Vlad had arrived in the village as a vagabond. Now, it would seem that he was their prince. But he was deeply troubled over what he had done. He was even more troubled that he could not remember doing it. And the death of the freeman-the first man to ever volunteer to serve him-cut him to the quick. Yes, the fellow was barely a step up from the peasantry, not that different from the servants who had been assigned to him in Buda-but being there at his death, Vlad had realized that he was human too.
The priest had been little help with this inner conflict. He was a simple country cleric, as much afraid of Vlad as was possible without physically turning tail and running. The villagers and the small farmers and handful of peasants seemed to hold their prince in a kind of reverent awe. Not respect. Not even terror, as he had partly expected.
He'd thought at first that it was merely the reaction from an old soldier, who had reason to know gratitude. But it seemed to be a general reaction. The local point of view obviously differed greatly from that of the Hungarians.
The other thing that Vlad had found deeply troubling was the fact that, except in name, he still was a vagabond. And it appeared that in the world outside his tower, money was a real need. Not, it would seem, for himself, or at least not now. He had been given the finest raiment the village people had to offer-spare breeches and a cotte from the priest, who wore a cassock most of the time. They were black, as befitted the priest's profession. He was given a special shirt saved for weddings by a small landowner. With those gifts, Vlad had come to understand poverty a little better. Someone labored over cleaning his old clothes while another had darned his shirt, marveling over the fineness of the cloth.
Food, too, was their gift, as was drink. He'd been unprepared for the fiery plum liquor. He was even more unprepared for the women who seemed to be making certain overtures. He was uncertain how to take them.
But there were other things. They had come to him, that very afternoon. Two of them, young, tousle-haired and scared. "We wish," said the slightly shorter of the two, "to join your army, Drac. We can fight."
Vlad had been startled. Yes, Janoz had volunteered to be his man, but it hadn't strictly occurred to Vlad that that meant soldier, or that the prince of Valahia's presence in the Carpathians meant certain war.