Vlad (41 page)

The Shriving

Poenari Castle, 1481

It was told, the last of it, for her at least. It ended when the body was covered in earth. No marker was ever raised. She always knew exactly where he lay, for a red oak did grow from one of the acorns that lay with him. It was five times the length of a man’s forearm now, one for each year. Soon, she knew, the younger tree would be striving for space with the elder from which it sprung. It was the way both of trees and of men. She had no doubt that, with her prince’s blood to feed it, the sapling would prevail.

All this Ilona thought but did not say, as the quills traced her last words, and Dracula’s last fall, in ink upon the parchment. Then there was silence within the hall, though
beyond it the noises of the day came. The storm that had come, bringing the last big snow, had gone. Sun had returned to the land, warm enough to start the melting. All in the room stayed silent for a while, listened to the drip, heard a huge icicle drop from a turret and shatter on the rocks beneath the walls.

It was the Count who broke the silence. He turned to the Cardinal, seeking some reaction, some hope. But the Italian’s jowly face was as impassive as ever. Horvathy swallowed, made sure his voice was even before he spoke. “Is there anything more you need to hear, Your Eminence?”

“Dracula is dead,” the Cardinal replied. “It was interesting, though, to hear what became of his body. But perhaps I can give the last detail required for the record?” He smiled. “His severed head, as all know, was sent to Mehmet. I heard it was the one time the Great Turk was delighted to receive something other than an exotic plant for his gardens. So much so that he kept it beside him for a week before he allowed it to be spiked and placed on the walls of Constantinople.” He rose, stretching his back. “So now—his last confession is over. Though
I
must confess to being a little curious—and the scribes need not note down my curiosity—of how our three witnesses survived. And how they have lived these five years since.”

Silence again, till Petru leaned forward and shouted, “Answer!”

Ilona spoke again. “You know, because it was your men that brought me here. Where I was a sister, now I am Abbess of the Convent of Clejani.”

“And what secrets our habits conceal, eh, Reverend Mother? Though your scars are perhaps more interesting than my own.” The Cardinal turned to face the confessional on the left. “And Dracula’s friend? We could only assume from your tale that you’d been killed. Yet, obviously not so. What became of the worthy traitor?”

Ion’s mind, which had drifted like a leaf ever since he spoke of the last stake, drifted back now at the word. “Would I
had
been killed. But such was not my fate. Mine was to become Laiota Basarab’s prisoner, buried at the same time as Dracula—but buried alive, as his brother once was! Yet, unlike Mircea, with air to breathe and so allowed the barest form of life. Forgotten in my living grave until this day. And would that I had been forgotten there still.” His voice broke and he sobbed, “And if there is any mercy in you, you will return me there now, and torment me no further with these memories!”

Count Horvathy, impatient now, faced the last of the confessionals. “And you, his confessor? We have heard little enough of you this last hour. Can you satisfy His Eminence’s curiosity and let us leave this place?”

The hermit’s voice rasped clearly. “What was there for me to tell? I was left behind in Pest. And Dracula left for war without seeking absolution. So I heard nothing of his final thoughts.”

“But then, after his death, you journeyed here, to the cave upon his mountain, did you not?”

No reply came.

“Tell it swiftly!” Petru barked. There was a last task he had to perform and, after a night of sitting, he was eager to be about it.

“I came here.”

The Cardinal, rotating his fleshy neck, looked down. “A special curiosity among the many. Why would you do that?”

“Because I thought that perhaps here, in this place he loved, his final thoughts
might
be heard.” A laugh came, the first he’d given, a strange sound. “And was I not right?”

“Enough,” snapped the Count, rising. He turned to the man beside him. Horvathy was as exhausted as he had ever been; yet he knew his only hope for a sleep without ghosts lay in the gift of the man beside him. “I ask again, Your Eminence—is there anything more,
beyond the satisfaction of your curiosity, that you need to hear?”

The Cardinal looked back into the Count’s one, hope-filled eye. “No,” he said.

Horvathy hesitated, looking down at the smaller, rounder man, his unreadable face. Then he swallowed. “And can you tell us what your conclusion might be?” He lifted his hand, rubbed the socket of that one eye. “I know we have heard a tale of horror here tonight. But we have also heard of a crusader prince, Christ’s Warrior, slaying His enemies under the Dragon banner. Dying finally, under that banner, still killing Infidels. With the exoneration of the Pope, and our gold to counteract the lies that have been told—and to mitigate the worst of the truth—the Dragon’s son could rise again. Then, so could the Dragon and all its brood.” He paused, searched the eyes before him for some sign. When none came, he blurted, “Well, Grimani? Does my Order rise or fall?”

The Cardinal looked up at the Count, then across at the younger man, whose hope shone as clearly upon his face; finally down at the three confessionals. “Neither,” he said, then overrode the gasp that came, “for now.” He stepped off the dais, moved towards the door. Stopping before it, he turned. “Really, Count Horvathy, you cannot expect a decision based on such tales and after such a long night, in a moment. And you know that it is not, finally, my decision to give. I represent authority, but I am not its highest voice. I will read again all that has passed here tonight. Then I will talk to the Pope. From that conversation”—he looked again at the confessionals and made the sign of the cross—“a shriving must come. Or not. Only the Holy Father can forgive such a sinner as Dracula from such…spectacular sins.”

Horvathy approached him. “May I hope? For myself? For the sacred Order of the Dragon?”

“Well,” replied Grimani, “there are precedents. So ready your gold for your Order. And hope for yourself.”

Horvathy nodded. He had done all he could. “We will collect the confessions. We will mark all three with our three seals. Then you may take one with you. I will take one to Buda, for secret printing. And we will leave one here, where the tale was told.”

“Good.” Grimani glanced again at the three confessionals. “And, uh, the other business?”

“We will deal with matters here, Your Eminence,” Horvathy replied, looking at Petru.

The Cardinal stared back at them for a moment. “Of course you will,” he said softly. “Each to their own skills, eh?” He raised two conjoined fingers. “
Dominus vobiscum
,” he intoned, making the cross.

“
Et cum spiritu tuo
,” Horvathy said, bowing.

With a slight inclination of the head, Cardinal Grimani left the hall.

The wiry frame of Bogdan, Petru’s lieutenant, replaced him in the doorway. He raised his eyebrows and Petru nodded. Bogdan turned, beckoned two soldiers; one young and eager, the other older, edgy.

Behind the guards came another man. He was dressed quite differently, with a leather apron covering him from nape to ankle. His face was streaked in soot and he held a sword. The hilt of the weapon was level with his chin while the blade’s tip rested on the ground.

Horvathy smiled. “The Dragon’s Talon,” he said. “I had forgotten that it was being re-forged.”

He beckoned the smith forward, took the sword in both hands, lifted it high. “What a weapon!” he marvelled, turning the blade to catch a beam of sunlight that came through the arrow slit. It played on the pommel and made the Dragons on each side seem to fly. “You know, Petru, those who have never held a bastard sword think it must be heavy, because you wield it with two hands. But it is forged so exquisitely that it is light, can be lifted again and again. Can kill again and again.” He threw it up, caught it, sighed. “With this alone I feel I could take back Constantinople.”

“My lord?”

Horvathy looked at Petru. The younger man held out his hands. When the Hungarian did not lower the sword, Petru said, “It is the sword of Wallachia, my lord. It belongs to my prince.”

The Count’s one eye narrowed. Then he shrugged, brought the weapon down, handed it across. Petru took it and held it for a moment before laying it flat across the arms of the center chair. Then he waved the blacksmith out, closing the door behind him.

The Count breathed deeply before stepping off the dais. “The testament,” he snapped, and immediately the curtain on the priest’s side of the first confessional was drawn back. The monk within blinked up at the brighter light of the hall. He had already rolled and ribboned the papers. Horvathy took them. “Thank you for your work. You will be rewarded.” He nodded. “Please step out and wait over there.”

The monk rose, stretched, walked over to stand before Petru and his men. The Count approached the second and third confessionals, where the same actions and words were repeated. The three monks like the prisoners, had only been allowed out twice in the proceedings, and they looked tired and hungry. Petru gestured to the smaller table at the other end of the room: “Food and wine are provided. Help yourselves.” Eagerly the monks, shadowed by the soldiers, moved to the far end of the hall.

Horvathy clutched the three rolls of testimony to his chest with one hand. With his other, he slowly drew back the first of the remaining curtains. Ion blinked up, raising a hand to shelter his eyes from the glare. In his short time out of his cell, his eyesight had come back a little bit more. He could even see the features of a face, an oval above him, etched in brightness.

Without a word, Horvathy moved on, drew more material aside. Ilona did not look up, did not open her eyes. Her mouth moved, but whether in prayer or in the lament she had recently sung, as she had sung it over Dracula’s body, Horvathy could not tell.

In the last confessional Dracula’s confessor did not raise his head. Within the hood, all the Hungarian could see was the man’s shadowed mouth and chin, his lips, like those of the Abbess, moving silently.

He hesitated for a moment, then he swallowed, turned away, laid the testaments on his chair. He took Petru’s arm, leading him to the door. “Do what must be done,” he whispered.

“I…” The younger man looked back, ran his tongue over his lips nervously. “I only regret…the woman,” he muttered. “It seems a sin.”

“You have heard her confession.
Her
sins are innumerable.” The Count squeezed his arm hard. “And remember this—all
our
sins will be forgiven in crusade. When the Dragon and the Cross fly side by side again and sweep the Infidel from the Balkans.”

Petru swallowed, nodded. “What must be done,” he echoed. Horvathy reached for the door handle—but Petru put his hand against the door. “You will not stay, my lord, and bear witness?”

Horvathy looked in the younger man’s eyes; saw duty there, some apprehension. But there was hunger, too. Petru had scrupulously, loyally carried out his Voivode’s strange wishes—but Horvathy knew he also aspired to be inducted into the Order of the Dragon, if it were allowed to rise. And indeed, if it did, if all they had done there that night were successful, then it would be no bad thing to have a Dragon commanding such a valuable frontier post as Poenari in the crusade that would follow. The young Spatar had shown organizational ability. But could he kill? It would be worth knowing.

Horvathy took his hand off the door. “I will stay. But be quick!” He lifted the rolls of parchment he held. “These must be signed and sealed before Grimani takes one to Rome. And the Italian is anxious to be gone.”

Petru nodded, shot the bolt on the door, then turned to gaze for a moment at the confessionals and their three silent occupants. Then he looked to the other end of the hall, where monks feasted and soldiers watched them. “Bogdan,” he called, and when the man looked up, he raised his hand.

It was done quickly, without too much suffering, Horvathy judged. He was watching the confessionals, to see if those within reacted to the sudden noise, the gasp, the peculiar suck of metal on throat, the gulping. None seemed to hear, just carried on with what they were doing—muttering, mouthing, staring sightlessly. When he looked again, the guards were standing over two, still-twitching, bodies while Bogdan was lowering his in order to raise the flagstone near the wall by the metal ring set into it. Petru and Horvathy watched him bend, drag, shove. The first monk’s body disappeared fast. The man whose confession they had heard told tonight had built the sluice out over the precipice for the clearing of filth. No doubt it had also been useful to get rid of bodies unseen. It still was.

When the last body disappeared—an arm flailing as if waved in farewell—the soldiers joined him. “Come,” said Petru, his voice cracking on the word as he moved to the confessionals. “Come,” he said again, more firmly. “You have done well, all three of you. Food awaits at the end of this hall, and a comfortable place to lie for a few days. Then you will be returned to your abodes. Though you, Ion Tremblac, will now have an honored place by a hearth in Suceava.” The lies soothed the speaker, his voice growing stronger. He even smiled. “You have been about God’s work this night and day. Come.”