Vlad: The Last Confession Read Online Free Page B

and Petru turned back to his lieutenant. “Go tell His Eminence that all is ready.”
    A bow, and the soldier was gone. Now it was about to begin, Horvathy felt nothing, save a curious lethargy. His one eye glazed as he stared near his feet. Around him, the hall was filled with little sounds. Flame-crackle, of fire and torch, the sharpening of feather quills, a low moaning. Then, through the arrow slits, he heard first the sharp bark of a raven and then the “ kree-ak , kree-ak ” of a hunting hawk. He lifted his head to it, wished he were hunting, too.
    The door opened. A man walked in.
    He looked as out of place in that sparse room as a peacock in a hen coop. In contrast to the gray-clad men who waited for him, he was dressed in bright scarlet robes, and compared to their wolf-like leanness, he was fat, a heifer, not even a bull. When he mounted the platform, he breathed heavily, as if he were climbing a tower. When he pulled back his hood, the face revealed was sunk into a neck of jowls, black eyes studded into flesh like raisins into a pastry. His hair was short, blond, thick and held under a red cap. He fell into his chair.
    The Hungarian gestured the Spatar to his seat. But he did not sit himself. Instead, he looked before him and spoke directly at the three confessionals. As he did, from each came the scratching of quill on parchment.
    “Let it be known that I am Janos Horvathy,” he said, speaking clearly, slowly, “Count of Pecs. I have been sent here by command of my liege Lord, my King, Matthias Corvinus of Hungary, to…to interrogate you.” He stumbled a little on the lie then gestured around the hall. “And though I find this method, all this…somewhat strange, I do not question the commands of the Voivode of Wallachia, in whose realm, and by whose grace, this interrogation takes place.” He nodded to the younger man. “Let it also be noted that Petru Iordache, Spatar of Poenari, has fulfilled his sovereign’s commands to the last detail.” He sat, then looked at the Cardinal.
    “Must I?” the bovine churchman sighed.
    Horvathy pointed to the confessionals. “All will be noted down. You have those you report to, as have I. We must have an exact record.”
    “Oh, a record?” Wincing as he leaned forward and took some weight upon his swollen feet, the man spat, “Well then, for the record, I am Domenico Grimani, Cardinal of Urbino and, as Papal Legate to the court of King Matthias, I represent Sixtus IV. And for the record, I think the Holy Father would be amazed to see me here, in these barbarous mountains, taking part in a…pageant!”
    “A pageant!”
    The Cardinal did not flinch at Horvathy’s roar. “You asked me to accompany you on this journey, Count. You said I was needed to judge something. But the cold, the hideous inns, the appalling roads—well, they have driven the reason for my being here quite out of my head.” He raised a fat hand to his forehead, assumed a mockery of thinking. “Was it to listen to the tale of a monster? Was it to see if we can rehabilitate Dracula?” The Cardinal laughed, pointed before him. “And all this? Was it so that the secret fraternity he led, and buried with his horrors, can rise again?” He was shaking with laughter now. “For the record…who cares?”
    “I do!” roared the man beside him. “Perhaps you forget—though somehow, I doubt it—that the fraternity you mock is “fraternatis draconem”—the sacred Order of the Dragon. Of which I and my father were—are!—proud brothers. Founded for the sole purpose of fighting the infidel and the heretic. Hungary’s enemies, Christ’s enemies, the Pope’s enemies, Cardinal Grimani.” Horvathy’s voice lowered again, in volume if not in passion. “And the man you speak of was not its leader, but its most famous member for a time. He was the one who last rode under the Dragon banner against the Turks. And under it, nearly beat them. Would have beaten them, perhaps, if the Pope, my