THE IMPALER'S WIFE

5 ~VLAD~

Spring 1442

Tîrgovişte Castle, Wallachia

Eleven-year-old Vlad grimaced as his mother and ladies fawned over his little brother. "Radu is seven years old, Lady Mother." Vlad swiped the heel of his leather boot back and forth across the plush Turkish rug. "How will he learn a warrior's courage if you fuss over a scratch on his cheek?"

Princess Cneajna ruffled Radu's hair. "He is a child, and you, Vlad, are far too old for your age. Have you forgotten how we doted on you after you fell off your horse?"

"I was five. The riding instructor told me to gallop barebacked." Vlad glanced at his mother's three attendants. He rather enjoyed visiting the flower-scented ladies' chambers and the sweet-faced women with their quick smiles and milky white cleavage.

The princess waved a bejeweled hand. "Wasn't it only last month you showed us the nick on your finger from the fencing master?"

Vlad's face warmed from the memory. A milk-filled wet nurse had thrust his head into her bosom while comforting him, the stirring that followed proving him a man.

"I'm glad Lord Father did not notice my wound." Vlad inspected the thin red line on his finger.

Princess Cneajna kissed Radu's forehead. "Vlad says we are not to make a woman of you, my sweet." She looked at her ladies. "How quickly time passes. It seems like only yesterday my sons were small. Now Mircea and Vlad show the same strength and courage as their father."

Their father was Dracul, bastard son of Mircea the Great. Dracul had scratched and clawed his way from insignificant page to respected warlord by slaying several half-brothers—legitimate heirs each one—to earn his royal place in the world. His investiture into the elite Order of the Dragon added a dragon to his shield, an unfortunate heraldry because many associated the dragon with the devil, and not the Order's oath to protect Christendom.

Princess Cneajna's eyes grew misty with pride as she looked at Vlad. Her husband's ambitions for his middle child had already born fruit. Schooling and athletic training had strengthened him. Though she had wept when her husband had taken the children outside in the sleet and snow she approved of the results. Her two oldest were robust and tough little men.

Princess Cneajna stroked Radu's golden hair. If only she could keep her youngest son innocent a few more years. Before political treachery made him suspicious. Before military leadership made him arrogant.

Radu burrowed into his mother's abundant bosom. Princess Cneajna held him tight, remembering a simpler time when fishing, jousting, archery and reading filled her sons' days. No more.

Dracul's capture of Tîrgovişte after crushing the invading Turks changed their lives. Now that Dracul was the Prince of Wallachia, he demanded his sons—his future heirs—begin their apprenticeship for knighthood. Days were busy with athletic training, their afternoons taken up with learning Italian, French, and Hungarian. Her sons' candle-lit evenings spent writing in Cyrillic, Slavonic, and Latin.

"Lady Mother." Vlad stomped his feet and pouted. "I insist you let go of Radu. We need to go somewhere important."

Princess Cneajna held Radu's pink-cheeked face between her palms, tilted his head, and kissed both tear-soaked eyes. "Never be ashamed of your tears, Radu."

Radu blinked, snot running from his nose, and pointed to Vlad. "Vlad never cries. Not even when we watched a traitor hang in the town square."

Vlad lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "Why should I? The man deserved it. Father said his death was the perfect example of raison d' état—national interests reign supreme."