by Paul Doherty
Finally I was there. I was conscious of a group of men squatting under a tall stunted tree whose fallen branches now fed a small fire. There were horses hobbled in a line, voices, then Drakulya lifting me from the saddle as if I was his long-lost child. I tried to talk to him but he hushed me, poured wine between my dirt-caked lips, and I slipped into a welcoming darkness. When I awoke it was night, the fire flickering in the darkness, lighting up the black shadows of the men huddled in their cloaks. I ignored the pain in my back, arms and legs and rose to stumble towards them. Drakulya came to meet me and led me into the circle, pushing a bowl full of steaming meat and portions of hard bread into my hands. I muttered my thanks and ate greedily, swilling down the coarse wine in the hope it would ease the pain of my racked muscles. I felt better and, secretly ignoring Drakulya’s studied glances, stared at the three stocky peasants sitting opposite me across the fire. They were our guides, loyal to Drakulya; the two soldiers were absent, probably with the horses. I finished eating and put my wooden bowl down. Drakulya touched me on the arm.
“So, you decided to come, Rhodros? Why?” I staggered to my feet and walked back into the darkness, Drakulya behind me. When we were sufficiently away from the fire, I turned. “I came,” I replied, “because I wanted to and because you are being betrayed. There are Sipahis in pursuit, they will follow your trail as I did – by the pieces of metal left in clumps along your route. You might as well have left your banners as you rode.” Drakulya turned on his heel, swearing softly, and then came back close to me. I noticed even in the poor light how drawn he looked and the news I had just given had provoked the spasmodic twitching in his face. “What can I do?” he whispered, looking back towards the camp fire. “Nothing,” I replied. “Let us sleep. Tomorrow will reveal the traitor.” Drakulya stared at me and then stubbed the earth with the toe of his boot. He nodded his head. “You are right, Rhodros. Tomorrow. Come, let us rest.” We returned to the camp fire and, rolling in our cloaks, laid down to sleep. The exertions of the day, coupled with the wine and hot food, soon made me drowsy but, before I fell asleep, I was aware of Drakulya tossing and turning and then getting up and walking away into the darkness.
The next morning I woke to find the Prince and his party almost ready to move. The packs had been slung across the baggage animals and the horses were saddled. I went to a nearby stream to wash then returned for a quick meal of rye bread, watered wine and thin strips of cooked, dry, almost tasteless meat. The Prince seemed calm and collected as he moved among his small party, checking equipment, examining saddle-straps, and girths, paying particular attention to my horse, still showing signs of exhaustion from the previous day’s mad gallop. Then, satisfied, he ordered us to mount and, with the guides spread out in front of us, we moved off down the valley to the mountains looming before us. On the brow of a hill he stopped and we surveyed the way we had come. Drakulya thought he saw the glint of sun on metal but I could detect nothing. “No,” he whispered quietly. “We are being pursued. I can smell treachery and Turk together and now the stench is rotten.” He turned his horse’s head and we continued our march. Now and again Drakulya would swing back and follow our group but when he rejoined me, he said nothing but stared fixedly into the distance. At noon we stopped outside a small village, a collection of huts gathered round a well. The villagers did not know who we were but their childlike harmless curiosity made us feel at home as we drew water from their well for the horses and bartered for provisions. I studied the two soldiers who had accompanied us. One I recognised as a veteran captain from the border guard formed by Theodore, the other, a mere stripling, was from the castle of the Arges, a peasant boy who had joined the garrison there to escape the boredom of village life. Both had been selected for their knowledge of the country and skill in mountaineering. I watched Drakulya laugh and joke with them and wondered if either or both were traitors.
We mounted our horses and left the village. Drakulya rode beside me, a fixed smile on his face. One of the guards, the captain, reported that a villager was following us but Drakulya just shrugged and told him to ignore it. Then, Drakulya fell back, ordering us to keep moving. An hour or so later, one of our party reported that the Prince was rejoining us. I turned to see Drakulya, sword drawn, thundering towards us. I looked round in alarm wondering whether we were under attack but could see no sign of an enemy. Still the Prince came on, his sword held before him and I fleetingly wondered if his mind had slipped into madness. The rest of the group sat frozen with fear. Then, as Drakulya drew nearer, he changed direction slightly so he was charging directly at the captain who, suddenly realising the danger he was in, jerked to life and scrabbled for the hilt of his sword, but he was too late. Drakulya was there, his sword swung in a glittering arc like water thrown in the air. The captain’s head jerked and bobbed, falling like a ball into the dust. A crimson fountain of blood spurted from the severed neck and the body slowly tipped to the side to hang grotesquely from the saddle. The horse would have bolted but I grabbed it by the bridle. Drakulya dismounted, wiped his sword on a clump of grass and led his horse back to where we were waiting. He kicked the headless corpse free of the stirrups and then felt under the saddle, bringing out bags which disgorged small pieces of shiny metal as the Prince shook them loose. “Our captain was a traitor,” he announced. “He was leaving a trail for the Sipahis to track us down. I knew he was carrying the metal but I had to be sure he was the traitor and not someone else’s unknowing victim. I arranged for a peasant from the village we have just gone through to trail us and he watched the captain betray us.” Drakulya kicked the corpse and stared at our white, anxious faces. “Now,” he concluded, “there will be no more treachery.”
We moved on; I took the captain’s horse for my own was blown, too exhausted to go on. The captain’s corpse was left in an ever-widening pool of blood but Drakulya took the head, and fashioning a small stake from a branch of a nearby tree, impaled it above the corpse with a bag of metal stuffed between its gaping jaws. “A warning for the Turks,” Drakulya commented dryly. “They will not keep up the chase.” The Prince was right. After two days we lost signs of any pursuit; Drakulya’s grim trophy and the skill of our guides must have baffled and confused the Sipahi horsemen. Nevertheless there were new dangers as we began our ascent of the main Fagaras mountain range. It was late autumn but already the mountains bore the signs of early winter: intense cold, freezing winds and slippery, treacherous paths. At one point we had to abandon the horses, taking only our cloaks and necessary supplies. All conversation between us ceased. There was no relationship, no camaraderie of earlier journeys, we were figures against a brutal landscape. As we journeyed higher so we left all human habitation and, eventually, even the shelter of the trees. The cold biting winds tore at our clothes as we plodded through the snow or slipped and scrabbled over black iced ledges. At night we sought what shelter there was and only then would Drakulya speak as he moved among us, checking that all was well, urging us to keep tight the skins wrapped around our feet and hands. Sometimes we were able to light a fire at other times we just huddled together for warmth, our backs against the cold black iced cliffs, our bodies exposed to that dagger-sharp wind.
Of course, there were casualties. One of our guides failed to return. On another occasion when we made our way along a mountain track which was really a ledge above a yawning chasm, a freezing mist carried by the wind descended. Sometimes gaps appeared but we could scarcely feel our way forward. The young soldier from the Arges garrison was in front of me but, when either the mist cleared or we passed through it, he was gone, vanished; he must have lost his footing and silently slipped into the waiting chasm.
I do not know how high we climbed for I do not know the country. All I can remember is on one occasion, standing by a clump of rocks and seeing clouds beneath me. The air felt like sheeted ice, so cold and needle sharp in my chest. Then, at first hardly noticeable, I realised we were going down, sometimes faster than we would have liked, but it became warmer.
There were trees free of the ice-line which gave us shelter, fuel for fires and, when we were lucky, game to trap and eat. Our spirits lifted, we began to talk and joke, forgetful of the dangers past or the companions we had lost. In our dirty cloaks and furs, we looked a group of bearded, ruthless bandits and we had to give firm reassurances to the peasants whose village we first entered. There we stopped and rested. The Prince bought supplies and we changed, bathed, shaved our faces and cut each other’s hair to make ourselves presentable. As we moved further down the slope, we gathered news about King Matthew of Hungary who had moved his troops to the outskirts of Brasov and was still there in winter quarters.
At a small town a few miles from Brasov, Drakulya managed to purchase fresh horses and within days we encountered a patrol from the Hungarian army. After a great deal of questioning its surly leader accepted us for what we claimed to be and after a day’s riding we entered the Hungarian camp. It was an impressive display of military might; the city of Brasov was literally surrounded by the pavilions, tents and crude huts of King Matthew’s army. There were knights from the Rhineland, mercenaries from France, Burgundy and the Low Countries. No expense had been spared. It looked well provided for and even had a cannon park.
Drakulya had expected us to be led immediately into Matthew’s presence but, when the captain returned, he simply shook his head at this request and wanted to lead us into the city where quarters would be provided. Drakulya was furious. He refused to enter a city which he loudly claimed was notorious for its enmity towards both him and his family and insisted that King Matthew see them immediately. The captain shrugged, acceded to the Prince’s demand about Brasov but insisted that he could do nothing about gaining an audience with the Hungarian king. A tent was prepared for us, provisions brought and, to all intents and purposes, we were simply left as fresh recruits to the army. Drakulya used his authority and some of the gold he brought to furnish the tent with a crude table and stools, chests for our belongings and food from the markets in the city.
A few days later, after trying once again to see the King, he announced that our wait would be long and decided to dismiss the two remaining guides who had brought us from Wallachia. Before they went Drakulya hired a scribe from the city to whom he dictated a charter granting these faithful peasants estates and lands in Wallachia for themselves and their families for ever. Drakulya sealed this charter and, together with a bag of gold and profuse promises for the future, dismissed the guides wishing them safe conduct back to their own country. Drakulya then concentrated on seeking an interview with King Matthew. Whilst I rested from the exertions of our journey, Drakulya disguised himself and entered the city, where he bought new clothes and other accoutrements befitting his status as a prince. He spent days and nights seeking meetings with powerful, influential courtiers and generals, but to no avail. It was not that Matthew was too busy but evident that he just did not wish to see Drakulya. The Prince’s mood became more bitter as he saw the military might the Hungarian King had brought to the Wallachian border. “If the Hungarian king had brought these troops,” he commented bitterly, “then our war against Mohammed would have had a different outcome. These troops were meant for me. They were paid and hired by papal gold and they are about as useful now as the men we left dead in Wallachia.” He began to engage in long drinking bouts, brooding over the past and plotting to arrange his own restoration to his country. At one time he even considered writing to Mohammed himself but then dismissed this as an act of folly. Letters were sent to Stephen in Moldavia but no replies came, and even I became disheartened when messages sent to Anna evoked no reply.
Then, at the beginning of November, a messenger arrived outside our tent with a writ; Matthew welcomed us to the camp as if we had only just arrived and invited us the following evening to a dinner in his quarters in the royal pavilion. Drakulya was full of excitement and spent the rest of the day preparing for the great event. Barbers and tailors were hired, no expense spared, and most of our meagre gold went in these detailed expensive preparations. Just before dusk a court official arrived, cold and arrogant, and he led us through the camp to the Hungarian king. The evening was bleak and misty and brought back memories of our journey across the Fagaras mountains. Matthew’s pavilion however was astonishing in its luxury. A huge tent, it had sweet-smelling braziers to provide warmth and thick warm rugs covered the walls and floors. A coat of steel-chased armour stood in one corner whilst the rest of the pavilion was taken up with trunks, some closed, others open disgorging costly clothes, garments, jewellery, belts, boots and pieces of armour. A long trestle table dominated the room and we were ordered to sit at either end whilst servants brought us cups of hot, spiced wine. Eventually, the back flap of the tent was opened and Matthew came in with a group of leading courtiers and generals. He greeted Drakulyu as a long-lost cousin, hugging and embracing him, warmly praising his achievements against the Turks, and hoping that they could devise a plan to re-invade Wallachia and drive Radu and his Turkish masters from the country once and for all. I was virtually ignored, but I studied the Hungarian king carefully. He had changed little since we met him and his father, Janos Hunyadi, a few years before at Bran Castle. He was a little fatter, more expensively dressed, and had inherited the same aura of authority which his father had used to such great effect. He was dressed in costly robes, a golden pendant hung from his neck and he wore a circle of filigree silver around his head. The banquet he had invited us to was both sumptuous and exquisite. Specially prepared food was served in silver dishes; spiced lamb and veal, baked herring, pike, lamprey and fresh sturgeon roasted on coals followed by dates, jellies and hot apples and pears coated with sugar, while our goblets were constantly filled with the finest wine from Gascony, Burgundy and the Rhineland. I began to see where some of the gold sent to Matthew by Pope Pius II had been spent, though the king himself carefully avoided this topic when Drakulya attempted to raise it, deftly evading the question and discussing other lighter matters.
As the evening progressed, I could see Drakulya’s growing disappointment and unease about Matthew’s lack of commitment to formulating detailed plans for a fresh campaign against the Turks. Gradually he lapsed into silence, picking at his food as Matthew and his courtiers recounted some story or chatted amongst themselves. Then the banquet ended. Matthew rose and with profuse apologies and assurances of future support, gracefully dismissed us back to our own quarters. Drakulya was furious and spent the next few days bombarding Matthew with letters and memoranda about a new campaign. A few were answered, the rest quietly ignored. Once again Drakulya was on the brink of despair when a messenger from Matthew arrived to announce that the Hungarian king wished us to move to Konigstein Castle where he promised to meet Drakulya to discuss and draw up a detailed plan of campaign. Drakulya was overjoyed. We repacked our belongings and, escorted by guides and a small group of cavalry, made our way to Konigstein.
19
The castle was a small border fortress on the Transylvanian/Wallachian frontier, a stark, simple building built mainly for defence and affording little comfort or hospitality. We were given cold barren rooms and put under the watchful eye of the garrison commander, a Thracian mercenary, who made sure we had every material comfort but declined with icy politeness any request by Drakulya to leave the castle to go hunting or visit friends and allies in the neighbourhood. Matthew did not come. He did not send envoys or messengers and, though Drakulya refused to concede it, I knew we were no more than prisoners under comfortable house arrest.
Then, I think it was sometime in mid-November, the garrison commander sent a messenger to our quarters asking us to meet him in the great hall of the castle. We arrived to find him there with another man, a stranger. The latter was a huge, bearded individual, dressed in half armour, who stared at us under beetling black brows and hoarsely announced in a heavy German accent that he was Jan Griskra, a Bohemian by birth, a mercenary by profession, and a captain in King Matthew’s army. I did not like the man with his smal
l shrewd eyes, thick red lips and face criss-crossed with scars. His manner was insolent as he looked us up and down, stroking his beard and long moustache with one hand, as he played with the hilt of his dagger with the other. Drakulya’s hot temper at the man’s uncouth manner and silent insolent stares soon found expression. He bowed, more in mockery than courtesy. “Master Griskra,” he snapped. “It is obvious from your manners that you are a Bohemian and your profession is clearly indicated in the way you sit and talk to princes, so I will withdraw until you mend your manners and I decide to see you!” “I am from His Majesty, King Matthew of Hungary!” Griskra retorted heatedly. “That,” Drakulya replied, “is his problem, not mine!” He turned and nodded to the garrison commander. “Sir, I shall be in my quarters.” He then turned on his heel and was almost out of the room when Griskra, now on his feet, shouted down the hall. “You, sir, are under arrest!” Drakulya paused and turned slowly. “Arrest?” Griskra stroked the hair on his chin, pleased at the reaction he had provoked. “Yes, sir. Under arrest!” Drakulya walked back, carefully measuring his steps. “For what?” he asked quietly. “Why am I under arrest?” “For treason.” “Treason!” Drakulya shouted in astonishment. “And the proof?” Griskra dug into his pouch and threw two small scrolls of parchment at Drakulya’s feet. “All the proof His Majesty needs!” he replied. Drakulya stooped and picked up both scrolls from the floor, carefully unrolled them and quickly scanned the contents. Looking at him I knew that their message must be fatal to his cause. The Prince’s face drained of blood, he gnawed his lower lip and the spasmodic tic at the side of his face indicated the stress and turbulence within him. Nevertheless, he kept his composure, handed both scrolls to me and walked over to a window embrasure and stared silently out across the snow-covered countryside.