The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls Page 7

  “You say to talk as friends should, Mihály? Yet all I hear from my old friend is what I must do and what I must not. So, John, why not say what it is you want?”

  “The King wants a new crusade against the Turks. Any attacks along the Danube frontier we would need to launch from here. You must deny them entry and revoke any rights you have given them. They cannot have the freedom to see what we are doing.”

  “And if I do that it would alert Murad that something is afoot. Then he is likely to send even more of his spies.”

  “His spies are everywhere. Nothing shall ever change that.”

  “Then why even worry over it? There are few secrets from the Sultan. I am sure he knows what you eat for your evening meal before even you do.”

  “I want them refused entry. If they persist then execute them. When an army marches through here from Transylvania I do not want them knowing of it until I am ready to strike against them.”

  “That could never happen and you know it. What you ask is impractical. That is unless you are prepared to fill the garrisons along the Danube and have guard posts on every road. Are you able to do that?”

  Hunyadi stood up to show he was ready to leave. “There is going to be a crusade and you shall do what is asked of you. You are a knight of the Order of the Dragon and it is your duty by the oath you swore.”

  Dracul had equally tired of the meeting. “And if I do not?”

  “Then it would be a matter of who you fear the most; me or the Sultan.”

  ANATOLIA. THE ROYAL PALACE OF SULTAN MURAD II AT GALLIPOLI.

  AUGUST, 1442.

  Murad climbed out of his bath, his masses of thick black body hair sticking to his torso like a cloak. He held out his arms for two of his odalisques to robe him. Lying down on one of his many spacious couches he summoned the girls to join him.

  Both were virgins and new to the seraglio. Murad wanted a rest from politics and had come to Gallipoli for a retreat. He had not given much of his attention to the seraglio in recent months and decided it a good time to break in the two new girls. Neither had looked forward to this moment. Still this was their new life or, to be more precise, the life chosen for them. And both of them knew this was the best chance they would have to win his favour. It would save them from a life of poverty, or worse.

  Their father was a bey who had commanded a small army along the Danube frontier. His had been one of those to go north and fight Vlad Dracul late in 1436. Of course he was one of the many who had failed to stop the fall of Tirgoviste.

  There was a price to pay for this as there always was with failure. Murad had two of his sons seized to serve in the army. Both had received postings with the bey of Rumelia, Sihabeddin. They had died in Transylvania when John Hunyadi crushed Sihabeddin’s army a month before. With his sons failing to distinguish themselves in battle his debt to the sultan remained unpaid. All he had left to surrender were his two daughters. He took his own life soon after they led his girls away.

  The girls were only sixteen and seventeen years of age. Neither knew of their father’s death. They adapted to their new life in the knowledge that if they did not comply then a terrible fate could befall him. It was a stark reality for any young girl to face.

  They did not feel at ease in their new surroundings. The room was huge, bigger than most courtyards. Four large baths, although spread out, took up the central area. Around them a series of huge white marble pillars extended high to the ceiling.

  The room was full of women, at least seventy of them lying around. Some bathed in the hot water; while others lounged around in the hope the sultan would want them. To be in his favour was always a good thing.

  Murad loosened his robe on the sofa. He instructed one of the new girls to perform oral sex on him. The more senior women had groomed them for this. They had advised in detail how best to please him and had demonstrated how to do it on the most senior of the guards.

  The second sister stood behind him. She eased the robe back and began to massage his shoulders. He relaxed and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. It felt good and, for two so inexperienced, they were doing well.

  He stirred when he heard a commotion from outside the room. Because of his movement the girl caught him with her teeth. He reacted angrily and slapped her across the side of the head.

  His action caused her to recoil in fear of him and served only to irritate him further. He climbed from the couch and grabbed at her hair, removing the clips so that it fell free. Clutching a handful of it he pushed her onto her knees and took her from behind.

  She cried out at the pain of his intrusion. In an effort to stifle it and not fuel his anger she put a hand over her mouth. He looked up at an approaching guard while continuing to thrust hard in and out of her.

  “Forgive me, Sire,” the guard apologised. “The Governor of Bulgaria is here.”

  Murad imposed strict rules, which carried stiff punishments if broken. Only a eunuch could enter the seraglio. It was off limits to any other man unless the business was urgent.

  “Send him away!” Murad shouted. “Can you not see I am otherwise engaged?”

  “Very good, Sire,” the guard accepted, lowering his head to bow to the sultan. “He insisted on speaking to you over a matter of great importance.”

  Murad screwed his face in temper. “Is it not always a matter of great importance? This is my rest day and I do not like to be disturbed.”

  “He knows this, Sire.”

  “Then why is he still here?”

  “He says he has the full report of Bey Sihabeddin’s defeat.”

  Murad stopped for a moment. He kept his hold on the girl’s hair while he looked directly at the guard for the first time. The break was a welcome respite for the girl although he remained inside her. “Allow him in.”

  “Very good, Sire.” The guard bowed again and then spun on his heel and left.

  Murad turned his attention back to the girl, ignoring the governor who walked in moments later. The sultan did not even look at him.

  The governor waited patiently, not daring to speak until prompted to do so. Although he did not look at Murad, he knew just from the sounds close by that his sultan was in a state of high arousal.

  He looked about the lavish room. It was important not to make direct eye contact with any of the women. To do so would be an affront against the sultan. He secretly wished Murad might offer him the use of one of the girls. It was clear the sultan was in no such mood.

  Murad’s breathing became more erratic. He groaned out loud only moments later, tearing so hard on the girl’s hair that it brought tears to her eyes.

  The governor knew he was done and emitted a quiet sigh of relief. He did not feel at all comfortable standing there. Aside from the embarrassment and his secret envy of having no such luxury, it served to point out his lower station. He was a mere servant of the sultan’s and nothing more, for as long as the sultan allowed it. No one, save the sultan’s own son and heir, was above the possibility of losing his head. That was a reality known to one and all that lived and served in this great empire. They were all mere vassals to him. He wiped away a trickle of sweat on his forehead. Perhaps now they could discuss his report.

  The girl remembered what the other women had said. When he groaned out loud she pushed back against him. All the time she squeezed him as hard as she could with her vaginal muscles. When he withdrew the second sister was on hand to clean him up with her tongue.

  Murad dismissed them and clicked his fingers. With the greatest haste the head odalisque ran over with gifts for the sisters. He left them with their new jewellery and perfumes to deal with his visitor. “You have the report from Transylvania?”

  His thoughts drifted back to the last day he had seen Sihabeddin. It was a heady time with an army of eighty thousand ready to mete revenge on John Hunyadi for all the trouble he had caused them in previous years along the Danube frontier. Things had not gone to plan. Hunyadi, with far inferior numbers, had annihilated Sihabedd
in and crushed the campaign.

  The statesman bowed. “Yes, Sire. I have it with me ready for your perusal.”

  It pleased Murad to know that the head of an entire country had travelled all the way to Gallipoli just to deliver him this news. Still, the man owed his position solely to him. “That was compiled with some haste.”

  “We felt you would want it right away, Sire. Under the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances, yes. We lost. And not only did we lose, but it was to that peasant, Hunyadi. That reflects on me. How can these infidels ever fear me if my generals are crushed by a mere peasant?”

  The governor did not answer. He had no answer. Instead he lowered his head to better conceal his embarrassment, and his fear.

  Murad brought the conversation back to the report. “When you use haste, it leads to mistakes. I want an accurate report, with facts. I do not want speculation or idle rumour.”

  “It is an accurate report, Sire.”

  “Let us hope that it is, for your sake. I do not want to be fed any lies.”

  He shivered at the thought of what that implied. It would not be anything good. If he lost favour, the best outcome would see him demoted. At worst he would suffer death. He had seen it before and knew such a fate could befall him any time.

  “So who is responsible?” Murad asked. He ignored the documents the man tried to hand him.

  “I would name two men, Sire.”

  “Then name them.”

  “George Branković and Vlad Dracul.”

  “Was it not Sihabeddin who fought the battle?”

  “Yes, Sire,” he said with a calm voice, ignoring Murad’s sarcasm. “They had a part in this we cannot so readily dismiss. Their lack of loyalty to you was a major factor in the turn of events. Had they fought alongside our army, we may well have defeated Hunyadi.”

  “I am married to Branković’s daughter,” Murad reminded him. “His sons are in my care. So why would he be disloyal to me? He knows what I would do to them. Have I not already taken their eyes?”

  He remembered how he had ordered his guards to blind Branković’s two sons with red hot pokers. Their offence had been to correspond with their father without his consent. This they suffered while his wife, who was also their sister, watched; her desperate pleas ignored.

  “I do not know his motives, Sire.”

  “Perhaps he fears Hungary more than he fears me.”

  “Perhaps, Sire. That in itself shows disrespect. He can no longer be trusted.”

  Murad nodded. “Why are you implicating Dracul in this?”

  “By the terms of the treaty he signed with you five years ago. It binds him to offer his military support when called upon.”

  “Did Sihabeddin request this?”

  “I believe so, Sire.”

  “Well? Did he or did he not request military aid from Dracul?”

  “Yes, Sire. He did.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Dracul declined his aid. He allowed our army safe passage through Wallachia. That was it; no more.”

  Murad was a man who believed in the sanctity of treaties. When treaties with him were broken, he rarely took it well.

  “He can no longer be trusted either,” the governor pressed, while Murad pondered what action to take. “He is a fickle man.”

  “You would say that. I could never imagine Dracul as a fickle man.”

  “Sire, were he loyal to you he would have abided by the terms of the treaty.”

  “I know much about this man and his character. There has to be another reason and the report should indicate that.”

  “The report concludes that he no longer feels obliged to honour our treaty.”

  “But why would he not? You are speculating again. I have charged you with the responsibility of giving me this information.”

  “I believe he has his eyes on the Danube frontier.”

  Murad had already tired of the meeting. “Invite them both to my court,” he instructed. “I shall deal with them then.”

  WALLACHIA. THE FIELDS OUTSIDE TIRGOVISTE.

  LATE AUGUST, 1442.

  Dracul rode from the city to the fields where his sons awaited his arrival. He looked forward to the display they had set up for him. They loved to show off their skills and he loved to watch them do it. From the first time he had seen Vlad ride he had monitored at close hand the progress of his sons.

  A lone rider raced across the field. Two of his guards broke from the formation to intercept him. When the man satisfied their questions they allowed him to meet with Dracul.

  “State your business with me,” Dracul said, not slowing his horse.

  “I bring a message from Gallipoli, my Lord,” the rider said. Dracul took a closer look at him. The man was a Turk, but he spoke in perfect Romanian.

  Dracul pulled hard on the reins so that his stallion stopped. “Gallipoli?” he asked, turning to face the rider. “A message from the Sultan?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” he affirmed.

  Dracul took the scroll from him. He scrutinised the seal and then broke it. The rider waited patiently while Dracul read the contents of the document. Finally he rolled it up and tied it again.

  “Do you have a response, my Lord?” the man asked.

  “One of my men shall take you to find something to eat and drink,” Dracul said. “You can rest for the night. I shall give you an answer on the morrow.”

  “Very good, my Lord,” he said, bowing to the voivode. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  The rider left with one of the guards. Dracul continued on his way to meet with his sons. He had no other interest in that moment other than to see them.

  In recent years the boys had striven to outdo each other in every area. This drove them on to endless hours of practise. They did so alone and with each other. When they were together they duelled and competed in archery and riding. Mircea showed great ability in all of them and was sure to become a great warrior. But Vlad, at the tender age of ten, had a talent that was prodigious. He possessed amazing strength and speed for one so young. And now, a virtual master with sword, bow and horse, he was the equal of some of Dracul’s best officers.

  The message had Dracul worried. He tried to put it out of his mind as he rode. But it did not bode well for Murad to summon him to Gallipoli; not so soon after Sihabeddin’s defeat. He decided he would deal with it after seeing his boys.

  Rodrigul, as always, rode at his side. He no longer had an active role in the boys’ training. In the four and a half years Dracul had ruled Wallachia he had needed his most trusted man with him at all times. Dracul hired many of the very best retired veterans in their designated fields to do this in his stead.

  As well as developing his sons’ skills, Dracul had them schooled in the art of war. They studied in depth all the great generals and battles from history. They also analysed the reasons why those generals had won or lost the epic battles they fought in.

  Vlad learned to speak fluent Latin and Italian, and some Hungarian and French. He also became well versed in Cyrillic script and Old Church Slavonic. To complete his intellectual education Vlad’s teachers taught him court etiquette and of the divine right of sovereigns. Dracul ensured his sons lived this way at Tirgoviste and that they would always know their status in society as princes.

  Mircea was the first to spot his father’s approach. He fired an arrow into the bull’s eye of one of the targets some distance away. Vlad feared Mircea might outdo him and took an arrow from the quiver strapped over his shoulder. As his father rode up, he planted one in the exact same spot.

  “Bravo! Excellent shooting,” Dracul commended, smiling to show his approval as he neared his sons. “Can you do the same on the back of a horse in full gallop, I wonder?”

  Mircea hesitated a little, but Vlad was quick to answer. “Yes of course, Papa,” he said, bold as ever. “That is far too easy a challenge.”

  “Easy?” his father queried, though admiring his bravado at the same
time. “Then show me.”

  Vlad climbed astride a horse owned by one of the guards watching over him and his brother. He clasped his bow in one hand and the reins in the other. “Look, Papa,” he said. “I shall even do it without my own horse.”

  A line of mannequins stuffed with straw hung from scaffolds close by. The boys practised their skills regularly on these props.

  Vlad rode off into the distance with Mircea in tow. He stopped about a hundred yards away from his father just as his brother pulled up alongside him.

  He smiled at Mircea, eager to get on with it. “Who shall go first?”

  “I shall.” He spurred his mount forward before Vlad could even respond.

  Mircea picked up a fair pace, though not a full gallop. He feared failure to hit the target while under his father’s scrutiny. With one eye on Dracul, he fixed an arrow to his bow. At ten yards from the target he released it. Mircea held his breath and watched the arrow whistle through the air. His heart sank when it embedded itself into the frame of the scaffold.

  Dracul could see the disappointment on his son’s face and felt a tinge of regret for him. He applauded him all the same to show he was not disappointed with his effort. “Good shot, my son,” he cheered, when Mircea rode up to join him.

  His words did little to wipe the scowl from Mircea’s face. Dracul fell silent to observe what Vlad could do in the same situation.

  Vlad afforded himself a slight grin when Mircea missed the mannequin. When he was sure his father was watching he dug his heels hard into the horse’s ribs.

  The powerful stallion bolted forward. Almost at once, Vlad took an arrow from the quiver and gripped it hard. He whipped the stallion with the missile to urge it to go faster. It obeyed his directive and he let go of the reins to take aim.

  “He is riding too fast,” Rodrigul commented. “He has no hope of making that shot.”

  “Oh, he shall make it,” Mircea said, a hint of despair in his tone.

  “If he does not fall from his horse first,” Dracul mused, a little concerned for his son.