THE IMPALER'S WIFE

21 ~ VLAD ~

VLAD

Winter 1450

Bogdan's castle, Moldavia

"To my sister, Crina, and cousin Vlad." Prince Bogdan of Moldavia hoisted a goblet of spiced wine.

The betrothal between Vlad and Crina heralded a new beginning, one strengthening an important ally.

"To family, new and old." Lifting his chalice with one hand, the nineteen-year-old Vlad touched the medallion on his chest with the other, and silently renewed his promise to avenge his family's deaths.

Crina stared at the floor and mumbled her cheers.

Vlad had regained his Wallachian crown.

He succeeded in sending the murdering usurper Vladislav Dăneşti into hiding.

But Vlad's victory against the man who murdered his family was cut short. Vlad's reign lasted only two months. In that time he learned a bitter lesson. The sweet taste of sovereignty was impossible to maintain without local alliances and military support.

The Wallachian boyars insisted Vlad defend his claim to the throne. The Transylvanian vice-governor, Nicolae of Ocna, demanded Vlad disclose the whereabouts of John Hunyadi.

The son of Dracul should not have to justify his sovereignty to anyone! Yet the boyars would not be appeased until Vlad hunted down and killed Dăneşti.

Vlad did his best, but eight weeks was not enough time to track Dăneşti. It was, however, time enough to earn Vlad the title, Dracula, Son of the Dragon.

While Vlad wasted time forming alliances, Dăneşti regrouped with fresh forces from Hungary and rallied loyal boyars. They decimated Vlad's paltry military by Christmas.

"Noroc." Vlad Bogdan's son, Stephen, a pious seventeen-year-old with a long nose and several unruly chin hairs, hoisted his glass with the others.

Vlad drank heartily, his gaze lingering on the angelic-faced Crina.

"Stay with us," said Stephen. "Continue your education. Our Polish scribes just returned from Venice and Rome. Our monks will teach you our people's history."

"I would be honored. It's time to replace the Islamic adhanwith Christian church bells."

#

Vlad lifted his hand from Crina's linen-covered breast. "Why are you crying?"

Crina squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff. "Just put it in and be done with it."

"Am I hurting you? Love making is pleasant not painful." Vlad propped his head on his hand, drew circles over her shoulder and wondered if the Turkish courtesan who had showed him how to turn an icy virgin into a heated lover had neglected an important detail.

"Just do it," Crina whimpered.

Vlad lifted Crina's nightgown to her waist and pushed in. It was tight and dry, and he exploded with release.

Crina burst into tears, drew up the covers, and curled into a tight ball.

Massages, caresses, sweet talk, gifts; nothing melted the frigid Crina. Vlad stopped trying and took his pleasures with the blacksmith's daughter, a fifteen-year-old jezebel with breasts as ripe as pears and a tongue as juicy as a summer plum.

Vlad needed a legitimate male heir so he bedded Crina every morning except for Sundays and holy days when she crossed her legs and laid the Bible on her curly mound. Vlad found their daily conjoining helpful. It took the edge off his urges just enough that he was able to revel for hours in the arms of the lascivious blacksmith's daughter.