What happens when a man turns into a monster? The Lord Count Drakulya is Paul Doherty's second novel exploring the life of the man behind the legend. Perfect for fans of C.J Sansom and Ellis Peters. Prince Dracula, or more accurately, Drakulya, was a real person who struggled to control the small Balkan kingdom of Wallachia amidst the cruelty and corruption of I5th-century Europe. Through the eyes of his Greek friend, Rhodros, we see Drakulya, a Renaissance prince, become a despot and wreak a horrifying revenge on his opponents. When Drakulya launches all-out war against his hated enemy, the Ottoman Turks, Rhodros is drawn deeper into the nightmare. His attempts at escape are overtaken by events which sweep Drakulya to a chilling climax and the birth of one of Europe's most terrifying legends... What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'Paul Doherty's books are a joy to read ' ' The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of [Paul Doherty's] books' 'Mr. Doherty's research is only topped by his imagination '
Release date:
June 6, 2013
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
165
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Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)
A MURDER IN MACEDON
A MURDER IN THEBES
Alexander the Great
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
THE GODLESS MAN
THE GATES OF HELL
Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)
THE WHYTE HARTE
THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES
Non-fiction
THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN
ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II
ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD
THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303
THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING
I, Rhodros, have listened to all the questions that fat clerk hurled at me, as well as those of his companions and other visitors
to my dark prison cell. I know what they are trying to do. They want me to depict Drakulya as a barbarian, a born killer who
did nothing more than execute his enemies in a barbarous fashion. This is not true. When he returned from exile a second time
in 1456 Drakulya took up the reins of government and did more than just carry out a purge against his enemies or prepare for
war against the Turks. True, the Boyar classes were always on his mind but you cannot blame him; as he always remarked, it
was a rough and dangerous game he was playing. If he did not destroy them, they would destroy him. The same is true of his
dealings with those German towns on the Wallachian frontier. They posed a constant threat to his rule, harbouring his enemies,
interfering with the trade of the country as well as giving sustenance and comfort to traitors in Drakulya’s own court. Naturally,
Drakulya was concerned, encircled by such a ring of enemies; only a foolish man would fall asleep if he knew he was surrounded
by hungry wolves and Drakulya was no fool.
Nevertheless, he did more than just jump at shadows; above all, Drakulya attempted to make his capital a place worthy of a
ruler. Architects were hired to develop the palace. Similar works were carried out in other cities. Artists, craftsmen and
sculptors from Wallachia and neighbouring states were invited in and given powerful patronage. Drakulya was interested in the new learning which was spreading from Italy and he was especially keen to study
the works of the ancient Greeks and Latins. Manuscripts were bought and scholars encouraged to visit Drakulya’s court. Envoys
from other nations visited us. The Catholic Pope sent his ambassador as did those from powerful Italian states such as Venice,
Genoa and Milan. Even a nobleman came from England, John Tiptoft, I think his name was, though he was more interested in visiting
the execution ground (the Valley of the Shadows) than conversing with Drakulya about the art of government. Visitors from
France were particularly welcome, Drakulya being fascinated by stories of a woman called Jeanne d’Arc, a peasant girl who
had managed to unite the warring French factions and lead them to ultimate victory against the English. Drakulya was curious
about where the girl had got her power. Several times I attempted to explain that she was sent by God but I was always brusquely
dismissed, Drakulya believing that here was a woman who had been given special powers by the Prince of Darkness. Needless
to say when he learnt that the English had burnt her, he despised them as barbarians, claiming that it would have been worth
a journey to France just to see a woman with such powers.
Of course, there were always the Turks. They kept up a stream of ambassadors and envoys, some threatening, some prepared to
negotiate. Personal messages from Mohammed, letters from Drakulya’s brother, Radu – the Prince managed to fend them off, promising
everything and giving nothing. He believed that for the moment he was safe against the Turks for Mohammed was still consolidating
his forces after the capture of Constantinople.
Nevertheless, it was these very ambassadors and envoys which brought Drakulya to the brink of death. Of course, there were
assassination attempts. On one occasion while the Prince was inspecting some building work in the palace grounds of Tirgoviste,
some scaffolding collapsed. If Drakulya had not moved away a few seconds earlier then he would have been trapped and crushed under the rubble. The masons claimed they were innocent but Drakulya did not trust the
German architect and had him buried alive in the palace grounds. I pointed out that the man could have been innocent. Drakulya
replied that he did not care and it would serve as a lesson to anybody else. On another occasion we were hunting on the outskirts
of Vlasie Forest when a crossbow bolt intended for the Prince passed between us. The palace guard attempted to capture the
hidden assassin but to no avail. What they did find was a powerful German crossbow unknown in Wallachia but, as Drakulya bitterly
commented, easily recognised in the city states of Brasov and Sibiu. He sent the crossbow back to Brasov with the cryptic
message that one day he would come and deal with its owner.
The most serious assassination attempt, however, occurred in the very palace itself. One morning, late in October 1457, the
Palace Chamberlain came to see me in the chancery room claiming there were two Catholic monks who wished a confidential interview
with the Prince to reveal details of an assassination plot. I followed the man down to the large antechamber of the palace
and found the monks, members of a Catholic order, waiting for me. One of them, pulling back his cowl to reveal a tonsured
head and thin, sallow, narrow face, introduced himself as Father Peter. I offered wine but he refused and pressed me to hear
his story. He informed me that the previous afternoon he and his companion had lodged in an inn on the road a few miles south
of Tirgoviste where they had overheard a conversation between a group of German travellers who were plotting to gain entrance
into the palace to kill Drakulya by poisoning him. The man seemed genuine enough. Father Peter’s companion, a much younger
man of rather dubious nationality, confirmed his colleague’s story, adding a description of the travellers, their number,
individual characteristics and other details.
Father Peter believed that now I knew the story I could convey the details to the Prince but, as they were travelling through
Wallachia, they would appreciate a personal interview with the Voivode of whom they had heard so much. Accordingly, I took them into a small chamber behind the throne
room where Drakulya was discussing munitions and supplies with a number of his mercenary captains. I apologised for the intrusion
and whispered to the Prince what the monks had told me. Drakulya dismissed his captains and asked me to bring the monks into
his chamber as he wished to interrogate them further. Father Peter and his companion quietly entered the room, their cowls
pulled up over their heads and their hands concealed in the long sleeves of their brown habits. Drakulya eagerly waived the
formal protocol and asked them to sit. I closed the door and stood behind them. Drakulya offered them wine which they declined.
So the Prince lounged against the table in front of them and asked them to repeat their story.
Father Peter leaned forward and suddenly the whole tableau in front of me burst into frenetic violence. I never really knew
what happened. Father Peter seemed to lean forward but then continued to rise and I saw the glint of a dagger in his right
hand aimed direct for the Prince’s throat. If he had chosen to aim lower he might have been more successful but the Prince,
nimble as a cat, swung to one side. The assassin stumbled, lost his balance and Drakulya pushed him into the arms of his companion,
who had also risen, pulling from beneath his habit both sword and dagger. Both of us were armed with long hunting knives,
although the attackers’ real mistake was to under-estimate Drakulya’s reactions. I also believe that when the door closed
behind them, they thought that I too had left the room. Nevertheless, the situation was a perilous one; ‘Father Peter’ and
his companion, adopting the stance of professional fighting men, now circled us, each carrying a sword and dagger. I knew
the horrible dilemma we were in. If I opened the door and called for help I would have to leave Drakulya by himself; if I
stayed I knew that whatever aid I could give Drakulya was limited. I was a clerk not a warrior.
Drakulya and I stood, our backs to the wall, while our attackers circled and feinted looking for an opening. Suddenly the
younger one rushed in, sword and dagger held close together, one aimed at the Prince’s throat, the other at his stomach. The
Prince dropped to one knee, feinted to the left and drove his dagger straight into the man’s belly. It happened with such
speed that both ‘Father Peter’ and myself froze in astonishment and terror. The young man slumped to the floor, blood pouring
from his body and mouth while Drakulya picked up his fallen sword and went on to the attack. I believe Drakulya could have
killed him on the spot; instead he fenced and parried, thrusting and feinting, the two men circling the room like dancers
in some deadly masque. Then it was over. Drakulya had his back to the table when the assassin suddenly lunged at him, Drakulya
brought his sword swinging down, trapping his opponent’s weapon, while he brought the hilt of his dagger crashing into the
side of the man’s head. ‘Father Peter’ slumped silently to the floor.
For a few seconds Drakulya stood, chest heaving, the sweat pouring down his face, then he threw the assassin’s sword to the
ground and sent his own dagger hurtling past my head to sink into one of the wooden pillars in the room. “Rhodros,” he murmured
hoarsely, “if any other man had done what you did, I would have had him executed on the spot. You brought these two men into
this chamber without asking for any proof of identification or going through the usual routine of having their persons searched!”
I slipped my own dagger back into its sheath feeling utter despair at what had happened. The Prince was right. These two men
had fooled me. I had acted without even thinking and that could have cost us both our lives. Moreover, I knew I had been no
help in that short, violent brawl in the Prince’s chamber. I slumped on one of the stools, head in hands, and waited for the
tremors going through my body and the sudden pounding of my heart to subside. “I am sorry,” I whispered. “It will not happen
again. How could I have been so stupid? When I think what the outcome could have been . . .” my voice trailed off. Then I looked up and Drakulya was
grinning down at me, his good temper restored. “Come, Rhodros,” he said rather wearily. “You are certainly no soldier, and
one of the worst bodyguards a Prince could ask for but still the one and only man I can trust.” He tapped me on the shoulder.
“Come, call the guard.” He kicked the dead assassin. “I want this rubbish removed and his companion questioned.”
Later that same day Drakulya personally supervised the questioning of the man who called himself ‘Father Peter.’ Of course,
he was no monk but turned out to be a Swabian by birth, a professional mercenary and assassin hired by the city fathers of
Brasov to carry out their murder of Drakulya. At first he would not speak but then Drakulya had two iron poles driven into
the ground in the palace grounds. The man was suspended by his wrists from them and a small fire lit beneath his naked feet;
as the skin began to blacken, crack and then peel, he screamed for mercy, so Drakulya cut him down. ‘Father Peter’ then gave
his story in full. How he had been recruited by the city fathers of Brasov, paid a certain amount on account and promised
five times as much if the attempt was successful. He and his companion, also a Swabian mercenary, had been given detailed
descriptions of Drakulya, the palace at Tirgoviste and the Prince’s habits and customs. He added the interesting note that
most of this information had been given to Brasov by leading Boyars in Wallachia and dryly commented that they had not been
informed of Drakulya’s superb swordmanship. He claimed he was a soldier and begged for a quick death but Drakulya would not
grant this. He had his assailant taken to the market place at Tirgoviste and arranged for him to be torn apart by horses.
Drakulya then had what was left of the corpse salted, pickled, and sealed in two barrels and these were sent with his compliments
to the city fathers at Brasov.
After the assassination attempt Drakulya was never at ease at Tirgoviste, he was always eager to leave, constantly journeying
around the country to implement an effective form of government based on a harsh but fair legal system. Law-breakers were
treated with severity; thieves lost a limb for the first crime and their lives for a second offence. Whores were publicly
branded while murderers were summarily hanged, their bodies left to rot, impaled on huge stakes. I know you have heard about
this cruelty but harsh times . . .
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