The Lord Count Drakulya Page 15

  At first, Drakulya did not leave the vicinity of Bucharest but attempted to govern through letters and messages. He continued his idiosyncratic mode of government, taking an interest in the minute details of administration as well as the personal lives of his subjects. On one famous occasion he was riding across the market place in Bucharest when he met a merchant, shabbily dressed. Drakulya reined his horse in and called the man over. “Why, for such a hard-working man,” the Prince asked, “are you so poorly dressed?” The man stared at Drakulya and then shrugged. “Do you want to know the truth, my Lord?” he boldly asked. Drakulya leaned forward. “Of course, I always want the truth, otherwise I would not have asked. Now answer the question.” “It is because,” the man replied, “I spend most of my wealth on my wife, who insists on the best dresses and most comfortable life style.” He looked nervously at the Prince. “Of course,” he continued, “I do not object to that. I would want it no other way.” Drakulya smiled and turned to me. “Arrange for this man to have another wife,” he said. “Give him a choice.” “And my present wife?” the poor man bleated. Drakulya gathered the reins and prepared to move on. “Turn her out on the roads,” he said, “and make sure it is done by nightfall!”

  Such incidents enhanced the Prince’s reputation as a man deeply concerned with the lives of his subjects. He wore the mask of a benign, calm, benevolent ruler but I knew he was deeply worried. He wanted to get rid of his allies as quickly as possible because he could not afford them and, further, whilst they were in the country he was not his own man. On my insistence he sent out more patrols to search for the Turks but each returned without any news. There were no Turkish cavalry, the garrisons were deserted, and to all intents and purposes it appeared as if the Turks had moved back across the Danube. Drakulya was looking for the wrong enemy but we did not know it then. He was too worried about the future and whether he should move his Hungarian princess and his new family back to Wallachia.

  Eventually, one afternoon, shortly before we left for our fateful journey for Snagov, Drakulya asked me to accompany him on a personal and private expedition. We left the fortress by ourselves in disguise and made our way to the north of the city to a deserted, wooded, neglected part of the Wallachian plain. I did not know where we were going but Drakulya seemed to be following a well-known route. Eventually we entered the dark, wet forest, making our way carefully between the trees into a large clearing, the only habitation being a wooden but with a straw-thatched roof. There was a small fire burning before its door and a fragile-looking wooden pen for scrawny chickens and an ancient-looking goat. Drakulya told me to dismount, we tethered our horses to a tree and moved over to the door of the hut. We stood at one side of the fire and the Prince called out a name I did not recognise. There was no answer and suddenly I realised how quiet the clearing was. It was winter, a mist curled and twirled between the trees. This may have deadened the sound but I thought it strange not to hear any birdsong or the creak and rustle of the undergrowth. I felt the hair on the nape of my neck standing on end and wondered where the Prince had brought me. Drakulya, however, was at ease. He took me by the arm and we entered the hut. It had a floor of beaten earth. There was no furniture except for a small bed in the far corner and a few pots lying before it. I looked up in the darkness and saw a human skull grinning down at me from one of the rafters. There was a strange dank smell about the place, bitter-sweet like crushed herbs, mingled with the odour of human sweat and animal blood. I thought it was a bundle of rags on the bed but then I jumped nervously as the bundle came to life and an old woman dressed in animal skins, her long steel-grey hair tumbling down past her shoulders, suddenly swung her scrawny legs off the bed and sat on its edge looking at us with bright, sparkling, mystery-filled eyes. She had a necklace of coral or bone, I don’t know which, around her neck. Her face and body were ancient but her movements were agile.

  I fully expected the old crone to cackle at us but, when she spoke, her voice sounded like that of a young girl, soft, fluent and lilting. “Prince Drakulya,” the voice was almost a whisper. “It is a great honour for you to visit me. I have expected you and began to think you would never come.” “I have come because I need to know,” the Prince replied. “You must know I have returned, but for how long? Where are my enemies? When will they strike? Am I safe?” The old woman shrugged her bony shoulders. “No one is safe,” she replied. Her toothless mouth opened in a grin. “Not even you! You will never be safe. You know that. We have told you that countless times.” “But you promised me fame and honour,” the Prince was almost begging. “You promised me a name that would last for ever and, yet, here I am, a ruler back in his country for the third time without the gold or troops to hold it. I cannot go away a third time. I must know what is happening!”

  The old woman got to her feet. Her claw-like hand beat the air as she gestured at us to sit. I took off my cloak and put it on the ground and then both the Prince and I squatted there, almost like two boys waiting to receive a treat or a special prize. The witch or warlock, for I knew she was one of these, went into one of the dark corners of the hut and came back with two bowls of wine. She handed one to Drakulya and then pointed at me. “Is he to stay?” she asked the Prince. Drakulya nodded. “Yes. He deserves to know, as I do.” The old woman handed me a bowl. Her hand touched mine and suddenly I felt cold as if a corpse had risen from its grave and embraced me. I was conscious of a terrible rank smell and found it difficult to control a shiver which had nothing to do with that derelict dirty hut and the cold weather outside. The witch stared at me, her black eyes probing and compelling. “Drink,” she muttered. “Drink and you will feel warmer.” I gulped the wine, feeling its heat enter my belly but almost gagged at the bitter taste it left in my mouth. Soon I felt warmer and relaxed, dismissing my earlier fears and wishing I could stay there forever.

  The room seemed to grow larger, the witch did not seem so revolting, the present looked attractive, the future full of promise. I stared at Drakulya and noticed how his face had lost its tension, even the wrinkles and furrows brought by age and hardship vanished. His mouth was slack, his eyes half open. He almost looked like the young man I had known when we left Egrigoz so many years ago. The witch came back with a large earthenware bowl full of clear water. “Stare into the bowl,” she said. “Don’t move or touch the water, but simply gaze on what it brings.” I did so and saw nothing but clear water and a fine crack and marks at the bottom of the bowl. At first nothing happened. Then, one of the marks suddenly seemed to grow and come towards us. As it drew nearer I saw that it was a man’s head, almost like the face of a swimmer rising to the surface of a river to gasp for air. The face grew larger. At first I thought it was that of a child, then I saw the scrawny hair, the smooth plump features, the heavy-lidded eyes, and recognised the face of the dead traitor, Theodore. The skin was white, the half-closed eyelids a heavy purple colour, the nostrils flaring like those of a horse, and there was a trickle of blood from each corner of the mouth. I almost screamed in terror as the eyes flew open and looked at me. The lips moved and I heard Theodore’s soft, sibilant voice whispering, “Rhodros! Rhodros!” Then it was gone. The bowl was empty except for the clear, glass-like water. There were other images, some more terrifying than anything seen in a nightmare. Armies marching, cities in flames, rows and rows of impaled victims, the faces of men and women Drakulya had killed, all coming towards us, all whispering our names as if trying to entice us into the darkness. I tried to drag my eyes away from the water and looked around the strange mysterious room but it was just as chilling. The shadows there had grown larger as if concealing something or someone lurking there. I heard the witch’s voice hissing at me. “Look, Rhodros, look back into the water!” and once again I gazed at the bowl. This time there was no face, no nightmare, just a strange ground, a pathway by a marsh. It was a place I knew and I stared closer until I recognised the marshes of Balteni. It was like a picture from a mosaic. I felt that if I stretched out my hand I could feel the
grass and trees, the clumps of shrubs and coarse weeds which disguised the marsh. The place was deserted except for a knight dressed in black armour, who sat on his horse as if patiently waiting for someone to come. Then, as I gazed, the knight turned his face towards me. He seemed to recognise me and drew his sword as if preparing to charge, he lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal a white gleaming skull and the empty hollows of his eyes. I could bear this no longer and tipped quietly off into unconsciousness but not before I heard a voice, almost booming around the room – “Beware Balteni!”

  When I awoke, and it must have been only a few minutes afterwards, Drakulya was kneeling above me, his arm under my neck propping me up as he poured wine from a skin down my throat. There was no sign of the old witch. I told Drakulya that I felt better and struggled to my feet anxious to be away from that hut and clearing, safe and secure in the palace of Tirgoviste. On our journey back Drakulya refused to be drawn or discuss what he or I had seen. The visit seemed to have made little impression upon him except that he was more silent and thoughtful than before.

  There was still no news of the Turkish force and Drakulya refused to send any further patrols either into the Vlasie forest or south to the river to search out the whereabouts of the Turkish camp. Drakulya only paid lip service to my plea which I know he contemptuously dismissed as the worries of an old man. He assured Count Stephen and Brancovic that the country was now his, its crown securely within his grasp. He wished to see the back of his allies and did not want to spend more of his precious gold on their sustenance or that of their troops. On November 26th Count Stephen, amidst great ceremony and the promise of eternal friendship, agreed to withdraw, taking most of his army with him. A week later the Moldavian commander sought an audience and informed Drakulya that he too was under orders to return home. Drakulya agreed without demur or hesitation and the Moldavians withdrew, leaving a small contingent to support the Prince.

  26

  Over the last few months I have wondered what possessed Drakulya to strip himself of all defences and protection. His Wallachian force numbered no more than fifteen hundred and these were thinly spread whilst the Moldavian bodyguard numbered no more than one hundred and fifty. The very silence of the country, the rapid acquiescence to his invasion by the Boyars and the sudden withdrawal of his allies should have alerted his usually suspicious mind to danger. Yet Drakulya did not seem to care. It was almost as if the years of exile had blinded him to the real danger of his position. I always remember Anna being interested in the French and Italian romances which she used to buy and read with such enjoyment. Poems composed by troubadors about the great heroes, noble knights who either conquered their foe and lived gloriously or died in some noble cause fighting against terrible odds. The reality, of course, is always different. Radu, Drakulya’s brother, found this out when he died of a sickness. Hunyadi, the great White Knight, died like some old man shivering with fever and the same happened to my Prince, Drakulya. The end was sudden, treacherous and totally unexpected.

  A few days after Christmas 1476, Drakulya decided to pay a visit to the monastery of Snagov. I agreed to accompany him, provided he took part of his bodyguard with him. I remember it was late in the afternoon, snow was beginning to fall, startlingly white against the early winter darkness. We were following the road which ran alongside the marshes of Balteni when the Turks suddenly launched their attack. At first we thought it was a solitary patrol though Drakulya, recognising the danger, ordered his bodyguard to deploy along the side of the road and beat off the assault while we made our escape. Drakulya then drew his great two-handled sword and ordered me and a number of the Moldavians to join him in his attempt to regain Bucharest, but the ambush had been too well planned. More Turks appeared behind us, blocking the route south. Drakulya turned and twisted on his horse looking for a possible escape route. There was none so, shouting and screaming at us to follow, he decided to make a stand on a small nearby hill. We reached it in safety, oblivious to the arrows which whipped and stung around our heads. At the bottom of the hill we dismounted and made our long arduous, sweaty climb to the top. The Moldavians, about ten in number, then arranged themselves in a defensive circle around us.

  The Prince was optimistic, shouting encouragement and hurling insults at the Turks who were pursuing us. Drakulya must have hoped others would soon join him but then the treachery occurred. One of the Moldavians lowered his lance as if preparing to meet the Turkish Janissaries now climbing towards us. Then he suddenly turned, the lance pointing at Drakulya’s chest, and with one wild lunge he drove it inwards. The Prince reacted like a cat and swung to the side but he was not quick enough and the lance ripped and tore the flesh and bone of his shoulder. I looked round in amazement, suddenly realising that these Moldavians were quite determined in their betrayal and must have known all along about the ambush. Perhaps they had arranged it for court preferment or at the secret orders of their own Prince Stephen, always jealous of Drakulya’s reputation. Any hope of a quick assassination was now dashed as the Prince, his hand clasped around his sword, turned, screaming curses and reviling the Moldavians as traitors. They closed in quickly for they still thought he would be an easy kill. All I remember is a terrible rage at the treachery of that spearman who could hurt and wound a man who had survived thirty years of intrigue and battle. I swung back my own sword and brought it down with a speed which astonished me, breaking the man’s chain mail coif and digging deep into the soft flesh of his neck. Then Drakulya and I stood back to back, our swords pointing out, while the Moldavians closed in.

  The encounter was furious, Drakulya and I fighting, forgetting age or wounds, full of rage at the stupidity of our impending deaths. Those traitors thought we would die easily but they were all disappointed. I brought down two of them and Drakulya, despite his wounds, time and again strode forward, his huge sword swinging and curling in the air, each time inflicting deathly wounds. However, the Moldavians were soon joined by Janissaries who had climbed the hill and, at their advance, Drakulya fought like a man possessed. All the fury, all the anger and hate stored up over the years lent him strength, speed and agility and the ground under our feet became slippery and russet-coloured with the blood of his enemies. Then it was over. I don’t know how but I felt the Prince jerk and twist behind me. Our opponents drew back in fearful amazement while I turned and caught the Prince as he fell, his great sword slipping from his bloodied fingers, his other hand clasped at a wound in his chest which spurted blood like wine spilling from a goblet. He slumped to his knees, his head on his chest, his long black hair floating like a veil around him. Around us lay the corpses of our enemies and at the edge of the brow of the hill the Janissaries sat and watched in fear and surprise. The great Voivode Drakulya, the Kazikulu Bey, was dying. I heard him cry my name, the voice almost childlike, like the boy he had been in that sunny, dusty courtyard so many years before. Then suddenly he straightened himself up, pushing back the hair from his face, and with deliberate majesty slowly pulled himself to his feet until he seemed to tower like some giant above us. His breath came in short sharp bursts, his face was white, the skin stretched across his bones while he stood and gasped, his body supported by the great two-handed sword. He looked at his attackers, his teeth bared, the lips curling back like some animal brought to bay. Then he lifted the sword up, its point seeming to pierce the clouds above us. “I am,” he shouted, his voice ringing out, quelling the din around us, “I am the Voivode Tepes, Kazikulu Bey, Voivode of Wallachia, the dread Count Drakulya, and I will return!”

  His body seemed to poise like an arrow when it reaches its height and stops before its long-expected drop to earth; so the Prince buckled and crashed to the ground. The Turks clamoured forward. I felt hands grab my arms. Something struck me on the back of the head and I slipped gratefully into a deep, black unconsciousness. They brought me here to Rucar. To a prison cell with others of the Prince’s retinue. I know that some of them have already died. From the barred window above me I have
heard the creaking of the scaffold and their choking breaths as they were lifted high into the air. Yet, me they have saved! They want to know everything about the Prince. Even dead, they are frightened of him. Soon the fat clerk will return to take this last manuscript and I know that once this has gone then so has my life.

  27

  A visitor came to see me recently. That fat, pompous clerk ushered in a man, hooded like some Catholic monk, who waited until the clerk had gone before drawing back the hood to reveal the high ranking Janissary officer I had met a few years earlier in Radu’s tent. It was Selim who, like me, had managed not only to survive the fortress of Egrigoz but also the turbulence of the intervening years. He had aged since I last saw him, slightly stooped, and frail in one or two of his gestures. He sat on the edge of my narrow cot and studied me closely. “You are Selim,” I said. “Yes,” he replied, “and you are Rhodros!” “It is many years since Egrigoz. Why have you come to visit me? To see me die like the rest? To ask questions about Drakulya, or just to renew an old acquaintance?” Selim shook his head. “In the years since you and Drakulya left the Turkish fortress at Egrigoz, my task has been to study you and give whatever advice I can to my masters in Constantinople.” Selim made himself more comfortable before continuing. “You see, there were very few people who knew the mind of Drakulya. Mohammed thought he did but your Prince proved him wrong. When he became Voivode and showed himself a superb war leader Mohammed turned to me. In a sense I feel grateful to Drakulya. Because of him I was taken out of Egrigoz, back to the court, and given every promotion and honour. I knew what Drakulya would do. I knew there was no compromise or deal to be made with him. He would have fought, and did, to the death. I was with Mohammed when he launched his invasion of Wallachia. I was in the Sultan’s tent that night when you launched that surprise attack. Did you know that you were within paces of killing all of us?” “Yes,” I replied calmly. “If Drakulya had not turned his horse and become so immersed in the slaughter you would not be sitting here and Drakulya would be the hero of Western Christendom, but,” I continued, “you still have not told me why you have really come?”