“Sound the retreat,” Bogdan said, his voice soft.
Lada twisted, snarling like a feral thing. Bogdan held tight, talking in an even, soothing voice. “They are forming ranks. No help is coming. But I count nearly fifteen thousand of theirs dead, countless pack animals slaughtered, their gunpowder stores destroyed. Now we run.” He paused, then spoke again. “If we escape, we win.”
“We did not win!” Lada kicked once more, then went limp, only Bogdan’s arms holding her up. “We could have destroyed it all. We should have.”
“Sound the retreat!” Bogdan shouted over his shoulder. He lifted Lada onto a horse and got on behind her, squeezing her leg in clumsy reassurance. “Your welcome awaits them at the capital. We run and fight again.”
Lada heard in those words her entire future stretching out before her. She would never be able to stop fighting. Even victories that should be hers would be taken from her by faithless men. They would forever choose each other instead of her—choose treaties and tradition over a genuine chance for change.
It would always be a fight. Hunyadi had told her as much. Her dreams of decisive triumph drifted up like sparks, only to go dark and cold as ash.
Outside Tirgoviste
HAMZA PASHA SLAMMED HIS fist down on the table. “If the forces in the hills had followed her plan, we might have lost. She had women fighting! Women! I lost spahis because they were too shocked to raise a blade!”
Radu dreamed of lighting the table on fire, throwing it into the smoldering mess of their supply train. He loathed this table, and the map on it, and increasingly the people around it.
Ali Bey’s smile was as pointed as the tip of a sword. “That is a failure on their part, then. My Janissaries overcame their shock quickly enough.”
“Do not pretend your men turned the tide. We only triumphed because of Radu’s deal with her allies,” said Ishak Pasha, the most measured of the three.
Hamza Pasha blew air out between his lips with a dismissive noise, as though Radu’s e
fforts in persuading the Basarab boyars to hold back was more of a lucky accident than a battle-winning triumph. “He cannot use the same trick at Tirgoviste. We cannot count on anyone else betraying her. The commoners worship her.”
Radu glanced at the tent’s door flap. Mehmed was not here. Radu had not seen him since the attack the night before. No one had, other than his guards. Kiril had reported back to Radu that Mehmed was unharmed and, apparently, perfectly capable of going right to sleep.
Radu rubbed his forehead. It ached from exhaustion and too much inhaled smoke. “We have the advantage with a siege.”
“The advantage is always with the defenders! At Kruje—”
“I was at Kruje,” Radu said, cutting Hamza Pasha off. He was tired of being dismissed by the old man. “Outside the walls. And I was at Constantinople, inside the walls. I am no stranger to sieges.” He offered no smile to offset the harshness of his words. He knew what so many of these men still thought of him—that he only led his horsemen because of his beautiful face and favor with the sultan. But favor with the sultan was how any of them led. And Radu realized that despite his eighteen years, he truly did have as much experience as any man could be asked for.
He felt it thick and dark and choking in his dreams, a constant heaviness in his mind both awake and asleep.
Yes, he had far more experience than any man could be asked for.
Radu took a deep breath and spoke in a more measured tone. “Tirgoviste has none of the natural advantages of Kruje, and certainly none of the defenses of Constantinople. It is smaller than both. The walls are hardly formidable. They will be able to see us coming, but that is no secret. And as was clearly demonstrated last night, Lada does not have the loyalty of nobles or European support that Skanderberg or Constantine did. No one will come to her aid. She lost half her forces when the Basarabs abandoned her. We killed three thousand, which as far as we can tell leaves her with only a couple of thousand to command.”
Hamza Pasha scowled. “We have lost fifteen thousand! And supplies and animals!”
“We can afford fifteen thousand with greater ease than she can fifteen hundred.” Radu cringed at the callousness of treating men’s lives as simple calculations. War made monsters of them all. “When we take Tirgoviste—and we will, no matter what she has planned—that will be the end of it. We will have the capital. We can install Aron and Andrei in their places and Wallachia will return to its vassal status.”
Ishak Pasha tapped a finger against the table. “But the boyars and their men are not entirely off the map. If they were swayed to us so easily, they can be swayed back. They may already be behind the walls in Tirgoviste. What if she—”
“Her strength is not walls. It never has been. Doubtless she will have some plans, but she cannot fight the way she has up to now. This is where our training and skills matter. This is where she realizes she cannot keep the city in the face of the might of the Ottoman army. No matter how many men she can pull together.”
The tent flap opened. Radu was shocked to see Mara Brankovic enter with a swish of layered skirts. “I had thought,” she said, “to be catching up to a triumphant army already in control of the country.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “If I had known I would have to join the camp, I would have delayed my trip.”
Radu pulled a chair over for her. She sat down primly, glancing over their plans. “Hungarian forces are here?”
“Yes, but they have not been in play. Yet.” Radu had to admit Ishak Pasha was right. They could still decide to support Lada. In the end, the Basarab boyars who had led them were not in charge. The Hungarian king was, and if he sent word, they would do what he asked.
“Send Corvinus a gift,” Mara said, opening her lace fan with a snap of her wrist.
“What?” Radu asked.
“Matthias Corvinus. Send him something. Luxurious. Beautiful. Oh, I know! Send him a jeweled velvet pillow for his crown. He will understand the meaning.”