Early in the spring of 1463, a virulent plague swept
through the land surrounding the Dark Citadel, the stronghold
of Count Milos. No respecter of rank, the dreaded sickness
struck indiscriminately, carrying off noble boyars keeping
to their luxurious quarters fully as often as it killed
peasants laboring in the fields. Ariane’s parents succumbed,
as did Count Milos, the canny old warrior who ruled his
small, isolated, but productive demesne with an iron hand.
At the moment that Milos rasped his final words to the
four sons surrounding the old man’s bed in an imposing
chamber within the Dark Citadel, Ariane wept bitter tears
over the body of her mother, who survived her husband
by only thirty hours. Even as sorrow flayed the only child
of two prominent members of the native Wallachian aristocracy,
she savored her realization that her mother died comforted
by the knowledge that her sister Florika would care for
her orphaned fourteen-year-old daughter during these dangerous
times.
A maid as intelligent and independent-minded as she was
modest and virginal, Ariane judged herself spared for
a lofty purpose. Obedient to an inner directive, she joined
the sisterhood of healers ruled by Florika. That doughty
dame trained her followers in ancient lore handed down
for generations from mother to daughter—from withered
crone to fresh young girl. Although raised by parents
possessed of a taste for luxury, the youthful healer habitually
dressed in the severe gray habit and white wimple denoting
her calling: a vocation that differed from that of a nun
only in the nature of the vows. By nature compassionate,
she rejoiced in her ability to help the sick and the unfortunate.
Count Milos went to whatever judgment awaited him without
ever suspecting that his four sons would concentrate
their energies not on war, nor even on knightly pursuits
such as hunting or jousting, but on indulgence in sensuality
taken to a degree hitherto unparalleled in the experience
of the men of their House. The subjects rendered uneasy
by the death of the Count discovered that the new holders
of power ruled the fiefdom surrounding the Dark Citadel
in seeming amity, dividing responsibility for various
aspects of governance, and increasing the wealth inherited
from their sire.
That amazing hoard of golden ducats represented the
profits from trading ventures conducted during the family’s
voluntary exile among the infidels during the bloody,
six-year-long reign of Vlad Dracula, the Impaler: the
cruel prince recently imprisoned by King Matthias Corvinus
of Hungary, who shortly thereafter installed Radu the
Handsome, brother of the Impaler, as Voivode of Wallachia.
The universally welcomed change of rulers proved as
beneficial to the four Lords as it did to the populace
so recently decimated by the mass executions staged
by one of the most murderous despots ever to hold sway
over a nation.
Ten years after her induction into the Sisterhood,
Ariane wore her authority like a mantle, and her beauty
like a veil. Her manner forbade the eyes of the crude
peasant men, whose ailments she treated, to pierce that
veil. The highborn woman living a life of unselfish
service commanded the respect of battle-scarred knights,
grim men-at-arms, and hard-eyed foresters in the service
of Lord Gregory, as readily as she won the trust of
the roughly clad peasants toiling on the land, or the
merchants striving to prosper amid the periodic battles
that so often led to foraging troops’ pillaging the
walled town.
The mature self-possession habitually distinguishing
the woman of twenty-four served her well at this crucial
juncture. With easy grace, Ariane sat the mule bearing
her at a good clip towards the stronghold of the Turkish
Pasha who ruled the lands to the southeast of the Dark
Citadel.
That alien domination, the healer knew, coexisted with
the accord Radu the Handsome forged with the Turks during
the prior year. For the most part, that agreement kept
those still-dangerous infidel enemies off Wallachian
soil. Certain boyars, however, freely chose to offer
allegiance to the Sultan rather than risk death or enslavement
during the raids still launched by marauding Turks who
crossed the Danube to attack strongholds located along
Wallachia’s southern border. The Pasha impatiently awaiting
her arrival ruled a demesne located within the borders
of Wallachia.
Although the contingent of infidel warriors forced
Ariane and three younger healers to accompany them,
they yet addressed with grave courtesy the authoritative
leader of the group, whose dedication to an ideal of
learning and service they revered. Unable to equal her
serene unflappability, her subordinates failed to hide
their profound apprehension, although they dared not
voice a single querulous complaint. Her head held high,
her shapely body erect, Ariane remained wrapped in an
invulnerable armor of queenly dignity as she rode.
A high-ranking servant conducted her to the chamber
wherein lay the Pasha.
“Excellency, what malady afflicts you?” she asked upon
being escorted into the presence of the gaunt patriarch,
noting that Mahmoud’s sunken eyes burned in the face
ominously betraying the shape of the skull beneath.
Dying, the healer judged unerringly, if silently. Kneeling
beside the divan upon which the old man reclined, she
courteously consulted with his attendants before laying
her hands on her patient.
Expert fingers located and palpated the cancerous mass
distending the otherwise shrunken belly. The woman’s
eyes, clear as a pool reflecting the azure blue of the
vaulted sky, met those of the dying warrior. “When the
Almighty summons, one must obey,” she told the sufferer
forthrightly. “I can lessen the pain you bear with such
fortitude, but I cannot prolong the life I would assuredly
save if I could.”
No anger, no outrage leaped into the still-imperious
visage of the patriarch. “Death comes when God wills,”
he acknowledged fatalistically. “Mix me the remedy,
O Healer Revered Among the People, and receive my gratitude.”
Ariane knelt by the couch, holding the cup containing
a potent narcotic to the lips of the dying man, when
the raiding force commanded by Count Alexander’s vassal
Sir Bogdan burst through the entry opened by treachery.
Swiftly, the invaders cut down the stunned warriors
rallying so as to defend their dying lord. Shrieks rose
above the clash of arms and the thud of falling bodies.
The tread of booted feet underscored the shouts and
war cries reverberating down the hall.
A broad shouldered Wallachian knight brutally dispatched
the stately warrior seeking to prevent the raiders’
entry into the chamber occupied by the Pasha. Seconds
later, the two men-at-arms flanking their leader slew
the unarmed servants in attendance on the dying Turk.
Outraged, Ariane shielded her patient with her body
even as she boldly fronted her countryman. “I forbid
you to strike!” she hissed. “God will soon call this
man to judgment!”
The woman’s courage penetrated even the fog of battle
glazing the eyes of the knight, but failed to stay his
hand. Roughly, he flung her aside. A sword already crimson
pierced the wasted body of the Pasha, who cursed his
killer even as he died.
A hand of iron withdrew the dripping blade. Pausing
only to wipe it contemptuously on the robe of the dead
Turk, the man in command turned to the two subordinates
contending to see who first violated the woman from
whose body they had together ripped wimple and gown.
Struggling impotently in their grip, Ariane protested
with desperate vehemence in the Wallachian tongue, to
no avail.
Sir Bogdan’s hand landed like an eagle’s talon on the
shoulder of the man claiming first right of entry. That
individual he sent sprawling. The second attacker caught
a buffet to the ear that hurled him across the prone
body of his fellow. “This succulent prize will serve
your betters, not you,” the aggressor roared, his eyes
blazing. “She’s worth ten golden ducats, if she’s worth
an obol! Content yourselves with the servants of the
infidels, you lust-blinded fools!”
Standing stark naked before the knight, Ariane cried
heatedly, “I’m a loyal subject of the four Lords!”
A derisive laugh greeted that vehement affirmation.
“Three of us can bear witness that we caught you in
the act of giving aid to this foul enemy,” the leader
scoffed. “You’re a thrice-damned traitor. You’ll serve
the Lords’ pleasure, wench, to expiate your heinous
offense. Sir Peter! Chain this doe among swine, and
herd her into the wagon with any others you deem worth
hauling back to the Citadel.”
Ariane shuddered as the burly knight newly arrived
on the scene tossed her nude person unceremoniously
over his mailed shoulder. His face, seen through a fog
of terror, she recognized as that of another vassal
of Lord Alexander. Effortlessly bearing his burden,
her captor strode through a scene of carnage and rapine.
Ice crystallized in the blood of the woman assaulted
by sights and sounds that would trouble her dreams for
weeks to come. When the knight emerged from the Turkish
stronghold, and thrust her into the hands of two lesser
brutes loading captives into a wagon standing just inside
the breached gate of the outer walls, the captive saw
that the sun had sunk low in the sky. Fear convulsed
her, rendering her faint.
Strong hands snapped an iron collar around her neck
while a second set of deft fingers manacled her wrists.
The latter guard raised her arms, bent them, and secured
the link joining the manacles to a ring at the rear
of the collar. Prying open her jaws, he thrust a sphere
of braided leather into her mouth, and knotted the straps
of the gag behind her head. That businesslike captor
then raised the short length of chain attached to the
link joining the fetters, and fastened the end to a
hook protruding from the oaken top of the heavy closed
wagon.
The healer’s body pressed against the nearest four
of perhaps twenty young women: black-haired, white-skinned
Turkish girls whose liquid dark eyes seemed to the pitying
viewer to be pools of shame. As nude as was she, similarly
gagged and chained to the roof, they projected a soundless
aura of terror: a palpable energy that penetrated the
Wallachian woman’s mind, and reinforced her own all
but uncontrollable fear. Conscious that her auburn hair
and blue eyes set her visually apart from her fellow
captives, she nonetheless experienced a sense of total
abandonment by her kind.
Doors slammed at the rear of the conveyance. We’ll
die suffocated! the Wallachian protested silently, awash
in horror, until the eyes held unnaturally wide caught
the faint light filtering through two carved vent-holes
at either side of the box-like body of the coach. The
acrid odor of perspiration mingling with heavy perfume
blended suddenly with the ammoniacal smell of urine.
The girl whose body slumped inertly against hers seemed
to have fainted. Or is she dead? the healer wondered,
unable to discern the truth in the nearly absolute darkness.
If her heart’s stopped beating, she’s the luckiest of
us!
With a jarring lurch, the coach rumbled into movement.
The crack of the driver’s lash reached the ears of the
pinioned captives, as did the dull thudding of heavy
hoofs on hard-packed earth.
The iron collar chafed the healer’s neck as her body
absorbed the jolts. She braced her legs, but other legs
competed for the space. The gag made swallowing her
saliva difficult. Moisture dribbled from the side of
Ariane’s mouth to run unchecked down her chin.
Fear fogged her mind. Get hold of yourself! she silently
exhorted her alter ego, echoing an oft-repeated adjuration
levied by her indomitable aunt at subordinates yielding
to panic in a crisis. You’re the daughter of a boyar!
Claim your rights when you stand in the presence of
these arrogant lords who possess the gall to call themselves
Christian knights!
After a seeming eternity during which the captives
suffered direly from claustrophobia, the coach clattered
across what the Wallachian straining to hear assumed
to be flagstones. The vehicle rattled to a stop several
times before halting permanently. The doors swung open.
Hands unhooked chains. Those same hands passed nude,
pinioned, female bodies to new aggressors. Ariane became
the last captive to enter a line of women cruelly prodded
with pointed sticks into advancing across a huge cavern:
one of many large caves connected by narrower passageways
carved by percolating groundwater in prehistoric times.
Though terrified, the healer managed to control her
fear, and observe her surroundings. At the rear of the
huge cavern, she beheld stables built beneath a wooden
platform. At one side rose a flight of wooden steps.
A wall of sacks bordered the edge of the platform. Grain
for the horses, she surmised. To her right stood the
coach. Beyond it, she saw retainers holding saddled
horses by the reins. Even as she stared, the guards
drove her into a second chamber on her left. This cavern
she saw to be narrow, but long.
The Dark Citadel of the Four Lords. Unerringly, Ariane
identified the premises luridly lit by flaming torches
projecting from iron fixtures driven deeply into the
stone of the walls. Their underground lair, built inside
caves. The men of their House have occupied this stronghold
for generations. These sons of Milos changed drastically
during their sojourn in Turkey—grew fond of evil practices
foreign to our way of life!
Burgeoning fright put the resourceful aristocrat’s
superb self-control to a rigorous test. One of two captors
detached the link keeping the manacled wrists attached
to the collar chafing her neck. That man raised her
hands high, and fastened the link to a rope that he
passed through a hook that ran freely down a track overhead.
Other figures moved forward ahead of her. The women
proceeded in total silence, being universally gagged.
Staring out of dilated eyes, Ariane spied one of her
subordinates, far ahead: a delicate girl whose blonde
hair flowed like honey down her back. How dare they!
the healer in charge of her younger colleagues mutely
raged. How dare they!
A brawny man clad only in a loincloth pulled on the
rope, causing Ariane’s nude body to rise into the air.
The outraged Wallachian now hung suspended above the
stone floor. The captor grasping the rope’s end gave
her a push, causing her to swing out over a sunken bath.
He then played out the line, sending her plummeting
into hot soapy water to her neck. Three times he pulled
on the rope to raise her struggling body, only to drop
her back into the bath. On the fourth lift, he pulled
her to the edge. Having removed the rope, he passed
her to a new team of attendants.
Two burly men, whose necks she saw to be fitted with
iron collars, laid their charge supine on a rough board,
positioned so that her head hung over the end. After
strapping her down, one of the slaves pressed upwards
on the point of her jaw to tip her head back, thereby
dunking her long hair into a tub of what smelled like
lamp oil. Holding her thus, he poured a cupful of the
noisome liquid over her scalp while issuing a guttural
command that she close her eyes.
The other man probed through the oil-saturated hair
with a crude wooden comb. “No lice that I can see,”
he growled. “We’re running late. Pass her on, so I can
give more time to them as needs the remedy.”
“Aye,” came a grunted assent.
Futile rage convulsed the gut of the woman lifted in
muscular arms, and strapped to a new table. Her reeking
hair now disappeared into a tub of hot soapy water.
A female slave, naked but for a wrap around her loins,
scrubbed Ariane’s stinging scalp. The captive beheld
a dull-eyed, middle-aged drudge, her body exhibiting
a few prominent red welts, her face a mask of vacuity.
Pity contended with hot ire, with outrage, with steeply
escalating terror. Two more such ministrations: a hot
rinse, followed by immersion of the hair into warm water
smelling of vinegar, followed the brisk scrub.
Two elderly male slaves, their bleak, deeply lined
faces harassed and fearful, stayed the forward course
of the woman shoved to their station along the track.
Leaving her to hang motionless, suspended by her manacled
wrists from the hook in such wise that her feet failed
to touch the ground, they turned their attention elsewhere.
Dangling helplessly, the horrified viewer watched them
bind a young, manifestly affrighted Turkish girl to
a rough wooden table. One slave spread her legs wide.
The other parted her labia, and inspected her sexual
organs. “Virgin,” he muttered to his fellow. “Pass her
to the left.” The second man prodded the sobbing girl
he freed of the straps towards a gathering of shivering
captives who the suspended viewer saw to be barely adolescent:
undoubtedly maidens as yet unmarried. A second contingent,
all older women thick of body, or plain of face, stood
at a considerable distance. A third group, uniform not
in age, but in their pronounced attractiveness, huddled
together under the eye of a man obviously possessed
of authority.
The elder slave favored Ariane with only a cursory
glance. “She’s almost too old to qualify as aught but
a servant,” he growled to his cohort. “We’re running
so late we’ll earn lashes as it is. She can’t be virgin,
at her age. Haul her down, and pass her to the right.
They’ll switch her, if they judge her too old to merit
training as a concubine.”
Even as she advanced under insistent prodding towards
the group of weeping girls who she suspected to be newly
widowed, Ariane winced as her relief at escaping such
horrific scrutiny mingled with terror. I’ve never known
a man! she cried distractedly to her alter self. What
will become of me in this abode of evil?
Guards conducted the groupings back to the entry of
the cavern that featured no other means of egress. Strong
hands thrust Ariane forward into the presence of a compactly
built man of medium height, but regal presence.
Recognizing Lord Stephen, Seneschal of the Citadel,
the nobly born woman rapidly reviewed what she knew
of the sons of Count Milos. The brothers divided the
responsibility for maintaining their ancestral demesne.
Count Alexander, Lord Constable, nominally ruled. He
commanded the military force, but left the governance
of the estates and the ordering of the household to
the Seneschal. Lord Gregory oversaw the Forest Demesne
reserved for the exclusive use of the four Lords.
As the name of the youngest brother, Vlad, rang in
her mind, the healer shivered in fear. Cruel, these
Lords, but Vlad stands head and shoulders above his
brothers in that respect. May the Almighty preserve
me from falling into the power of so evil a man!
As she watched the autocrat in close proximity, Lord
Stephen absently stroked his clean-shaven chin. Meditatively,
he studied the shapely body of the woman standing with
arms raised and bent, her shackled wrists once again
secured to the rear of the iron collar. His eyes grew
intent, predatory. “Lovely,” he muttered, to himself,
rather than to the retainer standing to his rear. As
he spoke, he flicked the tip of the heavy leather dog-whip
he bore in one hand across a rosy nipple. “Comely, if
mature. Deliciously full-breasted…seductively shaped.
Enticing rump. Experienced, no doubt. Suffering from
outraged modesty. That incipient rebelliousness needs
to be swiftly quashed. Indeed, yes.”
Deeply hazel eyes bored into those of purest blue.
“When your gag’s removed, you’ll speak only to reply
instantly and truthfully to my questions. Any extraneous
words will earn you a painful slash. So be warned, slave.”
The servant now moved behind Ariane, and removed the
gag.
“Your name?”
“Ariane, Healer: a loyal subject!”
That bold act of disobedience evoked a swift retaliatory
response. The thick, round lash of tightly braided leather
landed with brutal force on the woman’s bare flank,
flashed upward, and fell again. Agony seared the tender
flesh on which two welts now rose. “I asked only your
name!” came the imperious reminder. “Limit your words
to those I demand of you!” The Seneschal’s eyes glittered.
“Name your father and your mother.”
Enveloped in pain, Ariane gasped out two names.
Lord Stephen regarded her appraisingly. “Undoubtedly,
you were taken in the act of aiding the enemy of our
House. That crime renders the transgressor liable to
suffer a shameful death. I ought to have you strangled,
but I’m disposed to be merciful, little spitting cat.
You’ll expiate your offense by existing henceforth for
our pleasure.”
Turning, he spoke musingly to his assistant. “Send
her in among the last captives to be offered for sale
to my brothers. I’m minded to acquire this chattel whose
athletic grace suits my tastes better than do the plump,
too-soon-overripe bodies of girls kept as spoiled pets
in harems.”
Hot anger contended with relief in the mind of the
woman who regarded this man as far less dangerous than
the dreaded Vlad. That relief soon dissolved in a new
onslaught of shame, as the sorely tried captive, once
again gagged, endured the parading of her nude self
through the huge entry-cavern, where grooms and stable-hands
leered at the naked women driven along by guards wielding
sharply pointed staffs.
Thus goaded, she mounted the steps, circumvented the
stacked grain-sacks, and proceeded down a narrow, winding
corridor. The line of captives passed under a heavy
iron portcullis set into grooves in the rock wall. Forced
to turn left, the column proceeded under duress into
an antechamber of the commodious cavern visible through
a wide doorway.
After waiting for an eternity, Ariane advanced, prodded
by guards, into the larger apartment. There her handlers
exhibited herself and three other women not only to
the four Lords, but also to a host of male underlings.
All of the spectators riveted lustful eyes on the bodies
of the four captives propelled by the guards into a
line, and chained to the hooked ends of iron bars projecting
from the walls. The ubiquitous torches provided all
too much light. Controlling incipient panic by the sheer
power of an indomitable will, the healer studied the
faces of the noble captors about to bid on her shamefully
exposed person.
Lord Alexander she guessed to be nearing forty. Tall,
broad shouldered, martial in appearance, and bearded,
unlike the brothers who sedulously shaved all of their
facial hair but for a moustache, he yet exhibited subtle
signs of decaying athleticism: pouches under his hazel
eyes, a double chin, a protuberant belly. Clad, as were
his brothers, in a long, richly fashioned robe trimmed
with fur and pulled in sharply at the waist by an elaborately
stitched band of soft leather, the eldest brother needed
the most ample length of belt to encompass his girth.
A few touches of gray streaked the jet-black hair as
characteristic of the men of his House as were the slightly
hooked nose and the wide-set, limpidly expressive eyes.
Ariane’s glance shifted to Lord Gregory, who she judged
to be three or four years younger than Alexander. Tall,
debonair, graceful as the stags to which he delighted
in giving chase, he lounged against the wall, the epitome
of ennui. As the fair observer watched, he yawned, and
covered his mouth. His eyes drifted listlessly down
her body before wandering idly to that of the Turkish
girl next to the woman unerringly concluding that Gregory
had earlier made careful selections from the contingent
of youthful virgins, and now found himself bored by
the proceedings.
Chills chased down Ariane’s spine as Vlad’s eyes actively
raked her every curve. His voice, honeyed as that of
a master merchant, lacerated her blistered nerve-endings.
“Ahhh…no Turk, this wench. Ripe, she is. Possessed of
a temper to match that red hair, I’ve no doubt. I rather
fancy taming so spirited an animal.” Turning languidly
to Lord Stephen, he drawled, “Four golden ducats. Too
much—but I’m weary of haggling, brother.” Sweeping his
glance from Gregory to Alexander, he smiled.
In the fevered awareness of the trembling captive,
that smile seemed one that Satan himself might employ.
Covertly observing the youngest brother, Ariane noted
the pale skin, the glossy moustache trimmed to perfection,
the full lips over which their owner occasionally flicked
a moist tongue, the long eyelashes, the nose lacking
even the slight hook distinguishing the noses of his
brothers. The eyes that slanted a trifle seemed to the
overwrought captive to resemble those of a venomous
reptile.
“Five golden ducats,” Stephen countered dispassionately.
Vlad’s hard, compact body turned with fluid grace.
This member of the family the healer knew to be entrusted
with the purchase of costly luxuries brought to Wallachia
either from the Holy Roman Empire or the Far East. Those
goods arrived after a long journey in the pack trains
of bold merchants, or a voyage aboard the ships plying
the Black Sea. Grudgingly, Ariane acknowledged Vlad
to be the handsomest man in the chamber. Iridescent,
blue-green eyes impaled those of the Seneschal so like
his brothers except for his habitual phlegmatic calm.
A sardonic laugh accompanied a malicious, chilling
smile, as the youthful boyar spat sharp-edged words
sheathed in velvet. “Departing from your custom of sticking
to one favorite meticulously trained to accommodate
your…exacting tastes, Lord Seneschal? Or are you changing
favorites?”
The drawling voice dripped poisonous sweetness, yet
stopped short of projecting overt insult.
The pregnant pause irked the man to whom Vlad directed
the question, but no hint of exasperation crossed Stephen’s
serene, cold countenance. “I’m changing favorites. I
lack your love of…variety, little brother.”
The resonant voice that so expertly mimicked the questioner’s
provocative pause grated on the ears of the hearers
who rightly interpreted the diminutive as subtly disparaging
to the youngest scion of the House. To a man, they awarded
the speaker points for utter fearlessness. Vlad, they
well knew, made a singularly dangerous enemy.
“Seven golden ducats,” Vlad drawled, his eyes ominously
lidded.
“Eight,” came the laconic counter-bid.
At length, Vlad broke a pulsating silence. A light
laugh set ice congealing anew in Ariane’s blood. “I
suspect you’re raising the bid so as to stick me with
overpriced goods not wildly in demand, Lord Seneschal,”
he observed, his tone calculatedly jocular. “Well, I
decline to fall into the trap. I give you joy of the
wench. Perhaps she’ll prove…unusually adept. Able to
charm a man renowned for counting his self-imposed duties
more pressing even than…sensual delights.”
Icy anger now radiated from the object of a spurious
compliment that came across as conveying something other
than the literal meaning.
“All of us might well profit by heeding Stephen’s example
in that regard,” Gregory drawled ruminatively, upon
beholding the Seneschal’s eyes narrow to slits. Smiling
at Alexander while placing his lithe body directly between
Vlad and Stephen, he added, “I offer three golden ducats
for that sloe-eyed Turk on the end of the line.”
The antagonism that had flared between the two kinsmen
now dissipated.
Stephen regained his accustomed impassivity of countenance.
Vlad subsided into his usual demeanor: arrogance only
slightly edged with impudence. As golden coins rang
on a table, servants took charge of newly acquired slaves.
The Seneschal disdained to consign his property to an
underling. Snapping a lead-chain around Ariane’s waist,
he led her away, jerking her along exactly as he would
a poorly trained hound on a leash. |
