Bogdan’s blocky features twisted in awkward confusion. “He died. During the night attack.”
Lada had not noticed. She waved, irritated with herself for not knowing and with Doru for dying. “Then you write it, or find someone who can. The pope must help us. I want real power behind us when we return to Tirgoviste. We have to plan for taking it back.” She knew the bodies had been removed and that a small force had been left behind. But surely they did not think a few thousand Ottomans could stop her. Not now.
Lada’s fingers tapped the sheathed sword at her side. “And I want all of the Basarab boyars’ men.” It had been the Basarabs, led by a man named Galesh—weak, faithless Galesh—who had held their forces back and cost her a true victory during the night attack. They were hiding somewhere in the mountains, too, using her same strategy. That would not work out as well for them. She had briefly considered killing them, but it was a waste of resources. She would just cut off the head and absorb the body. “I want all of the Basarabs’ men. Along with Galesh’s head. That is our first priority.”
“Clean your own house before helping the neighbors,” Oana said with a pleasant smile, passing Lada a steaming bowl of mush and a side of dried meat.
“Or, in our case, clean our own house before attacking the neighbors for trying to steal our things. We also need to retake Chilia from my cousin to teach Moldavia that our borders are inviolable.”
“Do you want to kill him?” Bogdan asked.
Lada frowned. She really was not certain. She could not blame King Stephen for his actions. She would have taken advantage of the same opportunity had their situations been reversed. There were several cities that passed between Moldavia and Wallachia every few decades that she would be happy to reclaim. And, in spite of his betrayal, she still liked her cousin. He reminded her of Nicolae.
She set down her bowl, her appetite gone. “We will deal with that when the time comes. Now, closer to home, do we have any allies in Transylvania?”
Grigore shifted, obviously uncomfortable with delivering bad news. “You are … not very popular there.”
“Still? Even after I sent the Turks weeping back to their own lands?”
“We can send some men and see.”
Lada nodded, then hesitated. “Perhaps do not send our best men. Pick some who are dispensable to go with you.” Her own record with responding to envoys was less than friendly. She did not want to gamble anyone who would be hard to replace.
Grigore’s eyes were wide and terrified. She could not understand why. “Oh,” Lada said, remembering her words. She picked her bowl back up and shoved it at him. “Not that you are dispensable. I am certain you will be fine. Eat something.”
She paced back and forth along the length of the wall overlooking the cliff’s edge. “Is there any chance of getting Skanderberg to join us?”
Bogdan shrugged. “I do not have any Albanian contacts.”
Lada waved a hand dismissively. Of course he did not. She wanted Stefan here. Where was he? Nicolae would—
She stopped pacing and rubbed the back of her neck. She needed her own Mara Brankovic. She even found herself missing Daciana. If Daciana had been raised with an education, she would be better than any of the men serving under Lada. It filled her with pulsing anger knowing how much potential was ignored among her people simply because of their sex. She tugged her hair off her neck and tied it back with a strip of leather. “Pick someone dependable and send him to Skanderberg. It is unlikely he can help—he is still fighting the Ottomans on his own land—but we may as well pursue every potential ally.”
“Speaking of allies, what of Matthias Corvinus?” Oana reached up to redo Lada’s hair, but Lada slapped her hands away.
“By his request, the men he sent were to be commanded only by Galesh Basarab. So I do not know whose cowardice and betrayal denied us our complete victory, that of the Basarab boyars alone, or Matthias’s, too?”
“What does Matthias have to gain from your loss?” Oana shoved Grigore’s untouched bowl back into Lada’s hands. Lada wrinkled her nose and forced down a few bites. Eating and sleeping were chores. She wished she could assign them to someone stupid like Grigore so she could continue her work all hours of the day.
She feared if she stopped moving, if she stopped plotting and planning, then …
She did not know. But the fear was constant and nagging, and the only way to outpace it was to never stop.
“What does Matthias gain? I do not know. A free Wallachia would only benefit him. It keeps his borders further buffered from Ottoman advance. But I cannot pretend to understand that man. If only his father were ruling.” Lada allowed herself a moment to imagine what it would have been like had Hunyadi been waiting in the hills. How tremendous their victory, how complete the destruction of Mehmed’s armies.
Everyone would have remembered that night, and their names, forever.
But then again, had Hunyadi been fighting with her, doubtless all credit for winning would have gone to him. Only he would have been remembered.
The guards presented a panting boy covered in a light sheen of sweat. It was no small task climbing up the mountain to the fortress. Most of her prisoners had died hauling stones up.
The boy bowed low, holding out a leather satchel. “Letters, my prince.”
Lada took them. One, from Mara Brankovic, she tossed aside for later with a renewed surge of envy that she did not have her own Mara.
Radu. Radu would have been her Mara.
Her grip tightened, creasing various missives from people whose names she did not recognize. But at the bottom of the stack was a letter sealed with a coat of arms featuring a raven. Matthias. She sliced it open with her dagger.
Lada drew her eyebrows close, anticipating bad news. For once, she was surprised. “Matthias praises our victory. He claims to have been unaware of the Basarabs’ cowardice, and gives us the last known location of the men Galesh was leading!” Had he merely claimed not to know of the betrayal, Lada would have continued to suspect. But if the location proved accurate … Lada could kill the remaining boyars and take both their Wallachians and the Hungarians into her own ranks. “He is surprised by how quickly Mehmed ran.” Lada laughed. “Clearly Matthias does not know how deeply Mehmed cares about the cost of things. But Matthias is emboldened! He is willing to commit more men and money. He thinks we can retake the Danube, and deny Mehmed that passageway into Europe! With control of the Danube, we could damage his entire vassalage system ….”
Lada lowered the letter, her mind spinning with possibilities. She had longed for Hunyadi at her side, but perhaps Matthias would prove the more useful of the two after all. He brought European connections. She brought ferocity and the ability to lead men against Mehmed. Together, they stood a real chance of freeing not just Wallachia but also the rest of the European countries that Mehmed held under his thumb.
What a blow that would strike against Mehmed! Against his treasury, against his faith, against his pride. Lada could taste it. She wanted Wallachia free, yes, but if she could have even more?
She would take it. Gladly. Gleefully, even.
“Matthias wants me to ride to his court so we can plan, and then I will return with his men.” If she left now, she could be there in a couple of days. It would give them time to come up with a strategy and track down allies. She had no doubt Matthias with his noble face and gilded tongue could do better than she. And she would be back in Wallachia before the remnants of Mehmed’s men could set up a good defense in Tirgoviste unchallenged. Mehmed had left, but she was not na?ve enough to trust that he was truly gone.
She tucked the letter into her tunic. “I will leave immediately.”
Bogdan nodded. “I will come.”
“No. I need you to go after Galesh and the Basarabs. This information might be a week old. You need to find them now. Send word when they are dead and the men are yours.”