48 Hours Earlier.
I do not like this, Verona thought to herself. No, I do not like this at all. Her beloved had been walled up in the main keep now for most of the morning. At dawn a messenger had ridden into the city at a clattering, teeth-jarring speed, hardly slowing his foaming, steaming mount to alight and make for the stairs at a run. The people milling in the courtyard returned to their comings and goings, but Verona had froze mid stride, her eyes fixed on the door of the bailiff's offices into which the rider had disappeared. Barely one minute later the door banged open and a boy set off at a run for Dracula's personal offices.
Verona had caught up with her Lord halfway between his rooms
and the great hall that served as a meeting place for large briefings and campaign
planning. Ever conscious of her place she fell into step beside him, informing
him by her presence alone that she required his counsel.
"You saw the messenger?"
"Yes my Lord. I also see you and your men converging on the war room."
"I will not tell you there is nothing to worry about, Verona." He
kept his eyes forward, but his tone was soft.
"I would not expect such fanciful lies, nor would I care for them."
Dracula slowed his pace and turned to Verona.
"We knew it would come to this. I will not repent for the execution of
murderers and madmen on my land." His expression shifted from businesslike
to one of underlying steely anger.
"I was there my Lord," she bowed her head to him. "I know
your actions delivered not one half of the retribution those men deserved."
Dracula put a finger under the chin of the raven-haired woman before him and
raised her face to his.
"I would do it again in a second, to have you safe from them. I will fight
all of Rome and anybody else who takes exception." He bowed his head slowly,
then kissed her hand and whisked away.
Now, hours later, Verona sat in the courtyard with her eyes on the door, the windows of the war room, straining for any sign of movement within. She did not ponder the unfairness of the situation, nor did she waste any thought in calculating ways to avoid the upcoming conflict. Her master was a righteous man, and in this course of action she could not reproach his resolve nor his motivations. Her role was as his supporter, his rock, whatever he needed she was willing to give him.
It seemed such a short time since she had come to Castle Dracula, since that fateful time. In truth it was almost two winters ago that her small village had become host to a party of Hungarian soldiers on their way to Bucharest at the command of Rome. The season had been a particularly harsh one, and an overnight snowfall marooned their small community for some time. The townsfolk had given the soldiers as warm a welcome as could be summoned for an army that had been of dubious loyalty for as long as many of them had been alive. An uneasy entente had survived barely three days before being shattered by a bar-room upset that has spiraled out of control in the most horrific of ways. Many good men were slain by the Hungarians, as error compounded error, principle vied with dignity, and sense and logic were abandoned by an army who would rather become criminals of the worst order than be beaten into submission by a band of ragamuffin, rural folk. Verona remembered with palpable terror the sound of splintering wood and the screaming of her sister as the door to their home had been broken down in the middle of the night. Her father, reaching for his rifle was immediately shot, and her sister dragged away and never seen again. Verona fought the men, who laughed at her struggles and grabbed at her through the sheets and robes she clung to. She fought ferociously and was rewarded for her efforts with a fist that left her jaw throbbing for days. That night was merely the beginning of many she spent in the dark, wondering if they would come for her and if she could fight them off one more time.
There was a loud bang as a door swung outwards and hit the wall,
and Verona jumped from her seat on the edge of the well. She looked wildly around
her for a moment, feeling the residue of fear falling away from her as she registered
that she safe. Memories could not hurt her, but they certainly still managed
to shake her. She saw Dracula coming down the stairs towards her and a warmth
infused her body, driving away the cold, dark thoughts of the past. As he had
rescued her then, he had it in his power now to make her feel protected and
sheltered by his mere presence. She took in his fine features, his glossy black
hair and pale skin and was, as ever, completely besotted by him. He smiled softly
as he approached.
"I know that look," he said quietly, in mock chastisement. "Your
thoughts are not becoming of a lady."
She blushed happily.
"I care not but that my thoughts are becoming of you, my Lord."
"And that they are." He said contentedly, looking warmly upon her.
As swift as a change of the wind, his expression grew distant, and he spoke
again. "Come, walk with me a while."
They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, before Verona broke
the quiet.
"We knew it would happen like this sooner or later."
"Yes."
"And I want you to know I have not forgotten what we talked about. I will
go to Bistritz and on up the river when the time comes."
Dracula sighed, a breath heavy with relief.
"Tirgoviste will be too unsafe when the conflict arrives here –
and it will arrive."
"Yes, my Lord." She would not let him see her fear.
"What did I do to deserve you, Verona?" Dracula's voice seemed
heavy with regret.
"You gave me my life." She said simply. "I owe you everything."
He turned and pulled her to him, disregarding the secretive glances of townspeople
pretending to go about their business, and kissed her deeply.
"I must go to work, my love," he said huskily. "I must bid
you farewell until later."
Verona clung to him, and he stroked her hair, understanding, until she relaxed
enough for him to extricate himself gently.
"When will you ride out to meet them?" she called
faintly to his retreating form.
"First light tomorrow." Came his reply. He did not turn back.