The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale

by Reggie Oliver

  The landscape looked peaceful as war itself had not reached it, only the effects of war, but the sense of miserable expectation dampened our spirits. Depression took us in different ways. Razendoringer fidgeted with his weaponry, constantly practicing with his crossbow; Stanislaus stared around him, in a state of almost permanent suspicion; Mircea devoted himself to tormenting every living thing, human or animal, that came his way. Only Prince Vlad seemed unaffected. He sat on his horse as still as could be, wrapped in a cloak of silence, his eyes staring ahead.

  We were two days away from Ragul’s camp on the River An when Stanislaus came over to me.

  “Keep your eyes on the boys,” he said. “We are being shadowed.”

  I asked him who shadowed us, where were they, but he refused to answer. I am not sure what he expected me to do about it. I was never keen on military exploits and was beginning to find everything to do with armies and warfare unbearably tedious. I must have looked a sad sight: they had buckled a cuirass onto me and a sword hung from my belt, but I surely convinced no-one of warlike intentions. I told Razendoringer of Stanislaus’s suspicions and he merely nodded, but it seemed, in some curious way, to lighten his spirits.

  We were passing at the time through light woodland. Buds were beginning to appear on the branches, the sun was brilliant but not warm and there was expectation in the air. I looked around carefully but could see nothing. Once or twice I heard little whistles and shrieks, as if from some strange bird, which did not seem to blend with the sylvan surroundings. Fear quickened me.

  A great tree trunk lay across the path, barring our way. Stanislaus looked at it and then glanced round urgently at the woodland which had been closing in more thickly upon the travellers. The party could ride round the trunk, but it meant breaking up the close order in which it had been travelling.

  As rapidly as it could, our troop began to pick its way in single file through the wood. Some of the men began to laugh about something but Stanislaus harshly commanded silence. The absence of noise from our own men made us more acutely aware of our surroundings. There seemed to be few birds in the vicinity and those that were made strange sounds that I had never heard before. I began to imagine that they were signals passing from one unseen enemy to another, but if that was the case why did nobody attack?

  The day began to wane and light dimmed in the wood. I had no notion of where we were because Stanislaus, for reasons of safety, had taken us off the main path after the discovery of the fallen trunk. For all I knew he was lost himself.

  Several times I was forced to restrain Vlad from forging ahead on his own into the darkness. Though protected to a certain extent by the gathering gloom it was clear, even to an unmilitary mind such as my own, that we were hideously vulnerable to attack. For a while we plodded in silence. When the file halted I could see a pinpoint of fiery light ahead of me. Then I caught sight of another to my right, then another, and another. Suddenly the whole wood was alive with flickering torches which hurled fantastic shadows here and there through the trees. My horse reared and snorted.

  I heard a high pitched warbling cry. Outlandish as it was, it was still recognizably human. Soon my ears were ringing with a hundred such cries.

  From all directions, uttering these terrible sounds, came horsemen carrying torches, but they were no ordinary horsemen. In the terror of the moment and the fiery irregular light they seemed like mounted monsters as they were dressed from head to foot in lion or bear skins and their horses were similarly saddled, the fur turned outwards. Most wore a bonnet of leopard skin with a pair of eagles wings sewn on in such a way as to stand upright on either side. Another pair of wings projected from their shields so that the whole effect was of a moving mass of fur and feathers. Round their heads they waved scimitars or long wooden clubs studded with nails. At this sudden onslaught our troop disintegrated into little groups of flying horsemen.

  This was my first encounter with the Ottoman army and one of its most celebrated irregular detachments. For these were the “delis” or “mad-caps” who, under the influence of religious fanaticism, would offer themselves for any desperate enterprise. It was said that not a single one of these bravos had ever turned his back on the enemy, but, as I subsequently discovered, their chief value was as shock troops; when faced fearlessly they proved to be poor fighters.

  I seized Vlad’s bridle and plunged after Stanislaus who, I thought, would know best where to go. A host of startling impressions rushed past me as our horses sped through the wood; and yet some tiny innermost part of my brain remained still, like the centre of a turning wheel. I was aware of Vlad breaking free of my proprietorial grip and drawing his sword. I noticed that one of the mad-caps was coming up behind me on my right. I too drew my sword and instantly felt foolish. I had never used a weapon in my life.

  We seemed to be riding into clearer ground. The mad-cap yelled and spurred his horse after us. He must have been a remarkable rider, for in one hand he held a blazing torch and with the other he swung a great scimitar around his feathered hat. As he gained on us I wondered what to do and I think Vlad would have turned to fight, but his horse was bent only on escape.

  Looking behind at my pursuer once more I saw him draw back his arm to hurl the torch at me. The throw was accurate. I ducked and the blazing link rushed over my head to land just in front of my horse’s feet. My horse reared, almost upsetting me, and in my efforts to control it I turned it to face the oncoming madcap. He was as surprised as I was at this confrontation, but that stillness which had remained in the centre of my mind gave me a momentary advantage. As he careered forward I slashed with all my strength at the wrist which brandished his scimitar. The blade did not hit him cleanly but it was enough to knock the sword out of his hand.

  In that weaponless instant before the madcap had time to draw and wield the club which hung from his saddle, Vlad came up behind him and drove his sword deep into the man’s back, almost instantly drawing it cleanly out again.

  The madcap shrieked. In the light of the torch which lay spitting and flickering on the ground nearby I saw the man arch backwards. Blood welled from his mouth and then he fell, extinguishing the torch with his body as he did so.

  The world was suddenly quiet. Vlad and I remained motionless on our horses. We listened to the faint sound of conflict in the woods behind us. Vlad looked down at the meaningless shape of the dead madcap.

  “I killed him,” he said. Then he began to sway in his saddle. I lifted him off his horse and carried him to some trees nearby. There I laid him, covering him with my cloak. He slept there till dawn while I kept watch.

  The following morning there was no sign of our escort. We found ourselves in bright sunshine on a gently sloping downland punctuated with trees. Pale green shoots were sprouting everywhere and a gold haze hung over the distant fields. I had a feeling, from my study of maps, that below us lay the plain of the River An. Vlad and I discussed whether we should return to the wood to look for our comrades or descend to the plain and ask for news of them in the nearest village. We decided on the latter course and began to make our way down the pleasant slopes as soon as Vlad had had his fill of gazing at the corpse of the madcap he had killed.

  On our way down we encountered a flock of sheep, but when the shepherd saw us he ran away. Our senses had been so confused by the adventures of the night before that we felt no surprise or concern at this until we came to a piece of level ground above a village. There I commanded a halt so that we could reconnoitre the place and it was as well I did.

  Vlad tied our horses to a nearby tree and we found a place from where, unobserved, we could have a clear view of the village. Few people were about. A chimney appeared to be smoking badly; then I noticed that it was part of the thatched roof which was on fire. I saw a group of men chase an old man into the square and belabour him with sticks. They were Turks. More small figures began to act out a drama below. The sun, now high and bright, allowed us to see clearly, but the remoteness of the action made me feel
that I was watching a spectacle, not a real event.

  On a roof top two Ottomans assaulted a young girl while a third held her mother at knife point. Others were setting up stakes in a little enclosure outside the village. A group of male villagers had been assembled, presumably in preparation for their being impaled. Other Turkish soldiers were looting, dragging every kind of object out of the houses and into the streets and, despite desperate entreaties from the women, burning or hacking to pieces what they could not carry away. Some Turks were carrying out these frightful acts in a quite calculated manner as if they were performing an everyday task; others seemed to be in a frenzy. One Turk we saw had lost every vestige of control and was running up and down the streets hurling men and women this way and that, then cutting them down with a scimitar.

  Here before us was a vision which comprised nearly all the miseries of war. The feeling uppermost in my mind was not of rage against the Turk but of shame at our common humanity and at my present incapacity to do anything. Nevertheless the sight fascinated me: I could not have taken my eyes off it and was even conscious of a certain aesthetic pleasure in the way a pool of blood glinted in the sun, or the picturesque pose of a Turkish officer with his green plumed turban as he supervised the executions. But this enjoyment only added to my shame. Vlad was watching with a similar intensity, but I cannot say what he thought.

  Then Vlad pointed away to the East where there was a cloud of dust on the horizon. Unseen by the Turks, who were busy with their looting, a troop of horsemen was approaching. I heard the cry of the first villager to be executed. How narrowly he missed deliverance! The horsemen came nearer and the thunder of hooves could now be heard. The Turkish officer supervising the impalings caught the sound and began to issue orders, but they were ignored. Rape, plunder and slaughter had possessed his men like an evil spirit and there was something almost mechanical about their actions, like the moving figures in a German clock. I saw the officer go up to one man who was engaged in beating a young woman with the flat of his scimitar. The officer shook the man who merely threw him off and continued with his task. The officer tried again and this time was struck dead for his pains.

  By this time the horsemen were in the village. They were our men and I saw Stanislaus among them with Mircea. They swept through the streets and another massacre began. Some of the Turks, seeing all was lost, began to run and were struck down in their flight; others fought back with wild, unskilled abandon; but their bodies and spirits were already exhausted by their own savagery. A very few tried to surrender. They lay down their weapons and prostrated themselves before Mircea, but he spurred his horse at them. I felt very little shock or remorse as I watched him spear them to death like forest boars in a hunt.

  Seeing this, Vlad was all for joining in. Unable to prevent him, I saddled up and rode with him into the rout. Coming down a cobbled lane we encountered the Turk who had been killing indiscriminately everything that moved, his bloody sword glittering like a ruby. Seeing him at close quarters, I was shocked to find that he was not much older than Vlad. He was breathing hard, his lips drawn back into a grin and though the eyes saw us there was no recognition in them. Before I could prevent him Vlad had dismounted. Having drawn his sword, he began to walk steadily towards the Turk until at last the young man understood what was happening. He did not turn to run but began to tremble violently as if he had the ague. I had never seen such terror in a person’s face, but he made no move to escape. Vlad ran towards him and lunged at his sword arm; the Turk parried feebly but effectively. The fight that ensued was brief and unequal. In other circumstances the Turk might have been more than a match for young Vlad, but he was in no condition to put up a long resistance. I fancy that a fragment of shame had been reawakened and that made him will his own death.

  Vlad cut off the young Turk’s sword arm at the wrist, then drove his own blade up under the ribs to pierce his heart.

  He was calmly wiping the blood off his sword with his sleeve when a group of horsemen appeared at the end of the street headed by Mircea. Mircea let out a great exclamation of joy and leapt off his horse. The brothers ran to meet each other and embraced across the corpse of the young Turk. It was the first and, I think, the only time I ever saw them display affection for one another, but it made me wonder whether there might be a bond between them deeper than I or even they could guess at. Certainly they had one thing in common: the presence of death excited them. They were already telling each other about the Turks they had killed.

  The last of the Turks were rounded up and impaled on the stakes they had prepared for the villagers. Vlad and Mircea both watched this indescribable ceremony with open relish and while this was going on I was approached by Stanislaus, shame and distress written on his features. He told me that they were only a few miles from Ragul’s main army. I asked after Razendoringer and was told that he was safe, then I asked how he had escaped, but he said nothing. Evidently Stanislaus held himself responsible for the rout by the mad-caps in the woods.

  Ragul’s army was billeted in the fortified town of Vacaresti which is celebrated for a curious custom which, at the very moment that our escort was entering the city, was being enacted. This custom is known as the “Frog Dropping” since every year on the first Wednesday before Lent four (or sometimes five) frogs are dropped from the tower of the church of St. Eustachius. They fall onto the pavement beneath, whereupon their remains are examined by the oldest accredited virgin in the town who acquires the honorific title of “Frog Maiden” therefrom. (And in all conscience, she often looks not unlike a frog.) The Frog Maiden is said to be able to foretell the future from these remains and if any spectator is splashed by the blood of the fallen frogs it is considered unusually lucky.

  Consequently, towards evening a large crowd was gathered below the church tower of St. Eustachius with only a small space left clear on the ground to receive the unfortunate animals. Mircea and Vlad with myself as escort were pushed through the crowd to a point nearest to where the frogs were expected to fall. It was hoped that both Mircea and Vlad would be spattered with the auspicious blood. I accompanied them reluctantly, for I had seen enough bloodletting for one day.

  Presently a priest appeared on the tower accompanied by two acolytes, one of whom carried a censer, the other a curious leather casket which I presumed contained the frogs. The priest intoned some rigmarole and waved the censer over the crowd which was restless for the appearance of the protagonists in this event. Then the Frog Maiden, a scrawny old person dressed all in green for the occasion, stepped out in front of the crowd, muttering under her breath, a violent little pulse throbbing in the leathery sinews of her neck. Finally, the priest on the tower took the casket, opened it and emptied its four occupants out into the air.

  Unfortunately, there was a strong wind blowing at the time. This not only considerably dissipated their rate of descent but also blew them away from the place where they were supposed to fall. The crowd drew back, but not quickly enough. Two frogs landed in a bail of straw, one on Vlad’s head and another on my shoulder, all seemingly unhurt. Taking advantage of the confusion the four of them managed to skip away and were never seen again.

  Imagine the consternation that this unprecedented event caused. The Frog Maiden was canvassed for an opinion, but she was as confused as the rest; upon which doubts — ill-founded ones, I have no doubt — were immediately cast upon her virginity. The general consensus was that the omens were bad; though whether this was due more to the proximity of half a million Turks than the near miraculous escape of four small amphibians I could not say.

  When this was over we were taken up to the small fortress which was the citadel of the town. Here Ragul had his headquarters. The whole place swarmed with armed men. Some wore the Royal Transylvanian livery and were evidently part of Xantho’s standing army, but most did not. Among these others the variety of equipment, dress and demeanour was immense. They ranged from Italian and Spanish mercenaries who swaggered in plumed casques and thigh length
boots to poor countrymen with billhooks and feet bound in rags. These latter, I discovered, belonged mostly to what was called the Muster of the Boyars. The boyars had been commanded by the king to recruit and equip two thirds of the able-bodied men working on their land for Ragul’s army. It was a command so inadequately fulfilled by the boyars that, in the eyes of Mircea and Vlad, it amounted to a betrayal of their country.

  The princes and I were furnished with a small room in the citadel. As soon as I could I set out to find Razendoringer, but, before we were able to meet again, I was summoned into Ragul’s presence.

  He stood in a wide, poorly lit room with a fire at his back. Between us was a vast table covered in maps and other parchments. He was weaponless and dressed so simply he might have been taken for a servant, yet I was never so conscious of his innate air of authority.

  “I have heard of your exploits,” he said bitterly. “Are you incapable of controlling your charges?”

  “I was hired as a teacher and a scholar,” I replied, “not to escort young men on a military campaign. I would be within my rights if I returned to Wittenberg this very day.”

  Ragul laughed harshly. “No doubt you would find many to accompany you.”

  “No doubt I would at that,” were words I did not need to supply. I said: “It was not my fault that our men were dispersed and attacked by madcaps in the wood.”

  “I gave strict instructions that the princes should take no part in action. Why did you let Prince Vladimir engage an enemy in the village?”

  “His Grace acquitted himself well and came off without a scratch. I would not have allowed him to take an unnecessary risk, but there is no fighting against a disposition which seems to be inherited.”

  There was a long silence. Ragul stared at me. Perhaps I had been through too much to feel fear at that moment.

  “You are not a fighting man,” said Ragul, “but you have two characteristics essential in a fighting man, courage and resource. The princes must have a measure of freedom, I grant you. As for the incident in the wood, someone will pay.”