Irongate. Irongate was the prize. Of all the castles in Valahia, no other had the capacity to earn income on that scale. With control over the Danube, it was a valuable and strategic place, which King Emeric would not, could not leave in the hands of someone who was less than completely loyal to him. Ban Alescu had known that, had schemed very carefully to become its master. Marriage was the key, and power. It was simply unfortunate that the law only permitted one wife.
The answer was of course to bury them, and he had done that. He had accumulated power, but he had further ambitions. That was his nature. But up to now he had been content to eat, slowly, into the lands and possession of his neighbors.
Now, looking at the letter from Emeric he saw a way clear to become overall ruler of the Duchy of Valahia. And then Emeric would have to look to keep the throne of Hungary under his backside, thought Ban Alescu grimly.
He wondered just what his mother would say when she found out about her secret marriage. He grinned. A good thing his father was dead. And of course the Dowager Duchess Bertha of Valahia might be less than pleased. He had met her and her daughter, several times. Her husband had been a weak vacillator, unable to take control of his nobles, and not able to stop Hungary's steady encroachment on his productive heartlands in Trans-Carpathia. The Mongols had taken and held all the lower lands to the east, and Emeric was nibbling away at his principality from the west. The prince had been left with control of a few strategic castles in the passes, and even those had garrisons of Hungarian troops.
Well, he would, of course take up the king's offer, but there was no way he would allow himself to be a puppet prince half-controlling a rump principality. He wanted the degree of control that the man's grandfather had had.
He turned to one of his footmen. "Have my scribe sent up. And tell him to bring with him some of the best parchment."
The man hurried off. It was only once he had gone that it occurred to Ban Alescu that there might be more to this proposal than first met the eye. What had happened to the Prince of Valahia's son Vlad, named after his terrifying grandfather? He'd been a hostage in Buda. Had Emeric killed him? Alescu had been too wrapped up in the affairs of his own fief to pay much attention to local politics in Valahia.
The scribe hurried in with quills, ink and several rolls of parchment. He bowed respectfully, trying not to spill the ink. He was from Valahia, a native, if the Ban recalled right. "Bergen. Tell me about the son of the Dowager Duchess Bertha…"
"Prince Vlad, your lordship," said the scribe, eagerly. "His army grows by the day. They say that he is coming south. Are you going to make your submission, My Lord? That's most wise. They say that he is his grandfather reborn."
The Ban steepled his fingers, and sighed. A complication. Emeric had said that he merely wanted Alescu to step in to avoid rival claimants to the Principality causing a civil war. It appeared Emeric was in fact trying to foment one. Well, that did not mean he would not take the King up on his offer. Just that the price would be higher. And he needed to find out more about this Prince Vlad. Which of the nobility cleaved to him? What sort of force did he have? It had to be substantive or Emeric would not be holding out such offers.
"What can I write for you my lord?" asked the scribe.
"I think I shall do it myself," Ban Alescu said. "But I will still need the parchment and quills. Leave them there on that table."
"Yes, my Lord."
The fellow was obviously disappointed. So Vlad was taking the fancy of the middle rank of society. And the scribe plainly knew more-rumor if nothing else-than his master. Rumor had to be sifted, but there was usually a shred-just a shred-of truth in it somewhere. "So do many of the Nobles of Valahia make their submission to the Prince," he asked, idly.
The scribe scowled and shook his head. "A handful of boyars only, my Lord. They'll pay a high price for that, I think. Although… it's said that the countess Bartholdy has joined our prince." He sounded doubtful about that.
Countess Elizabeth did own several estates in Valahia-one not more than thirty miles from here. She also owned extensive lands in Slovenia and Hungary. She was the aunt of the King. And a stunningly beautiful woman, apparently. There were many rumors about her. But why would she back a young Prince Vlad against her own nephew?
Ban Alescu had met King Emeric, and after due consideration, he rather thought hecould imagine several reasons why. The question was, which side should he himself to back? It did not seem that Vlad had much support. All the same, natural caution suggested that he stay out of it all, until he could clearly see who was winning. One didn't want to be the first to make one's submission… or the last. It wasn't an easy, clear decision, like hanging gypsies.
The scribe cleared his throat. Ban Alescu roused himself from his thoughts and waved him away. It would take a little more investigation, and a lot more consideration. Whatever happened, he, Ban Alescu of Irongate, was going to emerge richer and more powerful from this.
Oddly enough, at that very moment,. Vlad was receiving his very first submission from the nobility of Valahia. It was a fairly rough and ready submission. The Szekely people of Carpathia might have been expected to stand with the King of Hungary-their language was much the same. And, in their seven seats along that part of the montaine region, they far outnumbered the Vlachs. Unfortunately, King Emeric had decided their status of being untaxed and able to administer themselves, and provide their own judges and juries, was not one that suited him. He'd forced Radu, Vlad's father, to introduce the feudalism he preferred, and the taxes he preferred too. Radu hadn't managed to prevent it, or stop the Buda-bred district overlords being sent in, but he had managed to let the Szekely know that this wasn't his idea.
All three Szekely classes had ended up subservient to the new Barons… Not just to the Count of Valahia. Suddenly they remembered, remarkably, that they were the proud Kabar people with their own traditions and beliefs, and not Magyar. All this Vlad discovered when he spoke to the messenger who met his column on a pass near B lan.
Primore Gabor Peter wanted-said the messenger-to know whether Prince Vlad respected the rights and privileges of the Szekely, as his grandfather had agreed to. Vlad had had a long day's ride, and was still deeply disturbed by Elizabeth's departure and Rosa's disappearance. He was more than usually blunt. "What are those? And do these Szekely recognize me?"
The messenger-with interspersions from Mirko-not always polite ones, as the Szekelers were not much loved by the Vlachs-explained.
Vlad sighed. He could remember his father's bitterness with the boyars. But he could not recall these… Primores? "What is a Primore?" he asked.
"A captain of the Horseheads," explained the messenger, making things clear as mud.
"He's like a sort of lord," said Mirko. "But they're not born to it. There were some serving with me in the Corfu campaign. I'll say this for them, they're nearly as good fighters as the Croats."
"Better!" said the Szekely messenger. "I am a Horsehead. I am a freeman and own my own horse!" he said proudly.
"And how many Vlachs serfs do you have?" asked Vlad.
"They don't mix. Szekely live together with other Szekely," said Mirko.
"We live together on the seats that were granted us, to keep our traditions," said the Horsehead messenger. His head looked fairly normal to Vlad.
Vlad thought about it. His support, so far, barring the few boyars that had come with Elizabeth, was entirely from the Vlachs peasantry, Vlachs townsmen and occasional freemen. He turned to Mirko. "Tell me what you think?"
The sergeant grimaced. "We need them, Drac. And they're not the worst. Not Germans or Magyar."
Vlad nodded. "Tell Primore Gabor Peter I will meet him. If he will recognize my rule, and provide me with support, I will restore the privileges of the Szekely, at least of those who recognise me."
The Horsehead bowed respectfully. "I will tell the Primore," and mounted and rode off with the sort of skill that did lend some credence to what he had said about the Croats.
A little later-not very much later-they must have been near at hand and waiting-a group of well armed horsemen came up and dismounted. "The infantry are back at our fortress," said their leader, dismounting. Up to this point Vlad and his ragtag army had operated from the high Carpathians to the west. The east-a narrow strip of foothills and debated lands-had been somewhere they'd not ventured. The Golden Horde lived over there.
The Primore and his Szekely lived where the Golden Horde stopped… Or perhaps, where the Szekely had stopped them. The Primore Peter looked like a fighter, there were tales in the scars and the broken nose, in his armor, that was somewhat dented in spots, although well polished. "I have hung a few Magyar troopers on the gates as a welcome flag, Drac," he said, cheerfully, going down on one knee. "My bandits brought me the news you were coming at last. Welcome, Drac, to Ghimes."
It was a small welcome, from a small place. But it came with a fortress-really a castle-and thirty Horseheads and a company of a hundred and twenty-five footmen-archers and pikemen.
"Bandits, Primore? "
The scarred man grinned, showing a missing tooth. "It's easier to use them than to chase them. I collect tolls from caravans passing through to trade with the Golden Horde. A few merchants try to avoid that, and me. And there has always been a problem with bandits in the high Carpathians. So I rounded up a few and told them that I'd pay a bounty on any parties they spotted for me, but nothing if they robbed them first. If they robbed them I would hunt for bandits. I hate competition," he said, laughing heartily. "I'll house them in winter. You don't want to ask too closely whose serf some of my men used to be, before they ran off and tried their luck on the highroad."
Vlad found himself torn between an instinctive liking of the hard bitten Primore, and disapproving of the fact that he was plainly little more than a robber himself. But he had come to offer his fealty, his men and his home, to his overlord. That had to count for something, surely?
They ate, and drank at the Primore's table that night. Vlad was not afraid of treachery this time. His own men patrolled the walls, and they outnumbered the Primore's by ten to one. Vlad noticed details. Weapons were well cared for and clean. The food was on the rustic side-better than they'd had for the last while, but simple and wholesome. This was not a rich castle. It was also one that was no stranger to attack. So Vlad asked who did the attacking-besides merchants who did not wish to pay toll, and bandits who did not wish to accept a small share of the spoils.
His host laughed. "Besides those two groups. The Golden Horde. We trade with them. And the young bucks in their number will raid up here. We don't try to return the favor too often. Got the pants beat off us last time we did. Never even think about stealing their horses. They don't take kindly to it. But the clans don't try Ghimes itself. I spent good money on cannon. We command a good field of fire from up here. Outlying farms are more the target."
"Can you buy them?"
"Cannon? Not as easily as I'd like."
"I meant horses."
The Primore nodded. "Yes. Mind you they sell us their breakdowns. Never the best. And they want a steep price for them. You're better off buying in Valahia or even further afield. The Horde sell sheep and even cattle cheaply enough, but they have more horses than cattle, and don't part with them as easily. Their horses are tough but not overlarge. You'd struggle to find a horse big enough to carry you, my Prince.
"Well… I want them for my infantry."
The Primore blinked. "Why? They are infantry. You can't turn them into cavalry, Drac. A man needs a lot of experience in the saddle to be good enough to stay in it in battle."
Vlad smiled. "We play 'hide and seek' and 'catch as can' with King Emeric's forces all over the mountains, Primore Peter. We need to move far and fast, and still be reasonably ready to fight and then run again. And we may be able to help you with a few cannon. I have my own gunsmith. Come winter I will need a better work place for him."
The Primore tugged his beard. "I can see that. Mind you, you will need men to hold the horses. It's a bit like what our bandits do here in the mountains. Shoot at us, and by the time we get there, they've moved to where we've just come from because they know the mountains better than we do. Makes it hard work to chase them. Well, if that is what you need them for, the Mongol ponies will be the right animals for you. But you'll need a lot of horses. You'll have to go and treat with one of the clan-heads for that. It'll cost you some gold, Drac. But I'd love to have your gunsmith. He can have whatever he needs here. King Emeric is not going to take this place by force, and if he tries by siege, well, winter is coming fast. We are provisioned for it, and they can freeze their butts off out there. The snow will be thick out there. You will just have to come and relieve us, Drac, if we need it in the spring."
Vlad was fairly sure that a mere twenty well provisioned and armed men could hold this little fortress on its little promontory on the gorge edge for a long long time. Getting siege cannon up here-if you could get them up the mountain road (and the carts had had a hard enough time of it), meant bringing them along the road below the castle. The Ghimes defenders could roll rocks on them, never mind the fact that they would be right under cannons and bowshot from the castle.
"So… how do we trade with the Golden Horde? I have some gold, and I need some horses. We could probably use some mutton for winter provender too."
The Primore sucked at the gap in teeth. "Normally I'd say wait around for a clan rider to come up with some sheep or a few ponies. It happens most weeks. But they're not coming up at the moment. Something is going on out there. Still, for the numbers of horses you'll want, Drac, that wouldn't work anyway. You'll need to take a fairly strong party out there, with truce and trade flags-we can help you with those, and deal with a Clan head. They have plenty of stock. It's all a question of their being prepared to sell much. Mind you, going out into their lands is always a chancy business."
Vlad sighed. "I need to get my men provisioned and quartered before winter. I certainly can't wait. We will have to go out there, whatever the risks."
"You need to go looking like merchants, Drac. Take a good few carts. But you also need a good strong force of well armed men. Normally a trader negotiates for an escort… they get much better prices out in the lowlands. It's a balance with the Golden Horde. You need to be worth trading with, but too strong to make raiding and looting worth while. That's the advantage of doing it here, under the guns. It's a pity you can't take a fortress and cannon with you. They're a bit heavy to move," said the Primore Peter with a chuckle.
Vlad bit his lip. "Cannon. Well I can't take the fortress, but we have some good four pounders. Stanislaw has made us some special ball shot. Many little balls. It will devastate cavalry at close quarters. It will devastate anything. But we tried firing from the carts. It shakes them apart worse than mountain trails do. We have to take the cannon off and fire them from a mount on the ground."
It was the Szekely Primore's turn to look thoughtful. "Draw the carts and wagons around and put the horses inside and cannons in the gaps. There are very few firearms among the Golden Horde. They're too good with their wicked little horse-bows. It takes heavy armor to stop those arrows. But a cart and some faggots should do it nicely. We can spare you the faggots."
"Thank you. But won't they burn very well? "
The Primore smiled. "There is a hole in every great idea. Bags of sand would be heavy."
"What about bags of wheat?"
"Well, it would be lighter. And you could eat it. Put the faggots in with it and if they used fire against you, you could always make bread."
It was said in jest. But Vlad could see how it could work for his Arqebusiers. A wagon would be better than a cart. But you could take a cart where the wagon would struggle. In more open terrain, and possibly with some oxen-far slower but stronger… He would think more about it. And ways to defend against arrows.
He bedded down that night in a private spot, but bivouacking like most of his men. They assumed that it was to show solidarity with them. It was actually because he hoped, desperately, that Rosa would come to him. He'd been trying to spot her for the last two days. She could be in one of the carts… He was afraid to ask. He had ventured a vague question to Mirko. "Are all the camp-follower women still with us?"
The Sergeant had shrugged. "They come and go, Sire."
He did not own her. He knew that. She'd said as much to him.