“Why have you shown me this kindness?” Lada asked. It was one thing to serve the prince. But Lada had not demanded this, and it was clear she had nothing with her to pay for it.
The woman paused, then kept brushing, though more thoughtfully. “Because you are the only prince who has ever visited our village.” Lada heard a smile shape the woman’s voice. “Because you are the only prince who knows what it is to be a woman in this world. And because I am a little afraid that if I am not kind to you, you will kill me.”
Lada laughed. “I do not kill my people. Only those who take from my people.”
The woman laughed, too, the sound as worn and soft as the blanket around Lada. “Another reason you deserve my kindness. I have never much cared one way or the other about a prince. Never did me any good to. But the people here know and love you. Because of you, we get to keep more of our crops and earnings. And my grandson—smart, strong little boy—will never be sold to those godless infidels to fight their battles.” She finished, patting Lada’s shoulder. “Now, you wait here. I know you do not wear skirts. I will find some clothes for you.”
Lada knew what a sacrifice that was. In a village this size, every person would probably have only one change of clothing. The trousers and tunic the woman brought back were clean and well mended.
Lada dressed. When she was done, a little boy—probably the woman’s grandson—peeked in. His eyes were wide with awe, or fear. Lada glared at him, then winked. He did not look any less terrified as he backed away and closed the door. The woman returned, smiling shyly, and held out a strip of red cloth. “My mother gave this to me when I got married.” She stroked the material. It was simple cloth, but the color of dye was expensive. It was probably her greatest treasure. Lada turned her back, and let the woman tie the cloth around her head, securing her wet hair.
Standing straighter than she had when she arrived, Lada followed the woman out into the village. Everywhere, villagers had come out of their homes and back from the river or the fields. The woman’s grandson was running from door to door, whispering and pointing to alert them to Lada’s presence. They stood along the road, watching. Few smiled, but all regarded her with a fierce pride. Many of the women had their hands on the shoulders of young boys. Boys who would never be taken away. Boys who would grow up to serve their own country.
Lada lifted her chin. “For the kindness shown me here today, this village will never again pay taxes to any prince.”
The people cheered, little girls waving flowers—one brandished a stick like a sword—as she passed. A man solemnly handed her his own boots, though replacing them would cost him dearly. Lada accepted them and mounted her horse. She nodded, proud and strong, before turning and riding toward her fortress.
No price was too high to pay for the good of Wallachia, and Wallachia—true Wallachia—knew and loved her for her sacrifices.
She met several of her soldiers at the base of the peak where Poenari loomed sentinel over the river. They seemed astonished at her appearance, but she invited no questions and offered no explanations. She handed them her horse’s reins and then walked past them and up the winding switchback trail. By the time she got to the top she was winded and exhausted, but she did her best not to show it. She would project only strength.
Bogdan ran to the gate to meet her. She could see in his posture he wanted to throw his arms around her, but he restrained himself. She had trained him that well, at least. He looked past her.
He looked for his mother.
“She is not with me.” Lada gestured for Bogdan to follow, knowing that this might be the last time he was ever willing to follow her anywhere. She managed to walk to her room at the back of the fortress, regally ignoring the men she passed. And then, at last, with the door shut behind Bogdan, she collapsed into a chair.
“What happened?” he asked. “Where have you been? I told everyone you were hunting Ottoman spies, but I did not know how much longer I could keep control of the men without you. I wanted to come after you. I knew you would want me here, though.”
“It is good you did not come. You would have been killed. Matthias betrayed us. He took me prisoner.”
Bogdan knelt in front of her, searching her face. “You have not been well.”
“I think he was poisoning me.”
“And my mother?”
Lada knew she should apologize. She knew Radu would, in her place. But she could not bear to. If she apologized, it meant she had done wrong, and if she admitted out loud she had done wrong in leaving Oana, she could never forgive herself.
“When I got there, Matthias killed all my men. I was in a cell smaller than this room for three months. Your mother was put to work in the kitchens, safe and healthy. I escaped with Stefan’s help. We had to kill all the guards. Your mother was supposed to meet us, but she was in the castle when it happened. I could not go after her.”
Bogdan’s blocky features twisted, flickering through a host of emotions. Finally, swallowing hard, he nodded. “She would have wanted you to go.”
Lada tried not to let her relief show, but she felt those traitorous tears from before pooling in her eyes. All she had now was Bogdan. If he had hated her for this, left her for this … she did not want to think about it. And she did not have to. She reached out and tugged on one of his stupid jug-handle ears, clearing her throat to try to dislodge some of the inconvenient emotion stuck there with all the tender aching of an old wound.
“Tell me what has happened in my absence.”
Bogdan reported that Tirgoviste was fortified, but no major offenses had been made into the mountains. He had found and killed the Basarab boyars. The men under the boyars’ command were scattered, hiding from scouts looking for them, but all were within half-a-day’s ride and ready to reassemble as soon as she called for them.
“They remain loyal?”
“Most of them. The Hungarians left long before we got there.”
It was as much as Lada could hope for. “How many do we have now?”
“Counting the women? Two thousand, maybe three. It is hard to know how many are still waiting and how many have fled. Are we going to kill King Matthias?” Bogdan’s words were as rough and strong as his fists. He wanted it as much as she did.
Lada rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. “We are going to kill all of them.”
“Good.”
Lada smiled, reaching out a hand. Bogdan put his in it, hesitantly.
“Never leave me,” she said.
“I never will.”
As she slipped toward sleep, Lada finally felt safe again. She did not know what she would have done without Bogdan. She knew she should tell him how she felt—knew that he would treasure that knowledge more than the woman in the village had treasured this scrap of red cloth in her hair—but she could not bear to part with the words. He was no Mehmed. But perhaps he was something better. He would never challenge her, never demand she yield to what he wanted. He was hers.
Instead of thanking him, she decided that she would marry him. It meant nothing to her, but it was a reward for his loyalty. And it served the double purpose of removing her marriageability from anyone else’s political machinations.
She would tell him in the morning. They would marry, and then they would begin the work of destruction.
44
Carpathian Mountains
RADU HAD NO desire for pageantry, for tradition, for celebration. And so his coronation took place in the middle of the twenty thousand graves that marked his sister’s rule.