House of War

by Victor Foia

  3

  TWO DARING WOMEN

  October 1442, Târgoviște, Wallachia

  “You’re wholly irresponsible,” Dan Alba shouted at Helena. They were standing in the middle of the salon where he customarily received important visitors. “You intend to leave Esmeralda alone in this room with that depraved Marcus? Her reputation will be ruined.”

  “They won’t be alone,” she snapped. “We’ll be watching them from up there.” She pointed to a screened opening close to the ceiling.

  “I don’t like Marcus getting within a mile of Esmeralda, let alone within two feet.”

  “When their tête-à-tête is over,” Helena said, smug, “you’ll thank me for the brilliant stratagem I’ve devised to revive her chances of becoming Queen of Wallachia.”

  Alba sighed in exasperation. “Another one of your harebrained conspiracies. How do you intend to persuade the king to make Esmeralda his daughter-in-law?”

  Helena pursed her lips and stared him down. “Marcus isn’t the only possible successor to King Dracul.”

  Alba gave a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Prince Nestor’s another contender. Too bad he’s likely to spend the rest of his life shitting in a wooden bucket fifty feet below the palace armory.”

  She gave him a withering stare, then slid open a wall panel concealing stairs mounting to the secret observation post.

  Alba had built the hiding place on Helena’s order when the palace was erected. She’d demanded he make it possible for her to eavesdrop on his conclaves with the boyars of his party. That way, she claimed, she’d be able to guide his hand, instead of leaving strategy to his dim mind.

  He felt a peculiar excitement climbing the stairs to the loft. Helena would scratch out his eyes if she discovered how he’d repurposed her eavesdropping nest. The closet-like room had proved ideal for trapping chambermaids for his sexual escapades. He’d casually order them to dust up the place, then once in there—

  “Marcus will be led into the salon, and Esmeralda will make him wait for her about ten minutes,” Helena said. “It will raise the boy’s anxiety about the meaning of her note, and make him more pliable.”

  “What note?” Alba shrieked, feeling weak in the knees. “You had our daughter set to paper your dangerous conceit?” It was bad enough Helena had gone so far into hatching her scheme without including him; but, leave a written proof of her conspiracy?

  “There’s nothing to worry about on account of the note. All it said is, ‘Adieu, My Prince.’” Climbing the steps left Helena winded and she paused to catch her breath. “The messenger was to tell Marcus that Esmeralda wanted to hear his reply in person, this afternoon.”

  “If you think that fanning the prince’s love for her will lead to something good you’re wasting your time,” he said after Helena sat with a grunt on a footstool by the grated window. He sat next to her, barely fitting half of his butt on the space left by her ample thigh. “All he wants with Esmeralda is to fu—” The word that was otherwise easy currency with him refused to take shape in relation to his daughter. “—to take advantage of her innocence.”

  Helena gave an exasperated sigh. “There is hardly any air here, so don’t make me talk. You’ll soon understand everything.”

  The place was stuffy indeed, as he’d learned when he made his first conquest here many years ago. The girl—what was her name?—had climbed the stairs unsuspecting, then called down to him, “I can’t see what I’m doing here, Master, and I can hardly breathe.”

  She had an impudence in her voice that sounded like a dare. Light blue eyes—oh, so rare among the Wallachian peasants—and a way of tossing her chestnut braids over her shoulder …

  “I’ll bring you a lamp,” he’d said then mounted the stairs empty-handed. He could barely see her outline, but his memory filled out her image. He’d observed her surreptitiously for days as she dusted his office: a slender waist and a pert bottom that seemed to mock him every time she bent to pick up something off the floor. And those pointy nipples he imagined wore out the fabric of her blouse with their rock-like hardness ....

  “Stop all that slurping and swallowing,” Helena said, annoyed. “You sound like a litter of puppies at feeding time.”

  But his wife’s acid tone couldn’t spoil Alba’s pleasant reverie, now that the memory of that distant encounter had stirred.

  “So, where’s the lamp, Master Alba?” the girl asked, as if scolding him. “How am I to clean this place if I can’t see a thing?”

  She still had no inkling of his intention, and her innocence of untamed filly parched his mouth with desire. “A lamp can start a fire in a small place like this. Forget about cleaning. Here, take my hand and I’ll lead you down.”

  Their hands met in the dark and he pulled her to him with great violence. She slammed onto his chest, and her forehead split his lip. The next moment he had her in a tight embrace that cut her breathing and prevented her from screaming.

  “Be quiet and I’ll let go of you,” he said.

  Her response was a gasp for air. He kicked her feet from under her, and, when she fell to the floor, dropped on top of her. That moment he heard women’s voices in the salon, Helena’s among them. His hand shot to cover the girl’s mouth. “Not a sound, or I’ll strangle you.”

  He immobilized the girl’s left arm with his right elbow and grabbed her right wrist with his left hand. “If Lady Helena finds you here she’ll know you’re a slut and will have you whipped.”

  The girl moaned and wiggled under him, but the faint noise she made was drowned by the banter and laughter of the women in the salon.

  “Then she’ll send you back to your parents where you’ll be shoveling manure for the rest of your life, instead of living the good life in her service.”

  From her stillness he concluded the girl had decided to submit to his will; he was disappointed. The victims who fought him till the last moment gave him the greatest satisfaction. He didn’t dare unclamp his hand from her mouth, but had to let go of her right hand so he might raise her skirt. When he did so, she dug her nails into his face, seeking to gouge his eyes.

  He buried his face next to hers for protection. She smelled of whey and butter, a scent he preferred to his wife’s Venetian perfumes.

  “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Helena hissed. “You’re going to give us away with your lip smacking.”

  Reluctant, Alba let go of the girl’s memory, promising himself to revisit it that night.

  A liveried servant opened the door to the salon, then moved aside to let Marcus walk in. Helena sank her nails into Alba’s arm as a command for silence. They watched the youth pace the room, agitated, seeming unaware he was banging his sword against the furniture at every turn.

  “He’s nervous,” Alba whispered.

  Helena’s face, dappled by the candlelight coming through the grate, was lifeless, hideous in its waxy, cadaveric color. But her unblinking eyes were following Marcus’s movements with ferocious intensity. Alba realized she had set up a high-stake game for their daughter.

  “There you are, my valiant crusader,” Esmeralda’s voice came from the doorway. She walked in with an assured step and extended Marcus her gloved hand. He bowed and kissed it. “I know you’re planning to flee to Buda against your father’s wishes, so I wanted to give you my blessing.”

  Alba’s heart quivered with love for his daughter. Though she was only fifteen her composure was worthy of a queen.

  Marcus fiddled for a while with the buttons of his tunic while he cast Esmeralda the look of a sick puppy. Then he tugged at his locks, scratched his beard, and finally returned his hands to the buttons.

  Esmeralda, cold and statuesque, gave Marcus a thin, supercilious smile that showed she knew the reason for his discomfort.

  “The crusade—I did want very much to go,” he said. “I still do. Nestor promised to obtain for me a captain’s commission from King Norbert, but—”

  “You’ll make a splendid captain,” Esmerald
a said with exaggerated conviction. “Oh, how I’d love to be there on the battlefield to see you take on the Muslims like the wrath of God incarnate.”

  A bead of sweat formed on Marcus’s brow, and he wiped it with his sleeve. “See, Esmeralda, the problem is I can’t join the crusade anymore.”

  She took a step back and clutched her bosom, the very picture of astonishment. Then she sat heavily onto the sofa, as if the news had crushed her.

  Marcus was at her side in an instant, but she shoved him away. He knelt on the floor in front of her and joined his hands in prayer. “You must let me explain, Esmeralda.”

  She turned her face away and dabbed her eyes with a pink handkerchief.

  Marcus reached for her hand, and she let him take hold of it. “When Father locked Nestor up everything changed,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I know Prince Nestor won’t be in Buda to secure your captain’s commission. But can’t Governor Hunyadi do that?”

  “Hunyadi hates my father, so he isn’t going to help me distinguish myself on the world stage. Only Nestor, who loves me, is willing to do that.”

  She looked at Marcus, reproachful. “But you said you’d be ready to go on crusade even as only an ordinary soldier, just to banish Islam from Europe. You don’t need Nestor for that.”

  “True, I’d be happy to fight as a simple cavalryman. But Hunyadi’s apt to take me hostage and barter me off for Nestor’s release. Then Father would lock me up until the end of the war.”

  She made a fist and pressed it to her lips, pensive. Moments later she reached out and lifted his chin with her finger. “There has to be a way out of this impasse. Your chance for being a hero mustn’t be squandered.”

  Alba thought Marcus was about to burst into tears.

  “Why did that stupid Nestor have to come here and mess up my life?” Marcus cried. “Couldn’t he have stayed home with his wife and brood?”

  Esmeralda let out a joyful cry and clapped her hands. “You’ve just given me a great idea: send Nestor home to his wife and children. Then Hunyadi wouldn’t need you as a bargaining chip anymore.”

  “But—but—how? Father will never let Nestor go.”

  She seemed to ponder the situation. “No, we can’t expect the king to just throw open the dungeon doors so you could resume your dream of being a crusader.”

  Marcus looked pained. “Then how’s Nestor to return home?”

  “You’ll help him escape, that’s how. With my assistance.”

  Alba sprang to his feet, quivering with indignation and confusion. “What’s she talking about?” he muttered through clenched teeth. “How can you get Esmeralda entangled in something like this?”

  Helena elbowed him in the groin, not so hard that he’d yelp, but hard enough to make him sit.

  Marcus seemed to have heard the commotion above, for he threw a glance at the ceiling.

  Esmeralda took his face between her hands. “Yes, you and I can free Nestor and set you back on track to becoming a hero. My hero.” She leaned forward as if to kiss Marcus, and Alba thought he’d be unable to keep quiet any longer. But at the last moment Esmeralda pushed Marcus away. “Unless you’re afraid to act.”

  Still kneeling, Marcus tugged at his hair with both hands, face crimson and glistening with perspiration. “Can you imagine what Father would do to me?” he groaned.

  Esmeralda removed one of her gloves and placed two fingers on his lips, more in a gesture of caressing than to prevent him from speaking.

  Alba’s insides reacted at the outrage of this intimacy between his virginal daughter and the dissipated princeling. He shot Helena a look, but her calm gaze showed she didn’t share his dread. It was evident Esmeralda was following Helena’s script.

  “Stop saying silly things, My Prince.” Esmeralda spoke in the tone a mother would use with a young child. “Nobody but Nestor will know he owes you his freedom.”

  “You think I can just walk into the dungeon and—?”

  “I don’t want you going anywhere near the dungeon tonight.”

  Tonight? A sense of imminent danger slammed into Alba like a barn door blown by the wind. He’d assumed his wife’s plot was meant for weeks, perhaps months down the road. Helena was as methodical in scheming as a spider in laying out its silken trap. Given a few days’ notice, he was certain he could thwart any of her cretinous intrigues. But tonight? I must put a stop to this. He gripped Helena’s forearm with determination. But she ignored him, eyes riveted to the scene below. His fear merged with the humiliation of finding himself powerless over his wife.

  “All you need to do,” Esmeralda said, “is give me the watchword for the changing of the guard.” She spoke as matter-of-factly as if she were asking her chambermaid for a comb. “Julius will do the rest, and no one will suspect you are behind Nestor’s escape.”

  Marcus’s head snapped back. “Your cousin’s involved in this as well?”

  Esmeralda removed her other glove and lightly touched his hands. “You need people you can trust on your side.”

  Marcus sucked air through his teeth, while shifting his weight from one knee to the other. “Even if Nestor escaped form the dungeon, how would he travel across Wallachia as a fugitive?”

  “Julius will see to it he makes it home safe and sound. By the time you reach Buda Nestor will have your commission signed by King Norbert.”

  Marcus stopped fidgeting. “Has Nestor promised that?”

  “Time’s a-flying, Captain Marcus,” Esmeralda said with mock severity. “Give me the watchword and go pack your crusader’s kit.”

  Marcus’s face turned from troubled to blissful, as if Esmeralda’s order were a declaration of love. He glanced over his shoulder to the door, then whispered something Alba couldn’t hear.

  Without acknowledging Marcus’s disclosure of the watchword, Esmeralda floated out of the room, and the liveried servant reappeared to escort Marcus.

  When the salon was empty, Alba let out a string of vituperations laced with the crudest curses he knew. In the near darkness of their hideaway, Helena remained silent until Alba’s ire spent itself.

  “You didn’t imagine we’d be making our daughter queen without taking chances,” she said with searing contempt. “Or, did you?”

  “This isn’t, ‘taking chances.’ woman,” Alba said. “It’s handing the king our heads on a trencher.” He tried to inject harshness into his tone, but sounded merely whiny. When Helena put her arm around his shoulder he knew he’d been defeated, once again, by her demoniacal will.

  “Now let’s talk about the crucial role you are going to play tonight,” she said with enough deference and sweetness to restore a mite of Alba’s tattered dignity. “And when you sit at King Nestor’s right hand, as his father-in-law, puffing your chest and preening yourself, remember it was I who put you on that seat.”

  Her self-confidence rubbed off on him, and he began to see potential in her plot. “That simpleton of a regent didn’t ask Esmeralda how she happened to have a readymade action plan, when the idea for Nestor’s escape had just occurred to her.” He chuckled thinking of Marcus’s guilelessness.

  Helena grinned and pinched his cheek as payment for his implied acquiescence in her scheme. “Nor how she knew that Marcus is the one who sets the watchwords,” she said.

  Alba felt a wave of admiration for his wife, and almost expressed it in words. But he recovered from that transient weakness and said only, “You were right to judge him easy to manipulate.”

  4

  ON HANNIBAL’S FOOTSTEPS

  October 1442, on the road to Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  Mehmed’s convoy took two weeks to cover the hundred and fifty miles from Galata to Bursa, when even a slow caravan would’ve done it in ten days. Mehmed was in no hurry to reach his destination, where burdensome studies awaited him. Neither was Vlad, since from Bursa he’d be sent on to his prison in Amasya.

  “The way you stare at this precipice makes me think Lala Zaganos might be right,”
Mehmed said, reproachful. “You’d do anything to escape; even suicide.”

  At Vlad’s suggestion, Mehmed had ordered a detour to the rocky cliffs outside Lybissa on which Hannibal had killed himself sixteen centuries before. The Sea of Marmara shimmered two hundred feet below.

  “Aha,” exclaimed Hamza, animated by Mehmed’s comment. He rubbed his palms as if anticipating something amusing about to take place. “Vlad wants to jump off the cliff like Hannibal.”

  “I’d love to see Vlad fly,” Yunus said, “but he’s too cowardly to do it.”

  “You two know nothing of history,” Mehmed said. “Hannibal didn’t jump. He took poison.”

  “Come, Vlad,” Hamza said with an oily smile. “Show Yunus he’s wrong to call you a coward.”

  “Glad to oblige,” Vlad said.

  In a lightning move, he leaped behind Yunus and grabbed him under the armpits. Then twirling around like a dervish and causing Yunus’s body to fly in a circle, he shuffled toward the lip of the cliff. Zaganos’s two watchmen, on constant guard around Vlad, scrambled out of the way to avoid being knocked over by Yunus’s legs. When Vlad stopped, back to the sea, his heels were hanging over the ledge. Yunus hung limp in his arms.

  “Hannibal had eluded the Romans for years,” Vlad said, in the casual tone of someone swapping stories with friends. “By the time they caught up with him on this cliff, he was old and tired. He couldn’t see himself languishing in a prison for the rest of his life.”

  “Step away from the ledge, Vlad,” Mehmed cried, face drained of color. “You don’t have to prove anything to these two cretins.”

  “I’m neither old nor tired,” Vlad said with a grin and tossed Yunus to the ground. “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of giving up on life before I settle my accounts with the likes of you.”

  He stepped over Yunus’s prostrate body and headed down the slope toward their camp.

  Mehmed ran after him and blocked his path. “You’re mad,” he said, angry, though with a glint of respect in his eyes. “I should keep you in a cage like a tiger.”