Mircea meanwhile was paying no attention to the performance, except when Aphrodite was hit in the leg, but talked and drank and laughed and flirted with half the ladies there, in particular with Otrud whose status as the Prince’s favourite had not been dissolved by his marriage.
A short while after the conclusion of this performance Dolabella came to me with a message that her mistress wished to see me. I followed her along passages to find myself eventually in the apartments that had once been occupied by Xantho’s queen. They had not been greatly altered except that the crucifixes, statues, icons and other paraphernalia of religious observance had been discreetly removed.
She sat before a fire, very still as before, with a fur gown over her white nightdress. A maid was slowly brushing her lustrous auburn hair. Her eyes did not turn towards me as I entered but continued to stare at the fire.
She had changed since I last saw her. Not only was she the sadder and wiser person that I expected her to be, she had also put on the mantle of royalty. There would now always be that invisible barrier between myself and her which no degree of trust or intimacy could eradicate. It may have been part of the natural corruption that sets in when regal authority is laid upon one — what Seneca calls a professional deformity — or it may have been adopted to conceal private griefs from the eyes of an overcurious world.
At length she noticed me and indicated a seat; then she dismissed her maid. All this was done with a gentle assurance which made one believe that she had been accustomed to sovereignty all her life. She asked me for news of Prince Vladimir and I replied that I knew no more than anyone else, that he had taken refuge in the island monastery of Snagov. Her liquid eyes searched my face, looking for signs of deceit.
“I must see him again. You will arrange it,” she said.
That, it seems, was the end of the interview. Somehow all my objections and arguments had been stifled by that air of absolute authority. I could rage as much as I liked at the injustice of being selected for the task, but I could not quarrel with its necessity. It was unfinished business.
Accordingly I asked permission from the King to go to Bistritsa where I had heard that an important manuscript which would be an ornament to the castle library could be bought. Alexander of Glem gave me permission and also an escort of the palace guard to watch over me as I made the transaction, but, to tell the truth, I was glad of their company for it was winter and there were wolves abroad in the land.
Snow fell on our journey and the sky was thick with white cloud. We rode through a dim, padded world, silent except for the distant baying of wolves. That winter they came down from the hills and there were stories of babies being snatched from cots, even of full-grown men being attacked. We reached Bistritsa and settled in an inn. I told my companions that the book I was searching for was in the possession of an old priest, and that it would require some days of complex negotiation to secure it from him.
The guards nodded and settled down to their dice and wine. The book — a vellum codex of the lives of the Coptic saints — I secured within an hour by means of a few gold pieces and a veiled threat. I then set off, this time alone, for Lake Ordog which was only a few miles distance. I was a conspicuous figure riding alone, but equally there were few people about and I could see that I was not being followed.
On the banks of Lake Ordog there are several landing stages, but there is one which is used exclusively by the Black Monks who inhabit the island in the lake. This is an elaborate structure consisting of a jetty together with a large boathouse which comprises storerooms and accommodation for four monks who supervise the traffic to and from the monastery.
When I arrived there in the early afternoon the sky was already darkening. I spoke to the sub-prior who was in charge of the boathouse and when I explained that I had an urgent message for Prince Vladimir he merely nodded, as if he were expecting me. Then he pointed to the lake. I saw that ice was beginning to form upon it. Little slivers shifted and glinted in the fading light. It would be dangerous to go now, he said. However by morning it might have frozen over and I would be able to walk to the monastery, so I accepted his hospitality for the night at the boathouse.
The following morning dawned bitterly cold. The sky was cloudless and there had been a heavy frost. Looking from the glassless window of my bedroom I saw a gleaming sheet of white ice stretching up to the black island which dominated the lake.
The sub-prior presented me to a tall young monk who he said was to take me across the lake and then led me to the jetty where a light sled was standing on the ice. He himself, wearing as usual nothing but his black habit, sat down on the jetty and proceeded to put crude skates upon his feet, made of wood with a narrow metal blade attached. Having done so, he gestured for me to enter the sled and, harnessing himself to it with ropes, drew me swiftly across the frozen lake towards the monastery.
I found Prince Vladimir in a cell overlooking Lake Ordog. He wore a novice’s robe and his head was shaven. I never saw anyone look so pale.
His eyes were like coals embedded in snow. An icy wind blew in from the window, but he did not shiver. It was hard to say whether he had noticed me. I think he had and was now feigning indifference, so I signalled for the monk who had shown me to him to leave. I spoke.
“She wishes to see you,” I said. His eyes flickered.
“At last.”
“Do you want to see her?” I was quite prepared for an outright refusal and this would have made my life a great deal easier, but he nodded. After a pause he began to speak rapidly like a general giving orders to his subordinate.
“You realize that she cannot come to me on this island. No woman is allowed to step onto this hallowed soil; not even cows or female creatures of the animal kingdom are permitted here. Therefore I must cross the lake, but if I set foot on land outside this sanctuary island the King’s men will take me and send me back as a hostage into the Sultan’s realm. Worse, Mircea’s creatures might seize and kill me. You will remind the Princess of the extreme danger I will be in when I meet her at the boathouse in four days time.”
That seemed to be the end of the interview. He returned to his icy contemplations without another word. My escort had hardly noticed my absence when I returned to the inn at Bistritsa.
When I told the Princess of my interview and of the danger that such an interview might entail she seemed indifferent. She was sitting as I had seen her before in front of the fire. Her only question to me was how she might escape from the castle to see him. I replied that as the country was in the grip of a treacherous winter and large numbers of the population were therefore starving some expedition of charity might be proposed. The Princess nodded; then she looked at me and asked if there truly was hardship. As she spoke life and youthful compassion returned to her eyes for a moment, but this was immediately dissipated by a sudden noise, a strangled cry, then the sound of heavy footsteps dragging themselves along the corridor. The Princess had time to exchange a brief glance with Dolabella, before something erupted into the room.
It was a moment or two before I recognized the young Prince Mircea who, not so long ago, I had tried to instruct in the delicacies of Latin prosody. His once handsome face was starting to coarsen. The rosy flesh was beginning to look blotchy and was no longer as firm as it once was. The blue eyes were watering. He wore a fur gown, nothing else, and he made no attempt to conceal the nakedness beneath.
He had just about made it into the room on his legs before he collapsed. Unquestionably he was drunk, but I had the strong suspicion that, for reasons of his own, he was making himself out to be drunker than he was. For a moment he was silent, then, eyes only on the Princess Rozelinda, he began to crawl towards her.
When he reached her side he looked up at her, his dreadful expression parodying that of a devoted spaniel. He even put out his tongue and panted for a moment like a dog. As she looked down at him I saw an expression I had hoped never to see in her eyes, pure hatred. It was more shocking even than his antics.
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Mircea began to lick at her silk gown where it flowed over her thighs, then to worry at it with his teeth. The Princess remained frozen while he looked up at her occasionally with a grin. He knew that she hated him, but could do nothing to prevent his doing whatever he wanted with or without her, and he relished the fact. His actions became more abandoned in an attempt to provoke his wife. Her dress was now covered in spittle as he slavered over it. Suddenly, seizing a great piece of it in his teeth he tugged with all his force. The silk ripped and a great part of her gown came away revealing a white linen underskirt. At this the princess could bear it no longer; she screamed.
Mircea turned with the fragment of torn silk still in his mouth and saw me. In an instant his antic bestiality was replaced by rage.
“What is this old fool doing here?” he said. Remember that I was still in my twenties. Picking up a chair, he hurled it at me with all his strength.
It crashed against the lintel of the door just as I was slipping through it.
But it was not over. I heard him howl in imitation of a stag-hound and charge after me. I did not look behind, but fled. Under ordinary conditions he would have caught up with me at once, but his drunken state made him stumble. Nevertheless he was not far from me as we ran panting along corridors and up stairways. Once I looked round and saw that he was now carrying a poker still red from the fire.
I ran up the spiral stair which led to the library in Glem’s Tower, my heart now beating against my ribs as if it wanted to burst from its prison, my breath coming in shallow gasps that burned my throat. I heard the beast approach, the drink giving him some immunity to the agony of exhaustion.
My terror increased. The sound of his panting breath was not far behind me. It came in ecstatic gasps like a man at the pitch of lovemaking. Suddenly I felt a hot searing pain on the back of my thigh. He had touched me with the poker. I cried out in agony and bounded up the stairs with increased energy.
It was then I saw that I could be trapped, for I had not thought whether the door of the library at the top of the stairs would be locked. I had the key, but it would be vital and agonizing seconds before I could open the door. This desperate situation restored my courage and my sense. I turned to face Mircea. He let out a yell of triumph, thinking that the quarry was at last at bay and slowly advanced up the stairs towards me, switching the poker from one hand to the other, debating with himself where to strike first. Then I kicked.
It was not a very accurate kick. It caught him on the left elbow, but it was enough to put him off balance and send him, still grasping the poker, tumbling down the stairs. As he disappeared from view round the corner of the spiral stairway I heard a howl of anguish and pain.
I ran down the stairs to see the figure of Mircea crouching against a wall, his hands held up to his face, and whimpering like a little child. An eye was looking through the lattice of his fingers and I saw the look of a lost soul, one who has never troubled to grow up and leave the castle of selfish infancy. One hand came away from his face so that I was able to see that in his fall the poker had touched his cheek and scorched it. It was not a serious injury, but he would never be called “Mircea the Handsome” again.
It was then I resolved that, whatever the cost, I would leave Castle Dracula and Transylvania for ever.
The following day, while Mircea was recovering, it was said, from a slight chill, Princess Rozelinda and her party set out from Castle Dracula. Dolabella, Razendoringer and I accompanied her. Our escort consisted of men who were loyal to the Princess so we had nothing to fear from them. The whole land was now in the grip of winter and, passing through villages, we encountered very real hardships which we did our best to alleviate, but our efforts were rewarded with little gratitude, which distressed Rozelinda greatly. I pointed out that the position of safety from which we were giving might have been resented by those who had none. They might eat today because of us, but tomorrow they could starve. The Princess nodded as if acknowledging that my argument might have reason, but did not diminish the justice of her indignation.
Our progress attracted much attention, but when we reached Bistritsa a small party of us managed to slip away before dawn and reach Lake Ordog just as a feeble sun was struggling up from a purple horizon. Once we were at the boathouse the Princess sat on her horse like a statue, looking across the frozen lake towards the black island in its centre.
Presently a small piece of black detached itself from the island and began to race towards us with a strange swaying movement. It was a black monk, skating, a cowl over his head. As he came, crouching and swaying his arms in time with his gliding motion, he seemed inhuman, an agent of Death, or worse. No-one dared speak as Prince Vladimir raced over the lake towards us. The Princess smoothed back her hair, uncovering her neck and the opening undulations of her exquisite breasts to the icy morning wind. Such is the vanity of woman!
Nothing could be seen under the cowl but blackness until the moment when, mere yards from the edge of the lake, Vlad threw back his hood to show his pale thin face and coal black eyes.
“So, you have come at last!” said Vlad.
Rozelinda nodded. Vlad seemed quite at ease in these extraordinary circumstances, and oblivious to the rest of us. He began casually to remove his skates.
“How do you find being married to my brother?” he asked.
The Princess was silent. Vlad laid his skates aside, rose and approached Rozelinda. She waited for him; trembling, whether from cold or fear I could not say, then suddenly he seized and kissed her violently like a starving man reaching for a hunk of bread. His hands slid around her waist, feeling her insistently, as if he were making sure that she truly existed. With a murmur she gently pushed him away, but he renewed his assault on her. Once more she thrust him from her.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said. “I am to have a child.”
Vlad stepped back in amazement. I thought for a moment he was going to strike her. Then suddenly he fell to the ground and began to weep and batter the icy turf with his fists. The Princess looked down at this exhibition in disgust, as well she might.
“There was no way I could prevent it,” she said. “He was my husband.”
Vlad lifted a tearstained face. “How could you let him violate you!” he shouted. Then, seeming to notice the rest of us for the first time, he picked himself off the ground with as much dignity as he could manage.
“We will discuss this further in there,” he said, pointing to the boathouse.
As the sun rose it got no warmer and the rest of us decided to take refuge in the boathouse as well, with the exception of Razendoringer who said that he would act as a lookout. In that old wooden structure sound carried well so that we could hear, as we entered it, Vlad and Rozelinda in an upper room shouting at each other.
We could not distinguish the words, but the sense was clear. He was still venting his rage against her for allowing her maidenhood to be usurped by her wedded husband; she was telling him not to be a fool. Presently the argument subsided and was succeeded by an altogether different set of sounds, moans and sighs and creaks so that the whole place seemed to rock with their passionate exchange. The rest of the party looked at each other sheepishly, but none ventured to go out into the wind and the snow.
I cannot say how long these exhausting sounds endured, but they seemed to last for hours, and just as one thought that they had at last subsided a fresh bout of sighing and creaking and ecstatic, almost joyless laughter would begin. It was at the height of one of these moments that Razendoringer burst into the barn.
“Mircea and his men!” he shouted. “They’re heading this way!”
At once all was confusion. Dolabella rushed up stairs to attend to her mistress, passing Vlad on the stairs, as he clattered down, putting on his black monk’s robe. We hurried outside and there, sure enough, galloping along the shore of the lake towards us, was a posse of horsemen led by a man with a livid scar on his right cheek.
Vlad sat down on
the edge of the lake to put on his skates. In his anxiety he fumbled with the straps. The horsemen were almost up to the boathouse and we could hear Mircea urging them on, but at that moment Vlad managed to attach his skates and was on the lake.
The horsemen skirted the boathouse and rode up to the very edge of the lake. There they stopped.
“What are you waiting for?” shouted Mircea. “He won’t have reached sanctuary until he gets to the island.” Still his men hesitated. “Ride, curse you! Ride onto the ice! Take him. The first man who hesitates, I’ll put onto a stake and roast alive!”
Persuaded by these words, the men rode onto the ice after the rapidly receding figure of the skating monk. At first they seemed to make progress, but first one horse slipped, then another. Two fell together blocking the passage of the rest while Mircea cursed and blasphemed at them. Then we heard a sound at first like a gigantic creak then a series of splintering cracks like a fusillade of arquebuses. The ice was giving way beneath the fallen riders.
We saw the now distant figure of Vlad turn and look, then skate slowly back towards the scene. Lake Ordog was earning its name of “The Devil’s Lake.” Great blocks of ice had become detached and were rearing up like vast silver knives while amongst them horses and riders were floundering in agony.
Mircea was still urging those horsemen who had drawn back from the abyss to ride on, but they would not. The icy heart of the lake took their companions quickly and their suffering was acute but brief.
Meanwhile Vlad was standing alone in the middle of the lake surveying this scene of carnage with unconcealed satisfaction. When Mircea had finished bellowing at his riders he looked at his brother. Slowly Vlad raised his right hand as if in greeting across the broken ice. It seemed to me to be a gesture not simply of defiance, but of outright victory. Further than that, it promised a thousand terrors yet to be unleashed: violence and death, the rise and fall of nations, and justice without mercy. It was a promise which was to be amply fulfilled.
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 39