely providing an escort, and now they were running for their lives. The reality was that the knights were going to be easy to follow, and outnumber. This was the Golden Horde's country; they would have all the advantages. "Erik," he said, riding up next to his bodyguard and mentor. "Should we try scattering? As a group we have very little chance to avoid being followed. A solitary knight or three might get across that river."
Erik was silent. And then shook his head. "I have considered it, Manfred. Look, it is possible that I may still have to try and get you away, and leave the rest to make as long and messy stand as possible. I don't like the idea, but Falkenberg has already suggested it. But the reality is that the knights would be easy prey on their own. Only Kari and myself have much in the way of skills needed to move undetected across enemy terrain. Talking to Bortai, they'll use their ten man squads—Arbans—to hunt us. They've cleared a lot of the forest for grazing lands. The country is fairly open as a result, and they're mobile and fast. This is, sadly, what they do best. They train their soldiers in these massive hunting exercises in which they enclose a huge area and then literally close in and kill everything. The entire point of the excercise is not to let any game at all escape. We're going to be that game, unless we can keep breaking their line and heading north.
"Looking at the stars, we're heading west."
"Northwest. There's rougher country up there, towards the border of Hungary. Still a few areas of dense forest—apparently more so further south, unfortunately. Better for us to fort up if we can find a defensible site—because that's the other possibility. We get the Mongol away—Bortai and her brother, with Tulkun. The woman has already showed she's pretty expert at evading pursuit of any kind. They may, or may not, be able to raise her clan to come to our assistance. Tulkun seems to think that they would. I suppose it depends on what actual credibility the clan puts on the word of a woman and a boy, and a Mongol from another Horde. Tulkun is a good fighter but he's no ambassador. And the truth is that the Mongols don't seem to put much value on non-Mongols."
"It does seem a little extreme, and a fairly thin hope," said Manfred.
"Our hope here is very thin," agreed Erik.
"Judging by the temperature tonight—having roasted us a few days ago
, we might just get snow to rescue us too," said Manfred.
Erik nodded. "It'll be dropping off a lot faster in those mountains we can see. I've wondered just whether it might not be worth taking our chances up there with Emeric's Hungarian forces. They might allow you to be ransomed."
"Emeric . . . not after Corfu," said Manfred. "Not for all the money in the west." Anyway, he thought to himself, perhaps he had some value, but the others would be killed. They might as well take their chances here in lands of Golden Horde. And with a bit of luck . . . get away to Illyria. While there was life, there was hope. It was a platitude, but he was not Celt enough to give in to fatalism just yet.
* * *
Erik was not relying on hope. Rather he was relying on rivers, forest and booby traps, and the knights' experience in signaling to each other by means of horn-calls. Kari was off scouting soErik split his small force in two . . . which, on the face of it, seemed like insanity. But there was logic in his insanity. The two parties had the same point as an objective. They'd be relatively close to each other. And if one of the two columns encountered scouts who were foolish enough to engage or be seen, horn-talk would see to it that they could act as relief for each other. Even if one group ran into a large group that surrounded them, the Golden Horde Mongols would scatter from a direct charge. That seemed a given and sensible tactic. The heavier horses and armor of the knights meant that they could punch through Golden Horde ranks—it just wasn't expected to do the heavier knights any good. The Golden Horde would reform and pick them off, one by one. Numbers, and a lack of any near-at-hand refuge were on the side of their pursuers. But perhaps, just perhaps, flexibility was on theirs.
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 39
