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No. He was tired, and it was—something. It was all something. He did not know what, could not form a coherent thought. Looking at Cyprian made him remember seeing Mehmed that night in Mehmed’s bedroom, before Mehmed had known he was there. Radu felt an odd surge of guilt, like he had somehow betrayed Mehmed tonight. When he thought of how miserable he had been in Edirne, he wanted to laugh. He would give anything for that small distance from Mehmed, as opposed to the tangle of emotions and questions the walls separating them had introduced.
Except he did not think he wanted to give up this night, even with everything getting here had cost him.
Still, he kept his eyes on the table after that. If Cyprian caught him looking, how would he react? How would Radu want him to react? Radu focused intently on the coins. “How will you explain them to your uncle?”
“A dowry from a withered old crone who wants to marry me.”
“You would be more believable if you said it was buried treasure.”
“I happen to be very appealing to women of advanced age. My eyes, you see. They cannot get enough of my eyes.”
Radu finally tugged his own shirt off, because the room kept getting hotter. He tried very hard not to look at Cyprian. He sometimes succeeded. All the while, he stayed on the other side of the table, glad it was between him and Cyprian. And glad his trousers were thick enough to hide the feelings his body would not accept should not be there.
Bodies were traitorous things.
“WE NEED DORIN,” TOMA said. He sat tall and regal on his horse. “And he is a Basarab.”
Lada pointed toward where they had come from. “He attacked us!” They had been met on the edge of Dorin Basarab’s forest by three dozen poorly armed and terrified farmers. Ten well-trained soldiers with weapons had stood at the farmers’ backs, leaving them no option but to fight. Before Lada had been able to open her mouth, one of the farmers had shot an arrow at her. Bogdan immediately cut the man down, then went after the next. It was a few minutes of bloody, screaming work to dispatch them. It was a waste of her time, and a waste of the farmers’ lives.
Toma did not mind. He sniffed lightly, eyeing the manor ahead of them appraisingly. “Dorin will agree to back us. And we will not have another incident.” He looked sharply at Lada. “I will placate him by offering him Silviu’s lands when you are on the throne.”
“No. I gave them to someone already.”
Toma laughed. “To a peasant woman? Yes, I heard. That was amusing. Please leave land distribution to me. In fact, perhaps it is best if you stay out here with your men. I will handle everything.”
He rode away, his men following. Lada watched his back with all the tension of a nocked arrow.
Nicolae put a hand on her arm.
“What?” she snapped.
He jerked his head behind them. She turned to see a line of peasants. A line of very angry peasants. They made no move toward her—probably owing to the mounted soldiers behind her—but she had no doubt they would kill her if they could.
“Who is in charge?” she asked, pacing her horse in front of them.
“My brother,” one man grunted.
“Where is he?”
“Dead in the field back there.”
Lada stopped her horse, glaring down her long, hooked nose at the man. “And you think that is my fault?”
“Your swords have blood on them.”
Lada drew her sword. It gleamed, well polished. “My sword is clean. My sword was not behind your brothers and cousins, forcing them into a fight they were not prepared for. My sword was not hanging over your necks, forcing you to serve a man who cared nothing for your lives. My sword was not held by the guards of your boyar to ensure none of your sons and friends could run when they should have.”
Nicolae cleared his throat. “Maybe not the best tactic to encourage them to fight with us,” he said under his breath.
Lada turned her horse, disgusted and angry. “We are going to Tirgoviste,” she said. “Join us.”
The man looked to the side, rubbing his stubbled cheek. “Not right, a lady having a sword.”
Lada knew that killing him would set a bad precedent. She knew that, yet her sword inched closer to him anyway.
“Why should we?” asked an old man with white and wispy hair like the clouds overhead. Loose skin beneath his chin wobbled as he spoke. “We were fine before you came. We want no trouble from Tirgoviste.”
Lada turned toward him, sparing the other man. “And Tirgoviste has never troubled itself about you. It does not care. It does not care about your lives, or your families, or your welfare. What has the prince ever given you?”
