“How will I convince them? And if I do, what do you want me to tell Constantine?”
“Tell him anything you wish. In fact, tell him the truth. Tell him I am better prepared than anyone who has led forces against the wall. Tell him of my navy, my cannons, my legions of men. Tell him Constantinople will fall. Or, tell him that he has hope still. Either way, give him verifiable information and tell him you wish to fight at his side against the people who kidnapped you and stole your childhood.”
“But I do not think that!”
Mehmed put his hands on Radu’s shoulders, steadying him, forcing Radu to meet his eyes. “I know. But he does not. You will be my eyes and hands behind the wall.”
“I wanted to be with you.” Radu heard the longing in his own voice, but could not hide it. The idea of another separation—for a length of time no one could predict—was as cruel as a knife in his chest.
“I need you elsewhere. Do you think you can do it?”
Radu nodded, his head bobbing almost of its own volition.
“The ambassador will trust you. He seemed to … like you.”
Radu came back to himself sharply. He searched Mehmed’s face for a hint that there was something behind his words. Mehmed leaned closer, so close Radu could feel the other man’s breath on his own lips. “Do not forget where your loyalties lie. Promise me.”
It would be only a matter of leaning in to kiss. Radu managed to whisper, “I could never forget.”
“Good.” Mehmed pressed his lips against Radu’s forehead. Radu closed his eyes and resisted tipping his face up. Mehmed’s lips were so close to his own. Would it be so bad? Would Mehmed resist, be surprised? Or would he answer with his own lips in a way Radu never dared allow himself to imagine?
And then Mehmed pulled back. “I know you will accomplish this. Visit the cathedral of the Hagia Sophia for me. I will see you inside the walls of Constantinople.”
“Inside the walls,” Radu echoed hollowly as Mehmed released him and left as quickly as he had come.
12
Late February
IF LADA HAD to endure this torture, the least her tormentor could do was pretend not to be so happy about it. Her nurse hummed and sang tunelessly as she finally got her way with Lada’s hair.
“I could kill Bogdan for finding you again,” Lada said.
“It was not easy. My boy is cleverer than he looks.” Her nurse paused. “But not by much.”
Lada snickered. Then she cursed as her head was yanked sideways, hair caught on the comb. “If he wanted his mother, that is fine. But I do not understand why you are still pretending to be my nurse.”
“You silly child, Bogdan did not bring me for himself. He had barely greeted me before telling me that you needed someone to take care of you while you ‘saved Wallachia.’ Which he absolutely believes you will do. Ever since you could talk, he has belonged to you. He would do anything for you then, and he will do anything for you now.”
Lada did not have a response to that. She had taken Bogdan’s loyalty for granted as a child. When they found each other again, falling back into the same patterns had been effortless. But she knew now, after Matei, that loyalty was not a given. “I did not ask him to find you.”
“Well, Radu was the one who loved me. But I love you enough for both of us.” The comb caught on another snarl.
“God’s wounds, Nurse, I—” Lada paused, gritting her teeth against the pain. “I cannot keep calling you Nurse. What is your name?”
The nurse paused, her fingers on Lada’s temple. She stroked once, so lightly Lada wondered if it had been intentional. “Oana.”
“Fine. Oana, when will you be finished?”
The nurse—no, Oana—laughed. She had lost most of her teeth in the years since they had parted. Lada had always thought her old, but now she realized Oana must have been a very young woman when she began taking care of her and Radu. In truth, Lada could not believe the woman was still alive. In Lada’s mind, she had ceased existing once they were taken to Edirne. But Oana was strong and sturdy, as capable as ever.
Tonight, Lada both loved and hated her for that.
“It is easier to destroy than to build,” Oana said. “And you have been destroying your looks for a long time now.”
Lada could not enjoy the irony of hearing her nurse’s—Oana’s—favorite phrase used in relation not to the burning of Transylvania, but to the styling of hair.
“What does it matter? I am swearing loyalty to a foreign king as a soldier, not as a girl.”
“These things matter, little one. Now hold still.” Oana smacked the hard wooden edge of the comb against Lada’s temple. Lada was certain it had been intentional.
The tiny room they had been given in the castle at Hunedoara had no fire. The stones themselves seemed to have been carved out of ice. Twice Oana had had to break the frozen top layer of the water bowl. Lada shivered violently, but not as violently as her thoughts were turning under the continued assault of the comb.
Finally satisfied, Oana helped her dress. The replacement king, Ladislas, had gifted her with a dress. Lada knew it would be disrespectful and even dangerous to reject it. Still, it was a good thing the room had no fire. Otherwise the dress would be feeding it.
Lada slapped Oana’s hands away when she tied the underclothes too tight. Oana slapped Lada’s hands away in return. By the end, they were both red-faced and sweating, having fought a more intense battle over getting Lada into the dress than Lada had ever endured.
“I cannot breathe in this damnable thing.” Lada tried to lift her arms, but the sleeves were not made for her broad shoulders or thick arms. She could barely move. Oana had had to let out the waist some, and Lada’s breasts still spilled out from the top of the bodice. Oana tucked extra fabric in there, trying to cover the soft mounds.
“This weighs more than my chain mail.” Lada tugged at the layers of material that made up the skirts, and something stiffer sewn in to keep their shape.
“Think of it as armor.”
Lada’s lip curled in a sneer. “What could this possibly protect me from?”
“Mockery. Ridicule. Your men are used to you, but this is a court. You have to do things a certain way. Do not mess this up.” Oana yanked on one of Lada’s curls as she tucked it back into the elaborate style. A lacy kerchief went over the top of it all.
“Radu should be here.” Lada stared down in despair. “I do not know how to talk to these people.”
“He was always better at that. How did he fare when you left? I worried for him. I thought they would kill you, and break Radu’s heart.” There was a wistful tenderness in Oana’s voice.
Lada took a deep breath. Or tried to—she could not manage it in this abomination of a dress. She and her nurse had not really spoken of Radu since Oana had asked where he was. The truth was as cold and brittle as the ice in her water bowl. “He grew into a new man. Smart. Sly. Too handsome. And, eventually, into a stranger to me.” She had had no word from Radu, no news. She wanted to tell Oana that Radu was coming, but it had been so long. What if he was not? “When I left, he chose the Ottomans. So you were wrong. I survived, and Radu grew a new heart.”
“Did you have nothing in common, then?”
A strangled laugh escaped the prison of her bodice. “Well, one thing.” Lada wondered, yet again, whether her absence had granted Radu the portion of Mehmed’s attention and love that he so desperately craved.
And, yet again, she forced herself not to think on it.
Lada tugged at the bodice, trying to shift it to make it more comfortable. She missed her Ottoman finery. At least those draped layers of tunics and robes were comfortable. “I am going to give the wrong impression, wearing this.”
“You mean a good impression?”
“Yes, exactly.”