Spring 1442
Tîrgovişte Castle, Wallachia
Eleven-year-old Vlad grimaced as his mother and ladies fawned over his little brother. "Radu is seven years old, Lady Mother." Vlad swiped the heel of his leather boot back and forth across the plush Turkish rug. "How will he learn a warrior's courage if you fuss over a scratch on his cheek?"
Princess Cneajna ruffled Radu's hair. "He is a child, and you, Vlad, are far too old for your age. Have you forgotten how we doted on you after you fell off your horse?"
"I was five. The riding instructor told me to gallop barebacked." Vlad glanced at his mother's three attendants. He rather enjoyed visiting the flower-scented ladies' chambers and the sweet-faced women with their quick smiles and milky white cleavage.
The princess waved a bejeweled hand. "Wasn't it only last month you showed us the nick on your finger from the fencing master?"
Vlad's face warmed from the memory. A milk-filled wet nurse had thrust his head into her bosom while comforting him, the stirring that followed proving him a man.
"I'm glad Lord Father did not notice my wound." Vlad inspected the thin red line on his finger.
Princess Cneajna kissed Radu's forehead. "Vlad says we are not to make a woman of you, my sweet." She looked at her ladies. "How quickly time passes. It seems like only yesterday my sons were small. Now Mircea and Vlad show the same strength and courage as their father."
Their father was Dracul, bastard son of Mircea the Great. Dracul had scratched and clawed his way from insignificant page to respected warlord by slaying several half-brothers—legitimate heirs each one—to earn his royal place in the world. His investiture into the elite Order of the Dragon added a dragon to his shield, an unfortunate heraldry because many associated the dragon with the devil, and not the Order's oath to protect Christendom.
Princess Cneajna's eyes grew misty with pride as she looked at Vlad. Her husband's ambitions for his middle child had already born fruit. Schooling and athletic training had strengthened him. Though she had wept when her husband had taken the children outside in the sleet and snow she approved of the results. Her two oldest were robust and tough little men.
Princess Cneajna stroked Radu's golden hair. If only she could keep her youngest son innocent a few more years. Before political treachery made him suspicious. Before military leadership made him arrogant.
Radu burrowed into his mother's abundant bosom. Princess Cneajna held him tight, remembering a simpler time when fishing, jousting, archery and reading filled her sons' days. No more.
Dracul's capture of Tîrgovişte after crushing the invading Turks changed their lives. Now that Dracul was the Prince of Wallachia, he demanded his sons—his future heirs—begin their apprenticeship for knighthood. Days were busy with athletic training, their afternoons taken up with learning Italian, French, and Hungarian. Her sons' candle-lit evenings spent writing in Cyrillic, Slavonic, and Latin.
"Lady Mother." Vlad stomped his feet and pouted. "I insist you let go of Radu. We need to go somewhere important."
Princess Cneajna held Radu's pink-cheeked face between her palms, tilted his head, and kissed both tear-soaked eyes. "Never be ashamed of your tears, Radu."
Radu blinked, snot running from his nose, and pointed to Vlad. "Vlad never cries. Not even when we watched a traitor hang in the town square."
Vlad lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "Why should I? The man deserved it. Father said his death was the perfect example of raison d' état—national interests reign supreme."
Princess Cneajna shuddered. To think her eleven-year-old son already understood the cruel reality of maintaining rule.
Vlad tugged on Radu's arm, and Princess Cneajna released her youngest into the care of her earnest middle child.
"Noooo," wailed Radu, his arms reaching for his mother as Vlad pulled him away.
"Thank you, Lady Mother." Vlad gave Radu's arm a yank. "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about."
"Vlad." Princess Cneajna's voice was sharp. "You are much too rough with him."
Vlad loosened his grip. "Lord Father says we must be tougher than everyone else."
"Why?" Radu dragged a long trail of snot across his pink-splotched cheeks.
Vlad thumped his chest. "Because warriors do not respect weakness."
Radu wiped his tears away. "I hate you."
"Radu!" Princess Cneajna admonished. "You do not hate your brother."
Vlad shrugged and looked at his mother. "Lord Father says it is better to be hated than be thought weak." He wrapped his hand around Radu's arm and steered him across the Turkish carpet toward the door. "One day you and I will fight side by side—brothers-in-arms. Will I be able to depend on you? Or will you run into the forest like a coward?"
"I'm no coward." Radu shook his head, his golden hair shining bright as a halo in the streaming sunlight that poured through the open window.
"Good. Lord Father says it will one day be our duty to keep Wallachia safe from the infidel Turks. Will you be ready?"
"Grrrr." Radu bared his teeth. "I'm a warrior!"
"That's better." Vlad released his grip on Radu's arm.
"Where are we going?"
"Lord Father is meeting with important boyars," said Vlad as they turned the corner.
Radu wrinkled his nose. "That's boring."
Vlad wiped the snot smear from Radu's face with the edge of his sleeve. "How else will you learn about war and politics?"
"You'll teach me." Radu wiggled as he submitted to Vlad's impatient face cleaning.
"I'm not an expert. Yet." Vlad quickened his pace.
Radu hurried after him through several dim chambers where colorful tapestries came alive in the flickering candlelight.
A surly-looking liveried soldier guarded the thick oak door to the council chambers. When the boys approached, the guard lowered his steel-tipped pike, gave them a conspiratorial wink, and unlocked the heavy iron latch. Vlad and Radu slipped inside.
Vlad slouched against the wall as he studied the ten men seated around the long polished oak table. They were boyars, men of high rank, his father's most faithful advisors. They were gray-haired, paunchy, and wrinkled, their warrior days long over.
Vlad caught Mircea's eye from across the room and immediately stood taller. Vlad idolized Mircea. Wanted to be just like him. Tried to emulate his fourteen-year-old brother's good-natured, confident, and assertive manner. Thus far, he had failed. Friendliness felt phony. A show of confidence appeared to others like arrogance. Vlad found aggression far more efficient.
A boyar in a striped turban folded his arms. "The Hungarian king expected us to renew our crusade against the invading Turks."
Mircea leapt from his seat. "Lord Father had no choice but to remain neutral when the bey Şihabeddin entered Wallachia!"
"Mircea." Dracul's voice was sharp with reprimand, yet his thin quick smile revealed pride for his eldest.
Mircea sunk back into the chair and crossed his arms. Across the room, Vlad, in solidarity with his brother, crossed his as well.
A purple-robed boyar curved his neck toward Dracul. "Sultan Murad is not impressed by your halfhearted vassalage, my lord."
"They claim you are an inconsistent prince serving two masters," said a boyar with a scar from forehead to jowl. "Their trust in you is waning. The sultan's request is justified. Go to his court in Gallipoli. Appease him. Dispel his suspicions. Refusing the sultan will have grave repercussions."
Vlad gnawed on his lips at his father's dilemma and imagined a future where he would need to rely on wise counsel. Would he be as discerning as his father? Father had told him that the best advisors spoke their mind and the best rulers were not afraid to hear the truth.
Vlad inhaled the scent of ale and onions and sweat. It was the odor of debate and argument. The fragrance of powerful men making important decisions.
With wide adoring eyes, Vlad watched his father. He missed not a single detail. Not the set of his father's tight jaw. Not his hands clasped as if in prayer held against his grizzled chin. Not the quick narrowing of his eyes. Not the luminous whiteness of his perfectly tied turban. Not the glittering shine of the gem-studded clasps on his father's gown.
Vlad chewed the inside of his cheek waiting for his father's decision. Would Dracul prove his continued vassalage to the sultan by making an official visit? Or would he stand with Hungary? Dracul's precarious position required the balance of a ropedancer. Consolidating power, honoring the Order of the Dragon's vows to protect Christianity, forming alliances, squashing tenant uprisings, and fulfilling Turkish treaties were frequent topics of discussion at the dinner table.
Vlad took a silent step forward in the thick-aired room, his heart thumping with anticipation.
Dracul smacked his meaty palms on the table. "I will pay a visit to Sultan Murad."
The boyars issued a collective exhalation. Anything less might be construed as a declaration of war against the Turks.
Dracul beckoned Vlad and Radu forward. "The shadows are no place for you, my sons. Would you like to take a trip to Gallipoli to visit the sultan?"
Radu flew into his father's arms. "Can I visit a harem?"
Radu's question broke the somber mood and the boyars burst out laughing.
"I second the request." The boyar in the striped turban hoisted his wine goblet.
Dracul's almond-shaped eyes tapered into an amused web of wrinkles. "Of all the delights in Gallipoli your only interest is a harem?" He ruffled his youngest's hair. "You are too young to enjoy its pleasures."
Vlad bit back a frown and squeezed between two rotund boyars. "Lord Father." He thrust
his arm over the map spread wide across the table, and jabbed his finger marking the location of Gallipoli. "This town is on the Aegean Sea, it must be of strategic importance to the Turks."
"Indeed." Dracul beamed at Vlad. "It is a tactical strip of land. The Turks' first step into Christendom."
Vlad flushed with pleasure at his father's approval.
Dracul set his hand on Vlad's shoulder. "Always consider a town's location, evaluate its benefits and faults. Good commanders—victorious commanders—are familiar with their terrain and use it to advantage."
Vlad's head bobbed up and down. "I remember all your wisdom, Lord Father."
#
Two months later, Vlad sat astride his horse with the others among the diplomatic entourage awaiting entry in front of Gallipoli's massive iron fortified gates.
Vlad wiped sweat from his brow as the sun blazed hot under an azure sky. He squirmed with impatience, annoyed the breeze from the Aegean did not permeate his thick embroidered cloak and elegant tunic.
Beside him, Radu tugged at the linen shirt tight around his neck. Vlad looked at his father's straight back and patient demeanor and sat taller in his saddle. He stopped wriggling and waited while the slow-moving Turkish soldiers rolled open the gate.
The hair on Vlad's neck bristled. He swung his head from left to right, glanced over his shoulder. Something felt wrong.The horses snorting and stamping behind him, however, reassured him. Every steed bore strong guards and clever men armed with sharp swords.
On the other side of the gate stood the sultan's welcoming party, a hundred armed guards and one gray-bearded baluchi bassi who glared at them from under a white-plumed turban.
The nape of Vlad's neck prickled with cold as he watched his father dismount from his tasseled and velvet-tacked warhorse. After performing the proper greetings without flaw, the sour-faced baluchi bassibeckoned Dracul forward.
Vlad slid off his horse the moment his father signaled his sons to join him.
The icy prickle remained as Vlad followed his father and baluchi bassi through the gates.
Suddenly, there was a deafening crash. Vlad whipped his head around. The gates were shut tight. Dracul's guards and entourage locked outside!
Blood pounded in Vlad's ears as the guards drew their scimitars and surrounded them.
"Lord Father?" Vlad's voice squeaked, and his cheeks colored with shame at his fear.
Dracul did not respond.
"Lord Father, what's happening?" Radu cried out as two guards wrenched him from Vlad's side.
Dracul shut his eyes and pressed his lips together as another grim-faced guard pulled Vlad's falchion from his belt.
"Father..." Vlad stared wide-eyed and agape at his powerless father.
Dracul turned away, the sight of his brave little Vlad being bound in chains felt like the weight of a mountain on his defeated shoulders.
"Tati, " Radu sobbed while a guard tied his hands with rope.
Under a heavy brow knitted with barely controlled rage, Dracul turned his head to the smirking baluchi bassi. "What is the meaning of this? We come in peace. Sultan Murad is expecting us. I am Vlad Dracul, Prince of Wallachia. I am here at the sultan's request and to pay him homage."
"Indeed you will, Prince Dracul." The baluchi bassi folded his arms, barely giving the boys a glance as his men dragged them from Dracul.
Radu saw Vlad through a veil of tears. "What's happening?"
Vlad opened his mouth but the thick wool hood thrust over his head muffled his reply.
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