by Dan Davis
“So send an army, take back Faragas and march over the mountains into Wallachia and be rid of Vladislaus.”
“An army, Richard?” he shook his head. “I cannot take even more men from Serbia and send them into Wallachia. You have seen the country. Seen those mountains. You have fought in them. If Vladislaus refuses battle, which he will do if he has any sense, we could have ten thousand men tied up there for years. We do not have time.”
I could not disagree with that. “But you have something in mind, or you would not have asked to speak to me.”
Hunyadi sighed and gestured to a servant to bring us more wine. “You seemed to do well with young Vlad Dracula last time you were with him, in Transylvania. Are you on good terms?”
“I kept my men clear of him, truth be told. But I made my peace with him before I left for Constantinople and we parted on good terms, certainly.”
“What did you think of his abilities?”
“We did not do any fighting and neither did he. But throughout the negotiations and during the journey from place to place, he seemed a perfectly steady young prince.”
“Steady?” Hunyadi drank his wine and frowned. “Do you damn him with faint praise, sir?”
“Not at all. Young Dracula knew what he wanted, he told his men clearly what he expected, and they obeyed him. He knows how to lead.”
“Good, yes. But you were not impressed?”
“It is not that I was unimpressed. He is young and untested. But most of all, I still wonder where his true loyalties lie. You wish to put him on the throne and so make a true ally of Wallachia again. But this is what we did ten years ago, and your man has turned to the Turks even more thoroughly than the old Vlad Dracul ever did.”
He sighed and scratched his cheek. “And you fear I will make the same mistake again. It is certainly a possibility. But there seems to be a deep well of contempt in the young man’s heart, reserved above all for the Turk.”
“Perhaps he is deceiving you. Perhaps he has been their man ever since they released him. After all, why would they do so? I believe the Turks yet hold his younger brother, Radu. Is that still the case?”
Hunyadi made an unhappy growling sound in his throat. “It is. It appears that he is serving the Sultan in a military capacity.”
“Perhaps they threaten to end Radu’s life if Vlad does not do as they command.”
“Do you have a brother, Richard?”
I swallowed. “Why do you ask?”
“I merely wondered what you might do for the life of a younger brother. How far you would go. What would it take for you to trade your honour as a prince and a knight, and a life as an independent ruler for that of a slave subordinate to the Turks? Would you do it to save the life of your brother?”
“You are speaking to a lowly and landless knight with no family, my lord. I have never had to consider such a question. But I take it you do not believe the threat to his brother’s life would be enough to bind him in servitude to the Turks? Perhaps not. We cannot know what is in his heart. But you have asked me here and you speak to me of Wallachia and Vlad Dracula instead of the coming battle at Belgrade. And so I take it that you have decided to make your move with young Vlad? To place him on the throne?”
“No.” Hunyadi drank off his wine and snapped his fingers for another. “I cannot place him there. He must take it for himself. But I will provide him with a small number of soldiers, as many as I can spare from the defence of Belgrade. Perhaps Dracula can make his way into Wallachia and overthrow the voivode, with the help my men and of loyal boyars who have been exiled by Vladislaus.”
“How many men do you mean, my lord?”
“Boyars? Almost thirty, with their retinues. And I have secured the services of six hundred Hungarian mercenaries and five hundred more from Transylvania and Wallachia.”
I laughed aloud. “You are sending, what, fifteen hundred men against the armies of Wallachia and the Turks he controls? They will be outnumbered ten to one. It is madness.”
“Madness, yes,” Hunyadi said, smiling. “And that is precisely why I thought of you.”
***
“We’re doing what?” Walt said, after I explained it to them. He sat at my right hand at the top table and I looked down at him from where I stood before looking around at the rest of the men seated below me.
Our hall in Buda was large enough for the company to assemble. I had not recruited anyone to make up our numbers as I was concerned about a company of immortals and mortals mixing together. Certainly, the servants could not be trusted to hold their tongues about the nature of their masters and any new mercenaries would have to become members of the Order. Indeed, the Company of Saint George had become essentially synonymous with the Order of the White Dagger. The outside world saw us as a small but elite mercenary company retained by the Regent of Hungary and yet we knew ourselves to be the Order, committed to destroying William de Ferrers and all his evil, immortal followers.
Some of the men took time to understand what a fine line it was to thread between these two realities. Indeed, I struggled to do so myself every day.
“It might be done,” I said. “Though it will be a challenge, I do not doubt it.”
They all looked at one another and said nothing.
“What is in it for us?” Stephen said. “How does agreeing to win Vlad Dracula his kingdom help us make the immortal army we need to defeat William?”
I nodded and clasped my hands before me.
“If it works,” I said, “and if we show ourselves to be indispensable, then we might find ourselves with a ruler in Dracula who can give us the sanctuary we need.”
Rob rapped his knuckles on the table and pointed across the hall to Serban, sitting far away below the salt. “What do you say, Serban? What do you make of Vlad’s chances?”
Old Serban dragged himself to his feet and glanced around the hall, all eyes turned to him. “It can certainly be done, my lord. It has been done before. The throne of Wallachia changes hands more often than a halfpenny strumpet.”
Walt burst out laughing and banged the table and most of the men laughed with him.
“I take it you taught him that?” I asked Walt as he wiped his eyes. “Thank you, Serban, for sharing with us your expert local knowledge. That will be all from you.”
Stephen cleared his throat. “Do you truly believe Vlad could be the ruler we need? He may be working for the Turks. He may be a weakling. He still may turn on you and have you killed because of his father.”
“Yes,” I agreed, clapping my hands together. “All that you say is true. But where else might we find our friendly ruler? So, before we conclude, are there any other objections to be made?”
“So,” Stephen said, getting to his feet. “No matter what we say today, you have decided that we will ultimately agree to this mad scheme?”
“I have agreed already. Make your preparations. We return to Transylvania.”
It was June 1456 when we slipped over the mountains from Transylvania and into Wallachia with our small, makeshift army. Those mountain peaks were black and jagged, with grey streaks and were inhumanly large and intimidating and entirely unscalable. On their flanks clung dense forests of pine trees so dark when in shadow that they seemed black as charcoal. The passes and valleys were prone to sudden changes in elevation, but they were often lush and green, whether with meadows grazed by hardy sheep and mad goats, or in broadleaf woods thick with herds of pigs. Below, the lands were crossed with rivers running from the mountains to the distant plains and on to feed the mighty Danube, sometimes becoming long, narrow, and spectacular lakes. In between was a wild land of forests of beech, oak, and elm in the lowlands, or pines and spruce and fur above.
Our leader, the young Vlad Dracula was in fine form. Whether with the exiled boyars or the mercenary captains, he was always at ease. His own men, young lords or sons of lords or other Wallachian adventurers who had thrown their lot in with him, clearly adored him and hung on his every word. Thou
gh he was often the shortest man in any group, he seemed to dominate it with his loud voice and sure gestures. The young prince was born to rule and had been raised in that very expectation. Despite his prolonged period of confinement in the lands of his enemies, he certainly appeared to believe in himself deeply.
The only man he was wary of was me.
Despite my presentation of his father’s sword and dragon amulet, young Vlad kept his distance. At councils of war, though he was courteous enough and listened to my suggestions just as he did for others, with me he was always reserved.
“He does not favour me,” I muttered to Walt as we left his tent a week after crossing the border.
“You cut off his dad’s head,” Walt said.
“There is that.”
“Reckon he means to take yours?” Walt asked.
“I think it is a distinct possibility.”
“Don’t worry, Richard, I’ll watch your back.”
Vlad’s plan relied on bringing as many of the boyars to his side as he could before open fighting began. Without wooing former allies of his father and enemies of Vladislaus, the attempt on the throne would be doomed to failure. With that in mind, we made for the fortress of Copăceni at the head of a severe valley in the north. Once our army filed into the valley and approached the fortress, Vlad took some of us up the final steep approach and there demanded to see the lord, a boyar named Bogdan.
At the gate, our horses were breathing heavily from the climb. I was at the rear of the party, with a few of my men to accompany me. The gatekeeper looked down on us and raised his voice, which echoed from the rocks and thick stone walls. “Who are you and why do you come here?”
I looked up at the dragon banner held aloft over our party and shook my head at the gatekeeper’s absurd attempts at haughtiness.
“You know who we are,” Dracula said, his voice projecting over the entire fortress. “Tell your lord I will speak with him.”
“State your name,” the gatekeeper said.
Vlad paused for half a moment before answering, the silence filled with his contempt for the stupidity of the question.
“I will not be kept waiting,” Dracula replied.
The man hesitated, looked at the soldiers flanking him, and disappeared into the tower. We stood in silence on our horses.
It was not long before the gatekeeper reappeared. “You, my lord, and ten men. No more. And no weapons.”
“Ten men it is,” Dracula agreed. “But we shall keep our weapons. Open the gate.”
The gatekeeper pursed his lips and his gloved fingers drummed on the parapet before he muttered to the man beside him, who hurried off. A few moments later the gate below creaked into life as it swung slowly inward.
“That was easy,” Walt said, grinning. “We’ll be camped in the valley tonight, then. Wonder if the lads might shoot a deer. Do you reckon there’s boar in these woods?”
“Undoubtedly,” Rob said, his tone miserable, staring at his stump.
Before he dismounted, Dracula called out the names of his men, commanding them to accompany him inside the fortress of Copăceni.
The tenth name he called was mine.
Caught off guard, I hesitated but swung down from my saddle.
“Do not do it,” Rob muttered. “It may be a trap.”
“Might be,” I said, adjusting my clothes and slipping an extra knife up inside my doublet.
“This may all be theatre,” Stephen said, hurrying forward and whispering. “This entire event.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was rather easy to gain access to this supposed enemy stronghold, was it not? What if it was prearranged? What if the purpose was to separate you from your men?”
I turned to Serban. “What do you think?”
“I think at such times a man must flee,” he said, shrugging. “Or go forward to meet his fate.”
“Do you know something about this trap, Serban?” Stephen said, reaching for him. “Are you in on it? Are you a part of it? If you are, you will speak now, or I shall flay you myself.”
Serban stared back, his wrinkled face filled with contempt and bitter amusement.
“Enough, Stephen,” I said, smiling and patting him on the back. “Our Wallachian friends are looking.”
“Be careful,” Eva said. “And hurry up. They are waiting for you.”
I winked at her and followed Dracula and his nine companions into the fortress. It was a small place but sturdy enough. Like so many such structures in those highlands, it was a stronghold where a lord could feel safe from raids and assassinations and other mischief started by his neighbouring lords, while ruling over the villages in his valley below.
There seemed to be no more than forty soldiers and as many servants. A hundred men and women in the entire place, mostly men.
We were escorted into the small, dark hall. A table and benches had been set in the centre of it while a fire burned in a surprisingly modern fireplace on the side.
At the head of the hall sat Lord Bogdan of Copăceni, a big man even seated in his chair, with wild eyes and a thick, greying moustache.
“So,” Bogdan said, his voice gruff. “You have come. Sit at my table and take refreshment. Then I will hear your requests.”
While we stood in a line at the rear, Dracula said nothing and strode the length of the hall toward the seated old boyar. He stopped an arm’s span from him, looking down.
“You, Bogdan, have sworn to follow the false prince Vladislaus,” Dracula said.
The boyar shifted in his seat, discomforted. “But of course. He is the Voivode of Wallachia.”
“Not for long,” Dracula said.
The boyar peered around Dracula, looking at his men for help, even at us. I glanced at Dracula’s men, his bodyguards and exiled boyars. None moved to help Bogdan. Some were smiling.
“Come, let us drink,” Bogdan said, attempting to take control of the situation. “Let us eat. Then we can discuss things.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Dracula said.
The boyar coughed and shifted in his seat again. “Then why are you here?”
“To accept your apology,” Dracula said.
“Apology?” The boyar snapped. “For what? I have done nothing to you.”
“I have come to hear you beg forgiveness.”
Bogdan’s mouth gaped. “For what? I supported your father until they killed him. What else could I do then but support Vladislaus?”
Dracula half turned to the men behind him at the back of the hall. “These men went into exile rather than follow a false prince. And yet you did not. Why?”
Bogdan attempted a consolatory tone. “Let us eat.”
“Why?”
He slapped his hands on the arms of his chair. “Why do you think, you upstart? I am a lord. This is my castle. This is my land. I rule it. They are my people. Give that up, for what? For the memory of my dead lord? His sons were in the claws of the Turks, I did not know if they would ever return. If you would return. What was I supposed to do?”
Vlad stared at him, unmoved. “I will accept your apology, once it is given.”
“And what will you do if it is not?”
Dracula said nothing and I could not see his face. But the boyar could and his eyes opened wide and his skin turned white. He coughed again, before looking around at his men. Many shuffled with unease.
“Very well,” the boyar said with his chin up. “Very well, then. I do here before witnesses say to you that—”
“On your knees,” Dracula said.
Surely, it was too far.
The boyar stood. He was taller than Dracula but it somehow seemed as if he was still looking up at him.
“If you would step back, my lord,” the boyar said. But Dracula did not move. The man smiled in discomfort and edged around the younger lord before dropping slowly to one knee. Now, Dracula was the one with his back to the lord’s seat and the man before him appeared to be a supplicant in his own hall.
<
br /> “I beg my lord to forgive me for following the false Voivode Vladislaus instead of taking myself into exile. I should have honoured my word. In the name of God, allow me to make amends.”
Dracula held out his hand with his silver dragon ring and shining rubies. “You may swear fealty to me and follow me as I retake the throne of my ancestors.”
The boyar took Dracula’s hand in both of his and kissed the ring, swearing that he would do so.
“Very good,” Dracula said, smiling and clapping his hands. “Now we may eat.”
***
In the sweltering heat of the valley, as June turned to July, we rode hard in pursuit of Vladislaus II and the last of his loyal men.
It had taken Vlad Dracula a mere four weeks, going from lord to lord, stronghold to stronghold, to gain the support of the majority of the Wallachian boyars. With his support fading away and even his Turkish troops drifting south back across the Danube into Rumelia, Vladislaus had seen what lay in store for him.
And so he ran from Târgoviște.
To me, it was a familiar feeling. Ten years before I had pursued Vlad II Dracul from the very same city, only this time my quarry had a greater start and he was not fleeing down into the plains and toward the Danube and to his friends the Turks but instead east across the valleys toward the last of the boyars who remained loyal to him.
We sweated and our horses gasped but we had to catch him before he could raise a spirited rebellion. If Wallachia descended into a civil war, even if Dracula won it would be weakened and open to invasion. A swift victory on the other hand would mean Wallachian troops and the mercenaries we had with us could all be directed to the vital defence of Belgrade.
And it was my company who had finally scared Vladislaus into full flight. If I could catch him and hand him over to Dracula, perhaps it would bring me such favour that I could approach him about our immortal army. Perhaps, at the least, it would start us down the road that would lead us to that place.
Just as I had years ago, I followed Serban once more, who proved to be an excellent rider. The rest of my company followed behind along the road. Miles behind, I expected Dracula himself and the core of his followers to be advancing as swiftly as they could.
