The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2 Page 3

  “Yes. Then there is the question of France. Francois poses the most immediate threat to your empire.”

  “I know,” he grimaced. “The man is the bane of my life. He has designs on all that is mine.”

  “It is true. Yet he is a fickle man given more to the pleasures of women and luxury than war. This will be his undoing.”

  “He is still happy to go to war with me.”

  “The French are strong. But you are stronger. Once you have put down the revolt at home you will be able to deal with him.”

  Charles squinted his eyes. “He is an irritating man. You say he is fickle?”

  “Yes. I believe he is that.”

  “I say the alliance against him is even more fickle still.”

  “Yes and no. England is not a worry. They want an alliance against France as much as you do.”

  “I do not trust King Henry. Rarely have I known a man as smug as he.”

  “It is still good to have him on your side.”

  “But for how long?”

  “He is married to your aunt. The alliance with you makes him feel secure. He is in no hurry to break it.”

  “And what of the Pope?”

  “Leo is another matter entirely. His allegiances change with the wind. I would be less inclined to trust him.”

  “Have no fear. I do not.”

  “Humour him. Despite the Lutheran movement his influence is still strong.”

  “Need I be reminded of that?”

  “Luther worries you?”

  “I fear that with everything else occupying me Luther will go unchecked.”

  “Do not worry about him.”

  “It is hard not to. The German princes are constantly bending my ear.”

  “Luther might be popular for the now. But when people realise the extent of his heresy they will turn on him. His teachings will be forgotten soon enough.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I know it. Put Martin Luther out of your mind.”

  Transylvania. Sibiu.

  January 1524.

  Mihnea had not seen Sibiu in thirteen years. He spent his last moments there bleeding to death on the church steps. Before death could claim him his father did. In all the time since he had travelled with him.

  Now he was alone again. He had old scores to settle. His enemies, the Craiovescus, had plotted his demise. They still celebrated that end. He was the last real Draculesti threat to their power. But, contrary to belief, he had not gone.

  A lot of upheaval arose from that night. His body had vanished without a trace. Many of those who witnessed the event had perished. Some died at the hands of the Craiovescus. They fought hard to cover up their part in his alleged murder. Others fell victim to his son, Mircea. He still reigned, after that night, in Wallachia to the south. His father’s death made him crazy with rage. He marched north to Sibiu with an army. It went on a rampage through the city seeking vengeance.

  Mircea heard all sorts of stories about that night. People spoke of ghosts and the like. Strangers, he heard it said, descended from the skies to rescue the dying Mihnea. He treated these accounts on the whole as lies. At best he thought them confused. Many of those that made these claims felt the cold steel of his sword.

  In his own mind he was sure his father was dead. The Craiovescus hatched and executed a plan to murder him. They had removed his body to try and conceal their crime. He had the testimony of his father’s men. His father’s blood stained the church steps.

  One of them told a story consistent with others he had heard. The man swore he saw others descend from the skies and take the body. Mircea believed him an agent of Craiovescu. He had him hanged from the nearest tree he could find to the church and then placed his head on a spike for all to see.

  Mircea figured he would never know the real truth. He felt certain they had done it all. Whether they had disposed of the body or someone had dropped from the night sky he did not know. One thing was certain Mihnea was gone.

  Murder was surely the reason. Mihnea had loved his wife and he had adored his family. There was no chance he would ever leave them. Not unless he was dead.

  Once Mircea had ruled jointly with his father. It was the height of their power. With his father gone it had reduced the influence of his family on both sides of the border. Mircea knew it would prove difficult to hang onto his throne. He felt isolated and alone here in Sibiu. But he knew he had to act fast to prevent his enemies from making a move against him. They coveted his throne. That was the key to all that had occurred.

  To that end he wreaked a vicious revenge on those who plotted against his father. As Mihnea’s son they were his enemies too. But they had not considered what was to come. Mircea had them dragged from their beds and stabbed. Others he dealt with in public in mass executions. He spared no one. Man, woman and child all felt his wrath. He had them hanged, burned and put to the sword.

  They reacted fast to his attack on them. It all came to a head in a day. The two factions met at the market in Sibiu. The two leaders agreed to fight to the death to settle it. Mircea disarmed his rival in no time at all. He threw down his own sword and killed him with his bare hands.

  The scene descended into chaos. His enemies did not keep to the agreement they had made. Mircea found his force greatly outnumbered and took heavy losses. They could not take him down. He escaped and returned to Tirgoviste. There the boyars rose up against him. Within a week he had lost his throne.

  Mircea had to flee his capital. He returned again to Sibiu where the last remnants of his support remained. The Craiovescus placed Vlad cel Tanar on the throne. He was the son of Dracula’s half-brother, Vlad the Monk. The Monk was a bitter enemy of the Draculas. They saw his son as no threat to their future ambitions.

  For that reason they were happy for him to rule for now. They felt it would ease the way for when they placed their own man on the throne. Cel Tanar was a nickname. It meant he was Vlad the Young. They replaced him two years later. Pirvu put his own son on the throne, Neagoe Basarab. Mircea attempted a coup a year after that. When he did the agents of Craiovescu assassinated him.

  It hurt Mihnea that he could not save his son. He had struggled to come to terms with life as a vampire. For that reason he stayed away from them. His other son, Milos, was dead too after they had poisoned him at a banquet. It angered Mihnea that the hatred of his family had extended to him. Milos had no ambitions to rule. But the Craiovescus wanted them all gone.

  Mihnea had lost touch with the scene since the night of the attack on him. It was Varkal who told him of the demise of his two sons. He wanted now to check on the welfare of his wife, Voica, and daughter, Ruxandra.

  He felt drawn to the spot where he had met his mortal end. The streets were quiet when he descended on the city. He touched down at the bottom of the steps below the church and looked up at it. It looked imposing against the dark night sky. He had never imagined his enemies would hunt him there.

  Mihnea ascended the steps one at a time. He stopped at the very spot where Iaxici had stabbed him. Closing his eyes he remembered the moment. He recalled the agony of the Serbian driving the cold steel into his back. Before he left he wanted to settle with that same man. That was if he could find him. For that he would need some information about the current climate in the city.

  All evidence of he and his family was gone now from Sibiu. Craiovescu had destroyed all the statues and portraits. His rival also controlled his former estates. He had even torn down Mihnea’s house and built another in its place.

  He rose up high above the city streets. They were empty due to the freezing cold and the biting wind that blew through them. It threw up dust and other rubbish littered about. Mihnea felt it too. He would need to feed soon to warm his blood.

  The scent of it carried to him on the wind. He directed his eyes closer to the ground like a hawk searching out its next meal. A lonely figure sat huddled in a doorway not far from the church. He dived down to ground level again.


  A man looked up at him. He wrapped a tattered blanket around his ragged body. A wild beard covered much of his face. Even through it Mihnea could see the dirt on him. He looked afraid of the stranger whose approach he had not seen.

  “Please do not hurt me, kind sir,” he said, shaking beneath his blanket. “I always served my masters well.”

  Mihnea was unsure whether or not to feed from the man. He looked sickly. Even if he did he doubted he would find it satisfying.

  “Why would I hurt you?” Mihnea said, a little curious.

  “Ever since I left the service the boyars have always treated me badly.”

  “You were a soldier?”

  “Yes, my Lord. A good one.”

  “Then why are you on the streets? It is not right for a soldier to live this way.”

  “The boyar cut me adrift.”

  “Who? Craiovescu?”

  “Yes, my Lord. He did not send you?”

  “No. He is no friend of mine.”

  The man looked relieved. “Then what do you want with me, my Lord? If not to hurt me?”

  “I need some information. I have been away a while.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “That can wait a moment. Let us find somewhere warm. Come. Follow me.”

  The man walked with Mihnea to a tavern a distance away. It was located on the outskirts of the city. Mihnea felt it would offer some respite from the cold and a quiet place to talk.

  The walk was a slow one with the man limping quite badly. It was an effort for him to keep up. They reached the tavern after a time. Mihnea held open the door for him to step through.

  “Thank you, my Lord,” he said gratefully.

  “Go and sit near to the fire,” Mihnea said. “I will get you an ale.”

  The landlord eyed the man as he hobbled across the floor. When Mihnea stood at the bar he voiced his displeasure. “I do not want that street urchin in my tavern.”

  “He is my guest,” Mihnea said. “So he stays.”

  “Then you can leave with him. Get out the both of you.”

  Mihnea drew his sword with lightning speed. He held it to the landlord’s throat. “Pour the man a drink.”

  He looked along the length of the blade. “Do you intend to pay for it?”

  Mihnea threw a few coins onto the bar. “I ought not. He will want another I am sure. Do not make me come over here again.”

  He took the tankard and sat down by the fire. The tramp’s eyes lit up when he saw the ale. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said.

  “Drink it and get warm. Then we can talk.”

  He allowed him the time he needed. “Do you feel better?” he asked.

  “Yes. You are very kind.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Kovac.”

  “You are a Serb?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “You disguise it well. I would never have known it.”

  “I have lived in this country a long time, my Lord.”

  “You can dispense with the title. I am no longer a lord.”

  The landlord brought Kovac over his second drink.

  “Can you find this man some clothes?” Mihnea asked him. “I will pay you.”

  He nodded and walked away.

  “So tell me,” Mihnea said, enjoying the fire. “How did you fall on hard times?”

  “The boyar, Craiovescu, is at the root of it. I was in love with the woman betrothed to his grandson.”

  “Teodosie?”

  “Yes. That is he.”

  “I never liked him.”

  “He is lower than a rat.”

  “So Craiovescu threw you onto the streets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you not seek employment elsewhere?”

  “I wanted to remain close to her.”

  “And what became of her?”

  “She married him in place of me.”

  “Then there is no use dwelling on it any longer.”

  “That is easy for you to say.”

  “You are not alone. We have all endured the same.”

  Kovac fell silent. He looked into the fire, remembering times past.

  “So does Craiovescu’s son still rule in Wallachia?”

  “Do you mean Neagoe Basarab?”

  “Yes. He ruled the last I knew.”

  “No. He is gone.”

  “Who replaced him?”

  “Teodosie.”

  “In a coup?”

  “No. The reaper came for him. He is dead.”

  Mihnea nodded. “So does his son still rule?”

  For the first time Kovac looked happy. “No. He did not last long. The family of Calugarul ousted him. Gutted him like a fish.”

  “Sons of the Monk?”

  “Yes. That is they. Well, a grandson.”

  “Which one?”

  “Radu de la Afumati.”

  “Which one of the Monk’s sons fathered him?”

  “Radu cel Mare. Afumati was the first of three men to rule in the last year.”

  “I take it then that he did not last long?”

  “No he did not. But he was there until the summer.”

  “What happened to him? Is he dead?”

  “No he is not dead. The Craiovescus drove him out. I heard he was in Anatolia.”

  “So who did Craiovescu put on the throne?”

  “Another of his sons. Vladislav.”

  He was the one with Maria Trica that night. “You said three men ruled?”

  “Yes he was ousted too.”

  “Craiovescu must be growing weak there.”

  “Yes,” Kovac grinned. “It is time he got what he deserves.”

  “It can only be good for his influence to wane.”

  “It is a very good thing. I spit on his name.”

  “Who took the throne from Vladislav?”

  “A very powerful boyar. Very ruthless and clever.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Radu Badica.”

  “It means nothing to me.”

  “He is another son of the Monk. A brother to Afumati.”

  “It is still better than having a Craiovescu there.”

  “Yes. Anything is better than that.”

  “Tell me about Mircea Dracula.”

  “He is dead a good ten years.”

  “I meant his sons. Where are they? I remember he has many.”

  “They are all in Baghdad as far as I am aware. I do not think they will return.”

  Mihnea thought about it. It meant his family had lost the throne for good. “Tell me about Badica.”

  Kovac looked at him. “He is a wily one.”

  “In what way?”

  “The lengths he has gone to in securing the throne.”

  “What has he done that is so out of the ordinary?”

  “He has looked to the enemies of Craiovescu for his support.”

  “It is a dangerous ploy.”

  “Yes, but a good one. You know who their main rivals have always been.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The family of Vlad Dracula.”

  Mihnea felt a rush at hearing his family name mentioned. “Surely with the last of the great Draculas dead he has no one to turn to.”

  “You would think that,” Kovac said. “But their influence lives on. They had many friends who would still see a Draculesti on the throne.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He sought a marriage with the daughter of Mihnea Dracula.”

  His heart missed a beat. “With his daughter, Ruxandra?”

  “Yes. That is she.”

  “And did he marry her?”

  “Yes. But I do not think she was a willing partner.”

  “I know her well. If she did not want to marry him then she would not have.”

  “This is where he proved how ruthless a man he is.”

  Mihnea felt his rage building within. “What did he do?”

  “He took the wife of Mihnea a hostage
and kept her at Tirgsor. And she was so unwell at the time.”

  Mihnea had to fight to keep his composure. “Did he mistreat her?”

  “I do not know,” Kovac said. “But I have heard it said that he threatened to kill her if the girl did not marry him.”

  “So that is how he secured her hand?”

  “Yes. They married last year in the spring.”

  “He was looking to have a child with the Dracula bloodline?”

  “Yes. He knew then he could secure the support of the boyars still loyal to their name.”

  Mihnea got up and paced about. Kovac saw his expression and his clenched fists. “Is this news upsetting you? I can stop if you wish.”

  “No,” Mihnea said. “I appreciate it. I need to know it all. Go on, tell me more.”

  Kovac nodded. “Soon after they wed, the wife of Mihnea passed away.”

  Tears stung his eyes. “She is dead?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Some say she never got over the loss of her husband.”

  Mihnea took a deep breath. “What happened after that?”

  “It became known that Badica’s wife was heavy with child. The boyars he sought the support of united behind him.”

  “And that enabled him to win the throne?”

  “Yes. It is thought that if she bears him a son he will not lose this support.”

  “So he has used her merely to serve that end?”

  “Yes, my Lord. I believe so.”

  Kovac paused. He fell victim to a terrible coughing fit. Mihnea waited for him to recover his breath. Kovac did not look well. His face had turned very pale and the area around his mouth a shade of blue.

  The owner of the tavern walked up to Mihnea. He dropped a bundle of clothes on the table beside him. “These should fit,” he said.

  Mihnea was glad of the break. The news had come as a shock to him. He would like nothing more than to see the Craiovescus ousted. But not this way. Not if it meant his daughter was the instrument to achieve it. He tried to hide his anger, but could not.

  “Are you well?” he asked the Serb finally.

  Speech was still beyond Kovac. He held up a hand and nodded that he was fine. He stooped forward with his elbows on his knees. When he looked up again Mihnea was gone.

  Wallachia. Tirgoviste.

  The next day. January 1524.