Now I Rise
Page 15
It was balm to Radu’s soul, such a tremendous relief that Radu let out a shaky laugh. Lada was not the only Dracul who mattered to Mehmed.
“No. No, of course not.”
Mehmed’s shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his face. He again put a hand on Radu’s shoulder, then took the letter from him.
And Radu was happy, standing there with his friend. Because as much as it meant to be valued by his weapon of a sister, it was not where he belonged. She wanted him to achieve her goals. But, as always, she discounted his feelings. He had worked too long and hard here to abandon it all in pursuit of her dream. It had never been his dream.
Lada would be hurt by his decision. The thought made him feel oddly powerful. He hated that about himself, but he could not avoid it. Lada wanted him, and Mehmed wanted him. He would choose Mehmed. He could not do anything else.
Mehmed tapped his finger against the page. “It is very interesting that she is in Hunyadi’s inner circle. After everything he did to your father and brother.”
Radu was surprised, too. But it made a sort of sense. “Lada only holds grudges that are useful to her. In a way, our father’s death freed her. She might even be grateful to Hunyadi. Regardless, if she can learn from him and use him to gain power, she will forgive him anything.”
“Hmm,” Mehmed said. His finger traced Hunyadi’s name.
Radu wanted the letter back. He wanted to read again how he could do things his strong, vicious sister never could. He wanted to hold the letter and remember the fear on Mehmed’s face when he thought Radu would choose to leave. That fear was enough to give Radu hope.
He might have his own dream yet.
8
February
A WEEK INTO Lada’s travels with the Hungarians, Hunyadi rode along the edge of camp where her men had set up. He shouted a command in Hungarian to pack up. No one responded. He looked to Lada. They had not spoken much, and Lada was beginning to question her rashness in sending Bogdan to find someone to carry a letter to Radu. Maybe she had written too soon of Hunyadi as her ally. And if anything happened to Bogdan, she would never forgive herself. He was the one piece of her childhood she had managed to hold on to. She could not bear to lose him, too.
The absence of Bogdan reminded Lada of the absence of the other two men who mattered most to her. But soon Radu would receive her letter and join them. The other man she chose not to dwell on.
Hunyadi shouted the order again. “Why do your men not obey?” he asked.
Lada raised an eyebrow. “They do not speak Hungarian.”
He shouted the same command in Turkish. As one, the men looked at him. No one moved.
Lada narrowed her eyes. “And they do not answer to Turkish.”
Hunyadi frowned, tugging at his beard. “Then how do I command them?”
“You do not. I do.” In Wallachian, she commanded her men to pack up. Immediately they sprang into efficient, well-practiced action. Hunyadi watched, his expression thoughtful. Lada rode with more cheer after that. She would prove herself to him yet.
Later that day, Hunyadi found Lada riding next to Stefan and Nicolae near the back of the company. Stefan veered his horse away, giving Hunyadi space.
“Your men are very disciplined,” Hunyadi said, scratching his beard. He toyed with it constantly. Lada wondered if it was because as a young man he had not been allowed a beard. He had fought long and hard to move from being the son of peasant farmers to one of the strongest leaders on the borders of the Ottoman Empire. She supposed he had every right to be amused by and affectionate toward his beard.
Or perhaps beards were just itchy.
“We were well trained,” Lada answered in Wallachian.
Hunyadi responded in the same language. “I always prefer fighting spahis to Janissaries. Janissaries are so much fiercer.”
Nicolae smiled wryly. “That is one of the benefits of a slave force that can have neither possessions nor families. It is easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose.”
Hunyadi grunted. Pointing to Nicolae’s prominent scar, he asked, “Where did you get that?” His Wallachian accent was so bad that it hurt Lada to hear him speak.
Nicolae’s smile broadened, stretching his scar tight and white. “At Varna. From a Hungarian. Right before we killed your king.”
Lada’s hands went to her wrists, ready to defend Nicolae. To her surprise, Hunyadi laughed. “Oh, Varna. That was a disaster.” He shifted back into Hungarian. “Set me back a few years. We still have not recovered from the loss of our king. Our new one, Ladislas Posthumous, is not exactly ideal.” His expression grew faraway and thoughtful. “He could be replaced.”
Lada pounced on his tone before she could think better of it. “You?” Hunyadi had been a prince of Transylvania. He was beloved by his people, and a fearsome military force. If he were king—and her ally—
The path to the throne of Wallachia opened before her, bathed in golden light.
Until Hunyadi laughed, puncturing her hopes and bringing darkness crashing back down. “Me, king? No. I have tried a throne. It turns out I am not fond of sitting, no matter what the seat may be.”
Lada slouched moodily in her saddle. Hunyadi would still be a strong ally. But a king was better. “Your people would be fortunate to have such a man as their king.”
Hunyadi clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I am a soldier. I am not made for politics and courts. My son Matthias, on the other hand, has been raised in them. He will go far, and do greater things than I ever could.” Hunyadi beamed. “He is my greatest triumph. And he is very handsome.”
Lada frowned, unsure what that had to do with Matthias’s merits. She had seen, though, how many doors opened for Radu because of his face. “I am sure that will be useful to him.”
“He needs a strong wife. Someone who can temper his … extravagances. Help steer him.”
“He will need a good alliance.” If Matthias wanted to continue to rise within the Hungarian courts, he would have to bring some sort of power with him. Hunyadi had no family name, no history. He had land and wealth, yes, but they were new. And newness was not something to be proud of in the world of nobility.
Hunyadi patted her shoulder again. “I am less concerned with alliances. Those come and go. But strength of character—that cannot be valued enough.”
“No. No, of course not.”
Mehmed’s shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his face. He again put a hand on Radu’s shoulder, then took the letter from him.
And Radu was happy, standing there with his friend. Because as much as it meant to be valued by his weapon of a sister, it was not where he belonged. She wanted him to achieve her goals. But, as always, she discounted his feelings. He had worked too long and hard here to abandon it all in pursuit of her dream. It had never been his dream.
Lada would be hurt by his decision. The thought made him feel oddly powerful. He hated that about himself, but he could not avoid it. Lada wanted him, and Mehmed wanted him. He would choose Mehmed. He could not do anything else.
Mehmed tapped his finger against the page. “It is very interesting that she is in Hunyadi’s inner circle. After everything he did to your father and brother.”
Radu was surprised, too. But it made a sort of sense. “Lada only holds grudges that are useful to her. In a way, our father’s death freed her. She might even be grateful to Hunyadi. Regardless, if she can learn from him and use him to gain power, she will forgive him anything.”
“Hmm,” Mehmed said. His finger traced Hunyadi’s name.
Radu wanted the letter back. He wanted to read again how he could do things his strong, vicious sister never could. He wanted to hold the letter and remember the fear on Mehmed’s face when he thought Radu would choose to leave. That fear was enough to give Radu hope.
He might have his own dream yet.
8
February
A WEEK INTO Lada’s travels with the Hungarians, Hunyadi rode along the edge of camp where her men had set up. He shouted a command in Hungarian to pack up. No one responded. He looked to Lada. They had not spoken much, and Lada was beginning to question her rashness in sending Bogdan to find someone to carry a letter to Radu. Maybe she had written too soon of Hunyadi as her ally. And if anything happened to Bogdan, she would never forgive herself. He was the one piece of her childhood she had managed to hold on to. She could not bear to lose him, too.
The absence of Bogdan reminded Lada of the absence of the other two men who mattered most to her. But soon Radu would receive her letter and join them. The other man she chose not to dwell on.
Hunyadi shouted the order again. “Why do your men not obey?” he asked.
Lada raised an eyebrow. “They do not speak Hungarian.”
He shouted the same command in Turkish. As one, the men looked at him. No one moved.
Lada narrowed her eyes. “And they do not answer to Turkish.”
Hunyadi frowned, tugging at his beard. “Then how do I command them?”
“You do not. I do.” In Wallachian, she commanded her men to pack up. Immediately they sprang into efficient, well-practiced action. Hunyadi watched, his expression thoughtful. Lada rode with more cheer after that. She would prove herself to him yet.
Later that day, Hunyadi found Lada riding next to Stefan and Nicolae near the back of the company. Stefan veered his horse away, giving Hunyadi space.
“Your men are very disciplined,” Hunyadi said, scratching his beard. He toyed with it constantly. Lada wondered if it was because as a young man he had not been allowed a beard. He had fought long and hard to move from being the son of peasant farmers to one of the strongest leaders on the borders of the Ottoman Empire. She supposed he had every right to be amused by and affectionate toward his beard.
Or perhaps beards were just itchy.
“We were well trained,” Lada answered in Wallachian.
Hunyadi responded in the same language. “I always prefer fighting spahis to Janissaries. Janissaries are so much fiercer.”
Nicolae smiled wryly. “That is one of the benefits of a slave force that can have neither possessions nor families. It is easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose.”
Hunyadi grunted. Pointing to Nicolae’s prominent scar, he asked, “Where did you get that?” His Wallachian accent was so bad that it hurt Lada to hear him speak.
Nicolae’s smile broadened, stretching his scar tight and white. “At Varna. From a Hungarian. Right before we killed your king.”
Lada’s hands went to her wrists, ready to defend Nicolae. To her surprise, Hunyadi laughed. “Oh, Varna. That was a disaster.” He shifted back into Hungarian. “Set me back a few years. We still have not recovered from the loss of our king. Our new one, Ladislas Posthumous, is not exactly ideal.” His expression grew faraway and thoughtful. “He could be replaced.”
Lada pounced on his tone before she could think better of it. “You?” Hunyadi had been a prince of Transylvania. He was beloved by his people, and a fearsome military force. If he were king—and her ally—
The path to the throne of Wallachia opened before her, bathed in golden light.
Until Hunyadi laughed, puncturing her hopes and bringing darkness crashing back down. “Me, king? No. I have tried a throne. It turns out I am not fond of sitting, no matter what the seat may be.”
Lada slouched moodily in her saddle. Hunyadi would still be a strong ally. But a king was better. “Your people would be fortunate to have such a man as their king.”
Hunyadi clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I am a soldier. I am not made for politics and courts. My son Matthias, on the other hand, has been raised in them. He will go far, and do greater things than I ever could.” Hunyadi beamed. “He is my greatest triumph. And he is very handsome.”
Lada frowned, unsure what that had to do with Matthias’s merits. She had seen, though, how many doors opened for Radu because of his face. “I am sure that will be useful to him.”
“He needs a strong wife. Someone who can temper his … extravagances. Help steer him.”
“He will need a good alliance.” If Matthias wanted to continue to rise within the Hungarian courts, he would have to bring some sort of power with him. Hunyadi had no family name, no history. He had land and wealth, yes, but they were new. And newness was not something to be proud of in the world of nobility.
Hunyadi patted her shoulder again. “I am less concerned with alliances. Those come and go. But strength of character—that cannot be valued enough.”
