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coffeewithcutcaffeine · 3 months ago

Text

— in which Cătălina must confront the complicated nature of womanhood as matters of the heart unfold in her life.

word count: 5,810 words

warnings: suggestive themes; implied sexual content; explicit mentions of alcohol consumption; themes of emotional distress

a/n: Even though this work lacks Vlad’s appearance for once, I sincerely hope you will enjoy every second of this chapter. At first, I did not know where writing would carry me — as words poured onto the blank pages, it transformed into one of the works I am now most proud of. Wishing you all a nice reading experience, as nice as it was for me to craft this one. ❤️️ (My most sincere thanks goes to @spadesofgrass, to whom I want to dedicate this chapter. Mads has always encouraged and supported my writing adventures and has been an endless source of courage and inspiration. Her brilliant writing, characterisations, and exceptional detail even in the smallest details in her works have greatly motivated me to start crafting Voievod in its current form and challenge myself as a writer. You are the greatest teacher, my friend. ❤️)

➨ also available on AO3

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January 1450, Oltea’s residence, Suceava, Moldavia

Before the goblet could even graze her lips, the father’s hand seizes the girl and pulls her aside. Away from the crowd, away from the glances of others. Her cheeks blush with the faint pink of blood warming her skin. He needs her in the crisp winter air. Away from wine, away from shame.

“Leave that wine be! Look at the state you are in.”

“But tată, I have barely—”

“No talking back! A young woman should not be seen with a face that red.”

As they move through the room, the man’s inebriated body wobbles through his own fog and collides with Cătălina. Her back slams against the pillar with a force that almost steals her breath. The girl gasps, half-formed apologies spilling from her lips. Her trembling hand reaches out towards Cătălina’s arm, then grasps the nobleman’s coat instead. The man staggers, his drunken weight almost pulling his daughter down with him. Then, in a blink, it is over. The father’s arm is around her again, and the night swallows them whole as he pulls the girl outside.

Cătălina smoothes the nonexistent creases on her blue skirt and sinks back into her spot in the shadows. From the alcove that shades her from the guests’ gazes, she studies the veiled countenances with fascination that teeters on obsession. Her eyes dart back and forth between the women’s faces, following the path of their glances as they look at the men seated next to them, mouths stuffed with chunks of meat, lard dripping into beards. The men wolf down their food; the women take as much as a small bite. They laugh at words they detest. The aggravation settles behind false smiles that never reach their eyes. Some of them — not the ladies from boyar families but the lesser ones like her, daughters of petty nobility, barely lambs among wolves — bear the weight of foreign hands creeping under the table, fingers pressing into thighs as they pour wine without so much as a flinch. Silent, practiced.

The men never notice. The women see it all. They always see.

Each of the faces shares something that binds them together with an invisible thread. Hunger. An unspoken fire that smoulders behind their eyes. Not for food — that would be too simple. This is the hunger that only another woman can recognise, the kind that flickers behind careful glances and stolen moments, too subtle for the men to ever grasp.

Each of them starves for something different. All of them starve in silence.

Hunger, they say, is a woman’s most unforgivable sin. Not the hunger of an empty stomach — though even that must be contained beneath the veil of humility — but the hunger that gnaws at the soul. A hunger for wisdom. For the warmth of another’s touch. For making decisions over the life that the Lord has blessed her with. For salvation, whatever salvation might signify.

A woman is not to seek these things. A woman ought to be a vessel, shaped and filled by hands not her own, waiting for the will of God and man alike. To hunger is to stray from the path set for her, to risk the temptations of the flesh and spirit alike. To desire is to invite sin. A woman’s yearning must be locked behind the thin walls of her ribs, like a caged beast that only occasionally dares breathe louder. When hunger rises, it defies the orderly structure of the world. To want is to betray the invisible pact that her mother and her mother’s mother learned to live with. But it is the expectation of absence that suffocates the most. How can the world expect her not to hunger? A soul, after all, is no different from a body. It craves. It pulses. It stretches against its restraints. Even in the cloister of her mind, far from the eyes of others, the hunger spreads — uncontrollable and unspoken, yet very much alive.

Even Cătălina feels the sin of hunger within her, but she does not wish to repent. She craves everything they have told her to starve herself of — bread that nourishes her, knowledge that strengthens her spirit, love that does not seek to confine. She will never be content to stand like a statue before others, admired but empty. She desires. She has tasted these forbidden longings, and they taste not of sin, but of the freedom God has granted her soul.

She is not a woman made to wither on scraps.

With a faint smile that tugs at the corners of her lips, she steps from the darkness and into the glow of the trembling candlelight. She takes her place at the table, fingers curling toward the honey cake waiting on the platter before her. Her teeth pierce the soft, golden dough with insistence, as though she has been famished for years. The taste melts on her tongue. It is not enough. It never will be.

The evening pulses with laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted pork and the warmth of fine wine. The absence of the palace’s grandeur barely fazes the guests. Who even cares if Maria is not the voivode’s daughter? There is a thrill to be found in this, the slip into the corridors of his concubine Oltea’s haven, where the voivode sheds his title like a cloak at the doorstep and enters her home as a mere lover. Here, in the soft glow of candlelight, there is a comfort the palace never offers. Freedom. Laughter rolls heavier, voices roughen as the wine keeps flowing, cheeks flush above fur collars. The guests’ jests grow bawdier as two men by Cătălina’s side double over in laughter. The rhythm of the horă grows wilder as feet stomp harder.

Everyone seems merry — everyone but the couple. Their faces remain as grave and emotionless as they were when the priest blessed them both and prayed for their prosperous union. Maria’s hands, usually so animated, lie in her lap, the fabric of her gown twisting between fingers. Her betrothed sits rigidly beside her, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the revelry, clutching his cup like a drowning man grasping for driftwood. His sips become deep and desperate, as though the sharp tinge of grapes might sweep him away from the certainty of his future.

Cătălina’s chest tightens, not for the dashing man sitting at the head of the table, nor for the crowd of guests surrounding the couple. Her heart bleeds for Maria sitting at the head of the table, her face drained of blood and silent like a relic. Their gazes meet across the room. A thread of sorrow pulls taut between them. She almost moves then, feet nearly pushing her body up to rise from her seat and cross the distance, to touch Maria’s hand, to offer a word or any small gesture to relieve that cold solitude amidst the sea of people. But something else intrudes, a presence lingering at her shoulder, quiet yet insistent.

She turns. Her eyes travel upward and fall first on the broad chest inches from her, then past the solid plane of muscle to meet a sharp jaw, a brutal line where the nose was broken once but somehow settled into place, giving his face a rugged humanity. Dracea smiles at her, and a row of white teeth flashes on his wide face. It is not the smile that catches her attention — it is the eyes, blue but deep, what the sea just before a storm must look like. His unruly hair the colour of honey frames his face in loose waves, softening the weight of his massive frame. He towers above her like a figure cut from stone, yet he carries himself with a strange grace, a disarming charm despite the sheer bulk of him.

Cătălina’s body stiffens, her thoughts of Maria abruptly severed. She knows — looking at him means surrendering any hope of escape, at least for now. So, she surrenders in her own way, tilting her chin up, her lips parting as she takes control of the moment.

“Are you enjoying the celebrations, my lord?” she asks, and her voice carries an involuntary edge that slices through her easy smile.

“They are lively enough, but your company is far more captivating.” His eyes linger on hers, and she thinks, perhaps, she catches a faint reddish hue spreading beneath his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, a touch of blood rushing to the surface that has nothing to do with the wine they have both been nursing tonight. A pause stretches, nearly suffocating him under the weight of anticipation before he leans closer. His voice softens and carries an unexpected edge of boyish nerves. “Perhaps you would care to join me outside? The air feels terribly stale here, it cannot be good for you.”

Her eyebrow lifts just so, amusement dancing along her features. “Are you so concerned for my well-being?”

“For both of ours. Besides, is it not cruel to keep all this pretence, under so many watchful eyes?”

“A bit of air, then.”

She takes his hand, lets herself be drawn up from her chair and led toward the doors. She lets it rest lightly in his, testing the weight of the gesture as if it were more fragile than it appears. She glances around, searching for her coat, but finds herself whisked away before she can locate it.

Outside, the courtyard is blanketed in snow, a stark brightness underfoot in the light of the torches — clean and soft, yet cold as judgment. The space is narrow, ringed by the imposing walls of Oltea’s residence. No matter where they turn, the shadows of the house press in, watching. He notices it, the way the courtyard imprisons them in its smallness, the restricting openness where even whispered words might be overheard. A few steps away, the faint outlines of another pair, a girl supporting the swaying frame of an older man, break the illusion of solitude. They begin to circle the courtyard slowly, bound by the snow and walls, the silent gaze of the house ever upon them, pushing down on the thin veneer of privacy he hoped for.

But he does not release her hand. Instead, he holds it with a kind of defiance, a silent refusal to surrender the moment. And in that tight circle, there is an unspoken promise in his grasp — a promise that, while delicate as the snow underfoot, he is unwilling to let go of.

The night presses coldly around them, but he feels none of it. He is wrapped in the simple thrill of her nearness, intoxicated by the desire for her skin, so soft and warm under his touch, enough to make him blind to the subtle shivers that run through her. He has taken the fur collar for himself, while she stands there only in her dress, exposed to the bite of the night. When she finally pulls her hand from his and clasps her arms around her chest, he sees it — she is cold, shivering, vulnerable in a way he has not seen her yet. Guilt slices through his pride, and he shrugs off his coat, draping it around her. She sinks into its folds, and the coat is so large on her frame that she cannot help but let out a laugh. She spins, flaring the long sleeves like the wings of some great bird. The sight thrills him, the only warmth in this night.

“I have barely seen you these days. Are you hiding from me?” The question carries a hint of longing, a touch too earnest for his own comfort, but he does not regret it when he sees the glimmer of surprise in her eyes.

“Hiding? From you?” she tilts her head, a coy smile lighting her face as though weighing the idea. “I may have been… otherwise engaged, my lord. A feast like this requires a hundred little preparations.”

“I would not know. I have never taken an interest in such things.”

“Besides, I am certain your companion keeps you well entertained.”

He chortles, and they fall into a silence. He waits, eager for her to speak, to bridge this gap between them, to reveal some hint of favour. But she only gazes at him, serene and unreadable, until the quiet begins to thrum in his veins, churning up a restless energy that stirs his fingers. Words come to him, but they are clumsy and he swallows them. He wants to say something clever instead, something that will match the sharpness of her own wit. Why must he always falter around her? It must be her beauty, he thinks, yet he knows it is more than that — she is unpredictable, and this unknown makes him ache to come closer as much as shrink back in fear.

Then she turns, and the torchlight bathes her skin in warmth, catching the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips. He feels an urge to reach for her, to draw her closer. To be more than this moment’s companion, to explore that look in her eyes that dares him forward. She is unfathomable, this woman, an uncharted landscape whose borders he has barely grazed, and it is maddening, the way she eludes him even now, wrapped in his coat but beyond his reach. Yet the map to her heart is one only he may have the chance to trace.

“And what does a man have to do to entertain you, Cătălina? Or must I work harder?”

“Oh, but I would never want you to strain yourself.” Silence swells, binding the space between them as her eyes drift down to her feet, lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks. She lets her breath out sharply, words falling in calculated increments. “I suppose I am guilty of expecting something… more than—”

This is it. This is the sign he has been waiting for. More. It tugs at his ambition, ignites that restless hunger beneath his composure. He leans in, closer than before, fingers finding the length of her braid, that dark river flowing over her shoulder. He glides his thumb over the silken strands. The end of it rests in his open palm. The bow tied at the tip tempts him. He could pull at it and let her hair spill free. He imagines what it might be like, to let it fall wild and tempting, veiling her bare skin until it is all that covers her, the only thing between him and the shape of her, his hands aching—

“You are a difficult woman to grasp. You slip through my fingers like…” he opens his hand, letting her braid fall, “like that.”

“I do not know what you mean by that, my lord.”

“You do. You make this harder than it need be because you enjoy watching me work for your favour.”

She almost smiles, the faintest flicker at the corner of her mouth as she tilts her head, watching him with an unreadable calm. “And if I do?”

“Then let me prove my determination to you,” he murmurs and gathers her hands within his own, his touch insistent. He can feel her rapid pulse under his fingers. “A woman like you deserves nothing less than devotion. I could be the one to give it.”

“Dracea, I—”

Before she can speak, the damned drunkard interrupts her — a staggering wreck of wine and arrogance. He stumbles, a useless husk of half-chewed words and flapping gestures, dragging the shocked young girl in his wake as if his very existence is an affront. The anger in Dracea’s eyes must blaze like hell loosed, but the old fool does not even notice, oblivious as he sways, shoving him closer to Cătălina by accident. Her fingers grip his arms to steady him — a touch that jolts him, exciting and sudden, grounding him in a moment that vanishes as fast as it arrives.

Gone. Stolen by the staggering wreck and his senseless intrusion.

She slips her coat from her shoulders in a smooth and practised movement and offers it with the faintest suggestion of formality. “Perhaps some things belong to another time. Too many watchful eyes here.”

“Cătălina, wait—”

But all pleas are in vain. She turns from him, head tilted away, stepping through the door. He watches her disappear into warmth and light, while he is left standing in the sharp bite of cold air. A muted frustration swells within him, restless and hollow. He kicks the stone beneath his feet in a weak rebellion before reluctantly stepping back inside, where light, laughter, and crowd draw him against his will.

Through the crowded hall, he catches sight of her at the other end, kneeling beside the bride-to-be, her touch seemingly gentle as she clasps the young woman’s hand. He contemplates moving toward her, thinks to press past the bodies that stand between them, yet a rustling interrupts him. Two men flank him from both sides like shadows with purpose.

“Not quite the romantic ending, eh?” comes a dry remark from one side. Dracea glances at the young man beside him, noting the glint in his eye. Ștefan stands there with a smug grin carved by amusement at his expense.

Dracea only mutters, “What?” The word might feel like a dismissal, but it betrays too much.

Ștefan laughs as Vlad slips a goblet into Dracea’s hand, clapping his back.

“It can’t be all bad,” Vlad says with a smirk. “Unless, of course, you have managed to offend every lady at the feast.”

Dracea lets out a dry laugh of his own, rolls his eyes but does not refuse the wine. He drinks deeply, feeling the burn in his throat, then wipes his lips on his sleeve. Just as quickly, he feels Vlad’s hand pulling him along.

“Now, wipe the sorrow from your face. There is someone here I want you to meet. They might prove… useful for our cause, shall we say.”

later that night

Darkness has consumed even the last scrap of light by the time Cătălina and Ilinca reach their door. They lingered until even the last revellers disappeared into the night. Only then, when all the laughter and colour had drained away, were they granted a chance to sit, to salvage a few crumbs from the night — a stale bite of cake here, a sip of wine left in an abandoned jar there. It was meagre, stripped of all ceremony, yet nourishing. When their dismissal came, it felt almost like an act of mercy.

They slip into the room like sleepwalkers, by memory alone, guided by the way the familiar door handle fits under their fingers. The maid lights a few candles, and they sputter to life in columns of flame, smearing warm yellow light across the chamber and casting shifting patterns on the walls. The two women wave her off with weary smiles, brush away the hint of assistance, refuse to let another hand undress them or peel off the weariness woven into every layer. At last, silence thickens around them and seals them in.

Cătălina lowers herself in front of a small mirror, fingers trailing over the table’s cool, rough surface. Her blurred reflection shimmers and shifts in the candlelight. Behind her, the bed groans as Ilinca lets herself fall into the embrace of the thick quilt. Her limbs sprawl over the goose down, her body giving in to the plush softness. She giggles when she imagines herself sinking slowly into the thickness of clouds, weightless and free.

“What a long, long night.”

“Mmm.” Cătălina meets her own gaze in the mirror — a glimmer is still awake even in weariness. “And we still have two more of the same.”

She studies her reflection in the mirror, tilting her face towards the faint light. The shadows splay across her skin, casting an ashen hue she is not certain belongs there. Pain knots through her limbs, warm, almost indulgent — a quiet ache burrowed in muscle, leaving a faint thrill as if threading into her bones with purpose. She would give anything to sink into warm water and let her body open like a flower, feel it rise around her neck, to float in it and let her mind drift with the steam’s unravelling tendrils…

Her hands lift and tug loose the ribbon that binds her braid. She tosses it onto the table where it falls coiled like a wisp of smoke. Her hair resists, though, still wound in its pattern, thick and stubborn. With a quick breath, she threads her fingers through the braid and works apart each strand. She shakes her head, and heavy waves spill down, falling around her shoulders and framing her face with a dark curtain. With a sharp tug, she unlaces her boots and lets them drop onto the floor with a thud as she sinks onto the quilt beside Ilinca, the fabric sighing beneath her.

“Maria is terrified,” she admits to her companion, eyes drawn to the warm flicker of the flame. Her hands lace together over her stomach, fingers tightening as if to catch something slipping through them. “I don’t know how she’ll endure two more days of this. All this merriment for something she thinks will bury her alive…”

“So was Sorea, and look at her now. Thriving, with a child stirring within her.”

Cătălina’s mind flickers to Oltea’s eldest daughter, whose hand glided proudly over her swelling belly this evening. She was glowing as if lit from within, her beauty sharpened with an almost otherworldly glow. The memory slips and dissolves back into the bride-to-be’s disheartened state, with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands.

“She was inconsolable last night. She couldn’t stop crying,” Cătălina says softly. “She adores her mother. The thought of leaving her family… it undoes her.”

Ilinca stares upward, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s rough lines. She feels Cătălina’s gaze settle, dark and heavy, on her profile. She turns her face toward her and sees the intent gleam in Cătălina’s eyes — something is shifting there, an unvoiced question caught within them. Ilinca lets out a quiet sigh and turns to her side, letting her head drop into the palm of her hand.

“It will pass, Cătălina. This is the shape of our lives. Every woman learns to bear it. Soon, Maria will remember the tears and wonder why they ever came. Besides, Sorea is married, too, and she visits her family rather often, does she not?”

She wants to trust Ilinca, desperately wishes to cling to the comfort of it, but doubt holds tight to her throat. As Sorea’s lady-in-waiting, Ilinca must know of these things, must see the woman’s life from every side. Behind the curtain, beneath the silks, beyond the torchlight. She has retained this position longer than Cătălina. Surely, she can be trusted to know the shape of what is to come. But perhaps Maria will not learn to bear it. The thought slithers in and strikes out against Ilinca’s words. Why can’t I never trust comfort for long? Why do I always see the dark edge in everything?

“And what about you, hm?” a hint of slyness lightens Ilinca’s tone, pulling at Cătălina’s wandering thoughts. “What about that handsome man always trailing behind you?”

“What handsome man?”

“Cătălina. Do not play.”

Her thoughts blur like the haze of a morning field, shadows half-forming. As if drawn back by some unbidden instinct, there comes the memory of his face, blue eyes soft and steady, catching hers across the room. She rises from the bed and feels her expression shifting and hardening, her fingers drifting to the buttons on her coat. The cloth suddenly binds too close, stifling. The sensation that spreads through her is not fatigue. No, something else — the slow friction of annoyance, dragged out and thick. Her fingers begin to undo the buttons with a fierce, almost absent-minded urgency. She stares at them, her eyes a touch too fixed, too intent, revealing her restlessness.

“Oh. Dracea,” she says at last, her voice bare and hollowed by the effort of saying it.

“So you do remember him,” Ilinca’s grin twists sharp and daring. “Well? What is that about?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you enamoured by him?”

Her fingers freeze, the last button left untouched. A pause drops heavy between them. Ilinca props herself up, and Cătălina’s gaze meets hers. For a moment, her face betrays her in a quick, vivid flicker of shock, as if Ilinca pulled something raw and unformed into the light. She feels warmth rise in her veins, a faint treachery colouring her cheeks. Laughter tumbles from her, clumsy and rougher than she intends, almost choking her.

“What? Enamoured? Don’t be absurd. What even makes you think such a thing?”

“I don’t understand. You seemed quite inclined to his affections tonight.”

“Well, perhaps,” she bites the inside of her cheek, and her arms fall to her sides, the fabric slipping loose from her hands. “But enamoured seems a little excessive. It’s only curiosity, nothing more.”

No words come in response, and so Cătălina continues her nightly ritual. Her coat slips off her shoulders, and it lands on the chair, warm yet lifeless. She unfastens her dress, drawing it down like skin she no longer wants to wear. As her body releases the day, her thoughts tighten around a persistent question, probing the corners of her mind for the tangled roots of her restlessness.

Once, enamoured might have named her feelings well. It would have explained the thrill and spark she had felt during those first looks exchanged with Dracea, and how she found herself drawn to him before she could name why. Only a week ago, she was almost certain. This could have been the start of a future, a foundation laid brick by brick. Few ever stumble upon such a spark, and fewer still find it willing to bloom. A boyish kindness radiates beneath his fierce bearing, and the generosity of spirit unrestrained by power awakened something sweet, something hopeful. She remembers the early glances, the exhilaration of Dracea’s gaze like a hand on her shoulder. What woman does not relish the delight of a man’s unwavering admiration, of feeling, if only briefly, as if the world fell silent just to watch her? Her glances and curiosity were honest, too.

Yet excitement turns, as all things do. What began as a rush, a thrill in her heart, has cooled, bit by bit, into disappointment. The first stirrings, the excitement of pursuit were stimulating, intoxicating, even. She would never say it aloud, though she does not mind confessing it to herself — to be desired so boldly, to see a man almost grovel with need, is a heady kind of power to possess. A single glance from her, a tilt of her head was enough to see his breath quicken, turn his pulse erratic. But when it became apparent that his talk was more hollow than honeyed, when every conversation turned to be empty praise rather than revealing anything truer or deeper, her interest began to waver, then wane. For what good is desire when it silences everything else?

Can he not see that his game wears thin?

In all his glances, he has yet to see her. Admiration is easy. Any man can muster that for a woman he finds beautiful. But every time she urged the conversation toward some hidden part of himself, he began to deflect and corner her with empty charm until she felt pinned, like a creature under glass. I was so close to telling him tonight, she thinks, fingers trailing over the fabric of her dress. If only he had paused, if only he had listened…

Even now, looking back on her own breathless excitement, she feels the bitterness of it. Was she so naïve, so foolish to think she could bring herself to such hope? Like a moth that hovers too near the fire, with wings singed.

He looks at me but does not see me…

She is only an achievement — a beautiful thing he has fixed in his sights, a conquest to savour. Desire, admiration, these are not enough. She wishes to be seen, to have her mind touched as if it, too, were made of skin. Did God grant her thoughts only to bury them under the weight of what her beauty demanded? Is that to be her only legacy? Beauty, that fleeting thing… What will it mean, fifteen, twenty years from now, after children have been born, after time’s touch has rounded her where she now curves taut? After lines have etched themselves onto her face, marked by sun and laughter and worry, and her hair has greyed under the weight of life. What then? Beauty will be a ghostly residue, a memory drifting from the past, and memory does not return what the body will have surrendered to time.

Marriage, of course, asks for no such thing as love. The roles are clear, the obligations plain as stone. She could simply fall into place like every other woman and let herself settle. So why reach for what cannot be touched? Why strain for something precarious, something not promised? Yet the heart insists on its claim. She feels it, like the urge of a climber for the highest branch. Is it so wrong to seek what lies beyond? She has this freedom, this rare privilege, this gift of choosing. She can choose. And perhaps in that choice lies the only true vision of herself she has ever glimpsed.

Cătălina’s tongue loosens as she settles back on the bed and sinks into the worn but familiar folds of the quilt. She tugs its warmth over her bare legs like an afterthought. She has left her nightdress somewhere, too weary to care, and only the thin fabric of her shift clings to her against the edges of the chill. A long sigh escapes her, as if it might float above her and linger in the dim air.

“My brother has ideas,” she begins, words spilling with caution. She tilts her head, eyes fixing on Ilinca who watches her intently. “Ideas he is convinced will see me properly betrothed. He wants me to be settled, spare me hardship. I know he cares, but—”

“But you’ve seen his taste?”

A quick laugh escapes Cătălina’s lips. “What I am trying to say is that I’d rather be the one with open eyes. Maybe if— But then, perhaps not…”

She falls silent, her teeth chewing at the corner of her lip. The candlelight flickers, restless, and she wills it to stay dim, to hide the blood rising to her cheeks like a confession painted across her skin. She has been caught. She must have been. Surely Ilinca notices it, hears it in the hesitation that lingers in her words. The implication is too sharp, too bold to be misunderstood. Her chest tightens with the weight of it, this baring of ambition dressed as innocence. Does Ilinca see her as a schemer now? Her feelings for Dracea were honest once; her heart holds that truth. But is it a sin to let her mind take the reins? It is not a crime, is it? To hope for a life with softened edges, with joys she can claim. To wish for that, to plan it if she must — does that make her wicked?

“And that handsome stranger of yours… Isn’t he close with the Wallachian pretender?”

“Yes. And I hope to return home. One day.”

“But the throne seems to elude him.”

“Yes, considering the situation,” Cătălina admits, her voice quieter now, mind carefully searching for the right words. “They could be exiled for years, maybe longer.”

Now it is Ilinca who pushes herself up from the bed. She unties her boots and tosses them in the corner, and the cold seizes her skin the moment her feet meet the floor. She moves quickly, peeling her clothes away with trembling fingers as the frigid air bites at her skin. The candles flicker, their light too frail to push back the cold. She pulls her nightdress over her head and presses her hands to her shoulders, chasing the little warmth she can as she scurries back to bed. Her body folds into the goose down beside Cătălina like a shadow seeking refuge.

“And you would marry him despite all that? If he asked your brother for your hand?”

“I did find Dracea intriguing at first. But now… I am not quite certain anymore.”

“If that’s how you feel, why do you keep tempting that man?”

The question strikes Cătălina harder than it should, the weight of it punching the breath from her chest. The silence swells between them, heavy as damp wool, until she finally manages to speak, “I am not tempting him*—*”

“You know how quickly gossip spills from vicious tongues. One wrong word, one gesture out of place…”

“I know.”

“You are so dear to me, Cătălina.” Ilinca’s hand finds hers beneath the quilt’s heaviness and squeezes reassuringly. “Since the day we met, I have thought of you as a good friend. And I would hate — truly hate — for others to see you as something you are not. To call you a… jezebel.”

Cătălina’s frown deepens on her face, eyes drawn upward to the wooden beams above. Her thoughts turn restless, folding in on themselves. Jezebel? For what? For curiosity? For daring to wonder? But the words tangle in her throat, and she swallows their sharpness back down.

“I know,” she murmurs instead.

“If you no longer want him, let him go. It will be easier. And who knows, your brother might find someone more fitting for you.”

Cătălina’s fingers curl and uncurl beneath the quilt, restless against Ilinca’s encouraging grip. Her gaze darts down to the candlelight as if the answer might be hiding there, tucked away in the dancing flames. Her lips part, a breath escaping, but no words follow. Instead, her hand reaches to adjust the edge of the quilt, smoothing the thick fabric with deliberate strokes.

“Well. Perhaps Maria will ask me to stay in her service after her marriage. That could be a path.”

Ilinca sits up, the flame of the last candle whispering out as her breath brushes against it. Darkness pours into the room like a tide. “There’s time. So much time still. Don’t weigh yourself down with it tonight.”

She sinks back into the bed, pulling Cătălina into her arms as if trying to calm a distressed child. Despite the intentions, it smothers more than it soothes. Her lips brush against her forehead in a gesture that feels too much like pity.

If you get to this part, I want to thank you wholeheartedly for reading this long work! Surprisingly, you may find little ramblings about facts and sources in these “footnotes”, nonetheless, let me quickly dedicate a few words to what is going on in this chapter:

Even though all of us might carry a certain idea of what life in the Middle Ages looked like, this era spans a vast timeframe and encompasses many regions across the world. Our typical understanding often reflects Western European experiences of those times, yet Eastern European states developed distinctly different patterns present in day-to-day life, societal rules and constrictions, behaviours, and customs. While patriarchal norms undoubtedly dominated Wallachian and Moldavian society as well, the legal system and societal structures provided women with a degree of agency not universally found in Western Europe at the time because of various factors, such as a different political environment and even religion. I strive to capture all of this complexity in Cătălina’s life, and this chapter specifically delves into both the negatives and the positives of a woman’s life.

I also apologise for Dracea in this chapter — I love him so much, he is such a dear character, but that does not mean he cannot have his flaws or mess up colossally in certain aspects. Things will get better with him (and for him) eventually, I promise you that.

#vlad dracula #vlad drăculea #vlad tepes #vlad ţepeş #vlad the impaler #cătălina costescu #dracea de măneşti #stephen the great #ştefan cel mare #historical fiction

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coffeewithcutcaffeine · 4 months ago

Text

— in which Vlad Dracula and a childhood acquaintance reunite after years, and both assess one another anew through the perspective of adulthood.

word count: 5,252 words

warnings: implications of a love triangle, mentions of concubinage and extramarital relationships, (very) mild suggestive language and innuendos

a/n: Somehow, I have always felt in my writing bones that the beginnings of Vlad’s story with Cătălina should begin in Moldavia. I see Vlad’s years at the Moldavian court as one of his happiest moments in Voievod. Is it 100% plausible? Maaaybe not completely but it could not be any other way. Cătălina has a crucial place in his life… and here is how it all begins. I hope you enjoy the ride together with them! ❤️️

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January 1950, Curtea Domnească, Suceava, Moldavia

The sheep wool draped over his shoulders offers warmth but no relief. Beneath him, the stone steps bite with cold — they had to sweep away the thick layer of snow so they could sit on them. The tension in his muscles comes from elsewhere. Rest has become foreign to him, though his body pleads for it. Dark shadows have settled beneath his eyes, almost black now, sharp against his pale, bone-white face. Exhaustion weighs heavy, and still, he cannot let go.

Though his uncle became voivode in autumn, they arrived at the court only two weeks ago — messages between Suceava and the Porte crawl at a torturous pace. When the messenger delivered Bogdan’s offer to him which stated that he was welcome to live at the Moldavian court if he pleased, Vlad had little time to drag his feet. But to go to Moldavia seemed a great risk. His uncle turned away from the Poles and now leaned on Hungarian support. Hunyadi might be eager to assist him for now, but his tune could change the moment he learned that the Moldavian voivode gave shelter to the young man whose head he wanted on a silver platter. To come here could have meant an instant execution. Family ties? They rarely matter, even less in royal families. Family is always the first scapegoat sacrificed on the path to power. His nephew’s death could help Bogdan secure a comfortable future.

But to come here seemed a better choice than staying in Edirne, even despite the risks. To move forward is to push through. And so he gathered the few belongings he had and set off for Suceava with his companion. The thick December snow turned the typically month-long journey into a much longer toil; having to bypass Wallachia entirely stretched the odyssey even further. Long days in the saddle or rough nights in shoddy inns in Dobruja nonetheless seemed a more preferable option than ending up dragged to Târgovişte and butchered on the doorstep of the palace like a stray dog.

Both men were received with warmth Vlad had not experienced in years. Bogdan has repeatedly reassured him that he will see to it that no harm comes to them, yet Vlad cannot shake off the state of alarm. One can feign affection with ease, perhaps even better than other emotions. And so instead of letting sleep overpower him in the comfort of the warm bed, his body stays alert. Every sound beyond the bolted door jolts him awake at night. He keeps a dagger beneath the pillow, ready, as if sleep itself is a danger he cannot afford to trust.

The same cannot be said of his companion. After that tumultuous year, Dracea has found Suceava to be the ideal place for repose. As Vlad walks past his chamber at the first light of dawn every morning, the heavy snores rumble from behind the closed door, deep and unbroken.

And, of course, there is that woman.

She is the reason why they are freezing on the stone steps instead of lounging by the fire in the hall. The cook gave them both this year’s walnuts wrapped in two cloth bundles, and Vlad was already turning towards the grand entrance that would take him to the hall when Dracea heard her voice — just a faint sound from outside — and bolted out of the gate. He has been mesmerised by her since the first moment he was introduced to her, longing to spend every second near her presence. Dracea’s eyes have been searching for her everywhere.

Vlad followed his footsteps without hesitation, watching his friend’s obsession with amused detachment. He could not help himself. Curiosity pulls him in like a moth to a flame and demands satisfaction. He has been observing this infatuation with fascination that has little to do with her and more with the simple notion of what a woman’s allure can turn a man into. There is certain bemusement in it, he thinks, that a single glance — barely a tilt of her chin, the flicker of a smile — can unravel a man so completely. She has reduced Dracea to a trembling boy and hypnotised him into thinking he is the one in control.

Dracea fights this battle with honour. His gaze never falters, never hesitates, never gives the poor soul rest — there is no respite in love, no pause for the weary. She moves and he follows, without question, without breath. If she graces him with a smile, his becomes all the wider. If she seems to be in need of a helping hand, he is ready to move the mountains for her. During a shared meal in the hall, amidst the murmur of voices and the clink of metal against wood, he leans back with satisfaction whenever her eyes find him. In that glance, the world collapses and folds inwards, existing only in the space of their unspoken words. An unabashed, mischievous wink earns him her laughter — soft, fleeting yet eternal. That is how wars are won.

He does not give her rest even now. His eyes anchor themselves to her form as her fingers caress the fabric the merchant displays to her. The delicate touch of wool against the soft skin he longs to touch, the whispered shift of fibres between her hands, hold his attention in a grip stronger than any grasp could. She pulls her woollen cloak tighter around her shoulders, and when she laughs, her cheeks flushed from the cold tighten in amusement. She is hardly the only living being standing in the courtyard — Ștefan’s elder sister Maria might be older than them but is enchanting nonetheless — but none of that matters to Dracea. The world around him dissolves, vanishes, and all that remains is her, untouchable yet infinitely near, caught in the invisible tether of his focus.

Cătălina. The name rolls around in his mind like a secret meant to be whispered in the darkness of a night. Sharp yet soft, delicate but never fragile. Că-tă-li-na. Că-tă-li-na. He says it in his mind, again and again, testing its weight as if by repeating it he might unravel the mystery of her, might understand how the smoothness of the syllables could match the depth in her eyes, the curve of her smile. It does not belong to her but becomes her, and with each thought of it, he is more certain that no other name would ever do.

How can something so simple hold so much power over him?

The sound of a rasping breath pulls him out of his reverie. A sweetness still lingers on his tongue when he recognises that sound — laughter, choked and restrained, desperately held in the throat. He turns to Vlad and lets the world of whiteness and empty walnut shells come into focus. The man sits there, his mouth stuffed with the nuts and cheeks puffed out in unspoken jest. He tips the cloth, and the walnuts tumble free and fall into the folds of the sheep skin laid across his knees. Then he dangles the cloth before Dracea’s face.

“A kerchief, my lord?”

“Wha— Why?”

“You are starting to slobber all over your knees.”

The laughter intensifies and swells around him, but Dracea pays it no mind. He flicks his wrist in a dismissal, and the cloth slips through Vlad’s fingers as he yanks it out of his hand. His eyes settle once more on that divine thing before him.

“You must be the only man alive immune to her charms,” Dracea shakes his head in disappointment, then points at her with an arm outstretched in indignation. “Take a good, long look at her and tell me it stirs nothing within you!”

“I am aware of her looks. You forget that I have known her since childhood.”

“I hardly doubt she looked like this. So ripe, so…”

Vlad wants to argue that countless other girls are ready to catch the wandering gaze of their starving eyes. He holds his tongue instead and looks at her, feeling a flicker of memory appear in front of him like the dust of a long-gone afternoon. She is not a girl anymore. The childish softness in her face is gone, stripped away by time. She is a woman now, not very tall but with a graceful posture befitting her class, hardly waifish, instead well-built — slim, with strength in her body indicating that she remains physically active. He recalls that she is a decent rider, at least from what he noticed during the sparse and short moments when their paths crossed in childhood. His eyes sweep over her features. Dark eyes, neither too large nor too small, a narrow nose, full lips. Her hair flows down her back in a river of dark chestnut waves, surprisingly not tamed in a braid, and the cool winter sun paints the tresses with a faint reddish tinge characteristic of her family. It almost reaches her waist, almost touches, but does not quite.

“There is more to life than beautiful women,” Vlad says at last, palms open in front of him.

“That is not what you said last night in the arms of the carpenter’s daughter.”

A walnut shell strikes Dracea’s temple with a thud, then clatters down the steps and rolls away. “At the very least, I keep my dalliances far from our host’s threshold.”

“As do I! Yet this one… this one may well be worth a sin or two.”

Dracea lets the words fall, expecting the familiar grin, the quick flash of approval in Vlad’s eyes — a sign of shared understanding, the unspoken camaraderie of men who dance on the edge of fate. Fortune favours the bold, he thinks to himself, and the Dragon’s son is never one to leave boldness unanswered, always quick to recognise it and enjoy it in others as if it were his own. But now, the silence stretches. Instead, there is only the crunch, soft but decisive, of the walnut splitting under Vlad’s thumbs. Not a word. Not a glance.

Dracea’s tongue curls, his remark now a hollow thing. Fortune favours the bold, yes — but it has its moods, and today, it is nowhere to be found.

The walnut shell drops to the ground.

“Exile need not mean we live as monks,” he tries again, and that is when the shadow of a grin pulls at Vlad’s lips.

“I would be the last man to pretend otherwise.”

“So?”

Vlad inhales, the crisp air sharp in his chest, while moss-green eyes trace the skies that sag under the weight of impending snow. Dracea can warm his bed with whomever he pleases. That much does not stir him. But that Muntenian woman, sharp-eyed and unbending, is not some tavern girl. Ruining a lady-in-waiting’s reputation is a game only fools play, and a single indiscretion could snap the trust their uncle has placed in them like a brittle twig. There is a reason why any non-committal adventures are kept strictly outside the palace’s gates. And then, there is always the chance of the unexpected, and to tether oneself to anything more than a fleeting passion when tomorrow, they might not even be in the same land… He knows better than to believe in anything as fragile as permanence in a place where nothing is ever promised, least of all tomorrow. Serious commitments are a luxury, and luxuries require stability. Vlad smirks at the thought — stability is the one thing they lack.

This might grow into a distraction that could taint all of his obligations.

But then again, he is not in a place to forbid such private matters. When Vlad had to flee, he did tell Dracea that he could not demand his companion as his ruler but could only ask it of him as his friend. Dracea is risking his life, not for the country or the crown but for the man — not out of obligation, but of his own volition. Besides, the lady-in-waiting hardly seems like a fragile damsel, and if she is anything like his sister to whom she once used to be close… God help the man foolish enough to think her weak.

A touch of something — is it concession? — graces Vlad’s lips as his fingers gather the last of the scattered nuts. He takes the white cloth from Dracea’s outstretched hand and wraps them into it again. Who is he to guard another man’s life when it is only his to live? To each man his own.

“So… Be discreet. Do nothing reckless. Beyond that, I care not for the rest. That is all I ask of you, Dracea.”

Lost in thought, he does not realise that his eyes stray from his friend and, as if pulled by an invisible thread, land upon her. It is fleeting, a moment that could dissolve in the air, but Dracea notices. He sees the pause, the way Vlad’s gaze betrays him just enough. A small victory, perhaps, but one that sparks a knowing smirk on his lips.

And so he presses further. “Like a rose in full bloom, is she not?”

He rises swiftly, fingers brushing the dust from the wool that clings to his legs. His hand, deliberate and firm, falls on Dracea’s shoulder.

“Mind the thorns. Roses are laced with them,” he says at last and disappears through the gate and into the palace’s corridors.

Dracea glances at her once more, the sharp pull of longing rising from his chest as if it could lacerate the air between them. He has already already made his choice, perhaps long before he knew.

This one might be worth piercing his fingers for.

three days later, Curtea Domnească, Suceava, Moldavia

Cătălina can recall the first sentiment she has ever felt for Dracul’s son with striking clarity — a creeping, uneasy shadow of envy. More than a decade ago, she was an observer in her own quiet solitude. She remembers looking at him in the same manner as she is now, through the grand window of the Voivodal Palace in deep contemplation, back hunched forward, chin cradled in the hollow of her small palms, dark eyes burning through his figure. Her body repeats the posture as if it were branded into her bones.

They were only children then, and she envied the lightness with which he sprinted through the path among his mother’s beloved rose bushes, cheeks puffed out and red with exertion. She always saw him in a frantic blur of motion, never still enough for her to catch more than a glimpse, a mass of black curls bobbing around his face. Cătălina was granted this freedom only within the sanctity of her own home. Beyond its confines, it was forbidden. She would swiftly face chastisement otherwise, made to remember who she was — or rather, what she could never be. A flicker of her tongue, a pink dart that vanished as quickly as it appeared, was a secret rebellion she allowed herself when no one was watching. Such a fate would never befall him. What was deemed naughtiness in her was celebrated in him. He could run as swiftly as he wished to, climb cherry trees as high as the boughs would permit, spit the crimson-stained pits upon the earth. It appeared as if the world had already bent its knee to him, a six-year-old boy.

The circumstances have changed significantly since then.

The world shifted and slipped into new hands. She now resides in a different Voivodal Palace — amidst a different court, under the rule of a different voivode, in a different land. The girl of six is long gone and left behind, buried beneath whatever remains of her childhood home, replaced by a woman on the cusp of eighteen. The sting of envy has disappeared together with that small girl.

She feels something different now. Curiosity, perhaps. Certainly sorrow — for what is lost, for what was taken from them, for those who would never return.

She has barely seen him since he arrived at Voivode Bogdan’s gates, but from the little she has noticed, she can already sense it. Life has hardened him and shifted something in him. He had to bury that boy who once scrambled up cherry trees as if he owned the sky, too.

“There you are, Cătălina!” she hears a voice behind her back and, as if by command, she snaps upright, her back straight and body rigid with that automatic obedience. Her hands, so quick to gesture, to grasp, now hang by her sides. “I have searched for you everywhere! Mother speaks of nothing but the engagement, I could bear it no—”

Maria stops mid-sentence, her voice swallowed by the quiet tension as she comes to stand beside Cătălina. Her gaze drifts to the window, large blue eyes settling not on the blond-haired youth outside, her brother Ștefan — shirt loose and sword in hands, all sinew and readiness — but on the unspoken subject of Cătălina’s attention.

Ștefan, for all his taut energy, could not be the man she was watching.

The man’s raven curls glisten with sweat, and the linen of his shirt clings to his back, every contour alive, the tension radiating from his form. But it is not infatuation that crosses her companion’s face. Cătălina’s gaze is not soft, nor does it linger with that longing Maria has come to recognise in so many women in his presence.

“Bogdan has instantly warmed up to him. He says he reminds him of his sister very much,” Maria’s voice softens, almost slipping into a whisper as if the words could barely hold themselves together.

She watches Cătălina’s lips curve into a smile filled with fondness. “Doamna Vasilisa was indeed a force to be reckoned with.”

Her mind floods with memories of the Moldavian princess, her hair the colour of honey sculpted into a tight bun atop her head. The strands, thick with waves, were always held by dozens of thin, gleaming pins and tucked beneath a veil of lace so delicate it looked like air. To the outside world, she was elegance incarnate, poised, a devoted wife to their beloved voivode, a loving mother to their children. She was the figure whispered about with admiration in the corners of markets, the dream mothers harboured for their daughters. A model of grace and temperance. The wife every man envied. But Cătălina remembered a different version of the graceful noblewoman, too. Behind the closed doors of the palace, Vasilisa unravelled into a sprightly soul full of vigour, always so quick with her wit, her words slicing through the air with the sharpness of steel. Vlad and his sister Alexandra bear their father’s face most strongly, but it is their mother’s fire that dances behind their eyes, her resilience burning beneath the surface.

The tender smile freezes on her lips in further remembrance. Life was rarely kind to Vasilisa.

She wrestles with her past like a ghost clinging to her skin, heavier than it should be, more real than she can bear. The memory resists her, coiled around her thoughts, but Cătălina forces her focus forward, settling her eyes on Maria. A deep silence blankets them both, a quiet that only makes the young woman’s nerves more visible. There’s a tremor in her stance, a subtle bow to her shoulders as if the weight of invisible hands presses down, bending her towards some unnamed fear. The crease between her pale brows is faint, but Cătălina catches the restless twisting of the rings, the way Maria’s fingers worry at her wrists, pale against the dim light.

She may be here to play the part of distraction, to ease the tension with soft laughter and lighter airs, but fondness, in its delicate intimacy, makes pretences an unbearable weight. She would rather silence the empty gestures of her role than betray this quiet bond. Damn him. The thought flares, sharp and brief, as her back turns to the window. The two figures outside, blurred by the clash of swords and steel ringing against steel, become distant, irrelevant. She loops her arm around Maria’s and pulls her away, guiding her through the winding corridors, where the dimness stretches over them like shadows.

“Have you had the chance to see him yet?” Cătălina speaks softly through the strain, drawing Maria out of her nervous daze.

Maria’s eyes flash with surprise, startled by the directness. She hesitates, then shakes her head, a sigh escaping like a confession. “No. I tried to catch a glimpse, but Mother would have none of it. I was left with Bogdan while she was giving her approval to this… man.”

“So you will have to wait until the engagement festivities begin?”

“Yes.” The word lands heavy, dragging Maria’s gaze to the ground. “What a surprise that shall be,” she teeters on the edge of bitter resignation. “Yet, I cannot say whether it will be a welcome one.”

Cătălina’s hand rests gently over Maria’s trembling fingers in a gesture meant to console, but even she knows — deep down — that any attempts come thin. Hollow. “He might be a good man,” she offers and flinches at the sound of her own voice, at the smallness of that desperate hope.

As if that could mean much in a woman’s world…

“He might be…” Maria repeats, the words dissolving as her hands fly up full of frustration. “I know— I know that Sorea endured her own engagement two years ago. And Isaia is a kind husband to her, and a generous brother-in-law to me. Mother’s judgment was right then, so why should I question her now? But, Cătălina, I do not even know this man’s face! His name, his family — that is all I have. What if I do not like him, what if—”

Her words falter as she falls into Cătălina’s arms, seeking refuge from the storm of doubt swirling inside her.

“I am certain that you will find many opportunities to spend time at court, with your family,” Cătălina says, threading the tension with care. “The voivode is fond of you all, and your husband… well, he can hardly refuse when the voivode asks for your presence, can he?”

But the answer comes not in words — just the muffled sound of stifled tears, breath trapped in the tight press of Maria’s body against hers. Then the break, the sudden release. Maria pulls away, her hand brushing at eyes that are too red, too swollen to hide the tremor in her laughter. It breaks, like glass splitting.

“Bogdan has always treated us like his own children. Sometimes more kindly than our own father ever did.” The acknowledgement feels sharp and bitter, and she regrets saying it even as it leaves her mouth. She bites down on her lip, stifling the slip of honesty — but she has no reason to with Cătălina. Never with her. She pushes forward instead. “I sometimes wonder if Mother truly sees the privilege she holds. How many women can say that? That a man had to ask her permission — her permission, not the father’s — to marry her daughter. Șendrea went to her. Bogdan did not interfere, not once. What woman here can claim such freedom?”

Cătălina reflects on her words in silence. Being a royal concubine carries its own weight of trials and tribulations. Power and autonomy can be such fragile things, gone as quickly as they appear, and at times, they cut deeper than they shine. The comfortable existence hangs by a thread, liable to disappear at a moment’s notice. So much depends on the will of the voivode, and not all treat their mistresses with Bogdan’s love and generosity. Some consider their concubines true partners — confidants in life and governance, a voice of conscience, a source of laughter and comfort. For others, a mistress is nothing more than a body to conquer and discard at whim.

Men are takers, always. The difference lies not in the taking but in the subtlety or brutality with which they claim what they believe is theirs. This insight, however, Cătălina chooses to keep to herself for now.

Her role, after all, is to entertain. And entertain she shall. As they descend the stone steps and traverse the courtyard — snow crunching underfoot, whispers of their skirts tracing the path behind them — the sound of steel and grunts drifts towards them. Her eyes fall upon the scene unfolding in the distance, and the two men still locked in combat momentarily seize her attention. A sharp and reckless thought sparks in her mind. She chews the inside of her lip. The risk of overstepping and offending the young woman beside her briefly lingers. She weighs Maria, her delicate posture concealing an appetite for audacity, the woman’s fingers twitching with the restrained energy of a bird too long in a cage. If there is one thing she has learned in this household, it is that Maria thrives on the whispered words that slip between the cracks of propriety that Cătălina dares to share, lips brushing an ear in youthful conspiracy.

And so, she takes the risk.

“Well…” she murmurs. “Should the engagement fail for any reason…”

She lets the words trail, her eyes gliding to the dark-haired man who flings Ștefan to the ground with a practised sweep. A sly grin tugs at her lips as she nudges Maria’s hip. Instead of speaking further, Cătălina jerks her head towards the laughing Wallachian who is now helping Maria’s brother to his feet. For a second, the fair-haired woman feigns indignation and even places a jewelled hand to her lips, but the twinkle in her blue eyes betrays her. Soon enough, bright and carefree laughter escapes her. It hangs in the air around them, vibrant as a ripple on the surface of still water.

“He is Ștefan’s cousin!”

“But not yours.”

“And much younger than me.”

“Four years. Just like the voivode and your mother.”

Maria brushes the idea aside with a flick of her wrist. “That man undoubtedly finds his thrills elsewhere. Besides… No man of sound mind would wish to face Bogdan’s anger. Neither would I.”

The two women exchange soft, knowing laughter, but Maria slows her pace, eventually stopping by one of the stone pillars. She leans against it, careful to keep them hidden from the view of the cousins. She takes the opportunity to look more closely at the foreigner Bogdan has taken under his wing, at the ripple of vitality coursing through his every movement. There is an energy in him that, though contained after the exercise, still threatens to spill out at any moment.

“He is quite an enigmatic man. So… I struggle to find the word—”

“Exotic?” Cătălina offers, and Maria nods her head with quiet satisfaction.

“Yes. Very. Certainly not like a Turk, yet quite different from other Muntenians.” She leans closer to her companion and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as though the young man donning his doublet might somehow overhear the exchange. “Some of the ladies say he seems foreign enough to keep you guessing but familiar enough to keep you comfortable.”

Cătălina raises an eyebrow, but the curve of her lips betrays her mischief. “Is that what those God-fearing women whisper about into their goblets at dinner?”

“Oh, hush, you! Allow those poor souls a bit of innocent amusement.”

She cannot help the soft scoff that rises at the thought of innocence, but she swallows it down, biting her tongue with practised precision. Maria, mistaking the silence for uncertainty, presses on, her curiosity already pulling her past the point of no return. The next question spills from her lips before she can reconsider.

“Then how do you perceive him? What was he like?”

At the question, Cătălina pauses. No answer rises easily to her lips. Her childhood, after all, was a small world, one of girls from noble families and of walking hand-in-hand with his sister, Alexandra. They would spend hours together, secluded from the bustle of boys and their pursuits. His world was different, tethered to the saddle, to the hunt, to the future that awaited him in the court’s halls, whether as a voivode or a voice of reason to his elder brother, Mircea, the designated heir to their father’s throne. She doubts he even remembered her name when their paths crossed once more here, at the Moldavian court. His attention was on Dumitru, her elder brother, who used to be Mircea’s closest friend. They embraced immediately, the weight of years dissolving in the clasp of their arms around each other’s shoulders. Reintroducing her, she recalls, was an afterthought to Dumitru — just another formality.

Yet one thing stirs now, vivid in her memory.

Etiquette. Presentation. He has always been impeccable in those, of course — none of the siblings could ever escape their mother’s iron-handed teachings. But beneath it all, he was the rebel. Always the rebel. He was never one to bend to the weight of other people’s judgment; he relied on his own reason to guide him. While Alexandra was always the one to ask many questions, he was the one who questioned everything. If he disliked someone, it was not necessarily cruelty that came through, but a relentless defiance. He could become a particularly painful splinter beneath their nail. He never bullied or lowered himself to pettiness; he was raised with too much pride for that. But when he felt strongly about something, he would never bite his tongue or hold back his aggravation.

A rebel, yes. But always with reason. She doubts that much has changed since then.

She hums in contemplation before deciding on her next remark. “Individualistic.”

“Come now, Cătălina. You are choosing your words too carefully!”

She throws her hands in the air. “But I hardly know him! We were both children when I last saw him. All that time can change a person beyond recognition. He is a grown man now.”

Time — and years spent as a hostage among the Turks, she thinks to herself, burying the thought deep. No one but he knows what that life cost him, what it shaped. He might flaunt his knowledge of their arts, language, and customs like a polished shield, but he keeps any personal accounts closely guarded. And that is not her story to tell.

“A handsome grown man, might I add.”

She does not rise to the bait. Her eyes dart back to him again instead. Without meaning to, she wrinkles her nose. “He is a pretender to the throne.”

“Well? That is not a physical impairment.”

A voice pierces the air, calling Cătălina’s name. It shatters the fragile bubble of carelessness that envelops them. Lifting her gaze, she spots Oltea leaning out of one of the grand windows, her hand beckoning her to join her upstairs.

In a fleeting moment, she manages to whisper a hasty farewell to her companion, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before turning toward the staircase and finding Maria’s mother. “No, but it is best to steer away from him. A lot of trouble.”

“Oh, but you have just proposed him to me!”

She swivels her head to meet Maria's gaze again, laughter bubbling up from her core, rising in intensity. It dances in the air and rings out across the courtyard, drawing the attention of every soul present — including Vlad. His eyes flicker with both intrigue and surprise at such unrestrained mirth, so delightfully undignified for a lady.

“Haven’t you learned by now that you should never take my advice lightly, my lady?”

My journey with Voievod delves deep into the borders of historical fiction that tend to blur and overlap. As with many such stories, some moments draw closer to what we can trust from the past, others are swept into the currents of imagination and reshape reality to craft a captivating narrative. This series leans heavily on the latter. We know little of Vlad’s time in Moldavia and, besides that, many of the characters I introduce through this series are mentioned in Vlad’s life as traces only, as scattered names and fleeting roles that barely hint at the lives behind them. These are the fragments I have chosen to piece and tie together so that I could breathe life into forgotten figures and stitch together these whispers of history into a life-like and rich world. Do not take this series as a dependable biography because it is purely a work of imagination of yours truly — nonetheless, I do hope you will enjoy this journey and see how, where, and why an important part of Vlad’s life begins.

I am also beyond thrilled to finally introduce Cătălina, a character who has grown incredibly dear and significant to me over time. Her story began with two simple mentions in Vlad��s biography: Dracula’s concubine. The mother of his son. A short while ago, I learned her real name (long after I settled on Cătălina, and her name has not yet been officially revealed to the wider public, hence why I have chosen to keep the fictional name). Still, we do not know anything about her. We do not know what she was like, where she came from, how her paths with Vlad crossed. The lack of information made me think about what kind of story it could be. Who is this woman the Dragon’s son loves so dearly? I initially started to build a character that would have natural chemistry with this man — I dissected his personality and shaped another being that would match it. His conscience, his anchor, his sanctuary. Eventually, Cătălina has decided to free herself from any mould I put her in and become her own person. She has become a woman of flesh and bones, with her own dreams and aspirations, with her own fears and battles. She has become the main protagonist of her own story which does not always remain stuck to Vlad’s but stands meaningful on its own — and I cannot wait to delve deeper into it in the future.

That she has become her own person feels very fitting. What other woman could become Vlad’s love of his life than a woman who hungers for freedom with the same intensity he does? He will fall madly in love with her. I already have. I hope you do, too.

This chapter of the series also keeps referencing the Moldavian royal family, particularly the parents and half-siblings of Ștefan cel Mare, Vlad’s cousin and the future voivode of Moldavia. The family dynamics are very intriguing and reveal more about Moldavian (but also Wallachian) society as it was — while showing that not every European region lived in such a stifled and constricted environment as people always believe when they hear about the Middle Ages.

The information we have about Ștefan’s mother Oltea (or Maria Oltea) is quite insufficient. Some sources indicate that she was born around 1405 into a Moldavian noble family and that her family might have come from the region of Țara de Jos (literally “Lower Country”) of Moldavia, specifically the village of Borzeşti (which is also mentioned in Ștefan cel Mare’s biography as his place of birth). It is also speculated that Bogdan met Oltea during a diplomatic trip to Wallachia, but I have decided to work with the first version as it makes more sense in the context of the story and generally seems like a more plausible version given that Ștefan’s ties to Borzeşti are historically documented. After Bogdan’s death, she became a nun and adopted the name Maria. She died on November 4, 1464, and was buried at the Probota Monastery in Dolhasca (near Suceava).

Before Oltea met Bogdan, she was married, probably to a boyar from the Bacău area. From this marriage came five children, all Ștefan’s half-siblings — brothers Ioachim, Ion, and Cârstea, and sisters Maria and Sorea. It seems that her five children remained on her family’s estates in Borzeşti even during her relationship with Bogdan. I have decided to twist this fact a little so that I could make the plot for Cătălina’s story work better, nonetheless, even in my version, the family goes through its trials and tribulations. More about that will be revealed in future chapters.

We know that Oltea was Bogdan’s concubine because she never used the title Doamna which could only be used when the woman was the Voivode’s (i.e. Domn’s) lawful spouse. The title does not even appear on her tombstone which simply states “the servant of God, Oltea, the mother of Io Ştefan Voievod”. The most interesting fact about their relationship is that this article mentions that “they planned their marriage, which should have taken place around 1440” and that “their marriage was not formalised, or at least not recognised”. What caught my attention is the explicit use of the word “căsătoria” which, in Romanian, does not mean any abstract union but actual matrimony. This could mean that Bogdan actively tried to marry Oltea despite her social background — the formalisation of their matrimony either could not be carried out or they just went ahead and did it for themselves to simply feel more united as a couple. Either way, it provides an interesting perspective on Bogdan’s character, one that I look forward to exploring a little more in future. It also creates a nice parallel for Vlad and Cătălina’s relationship. :)

Ștefan was a child born out of (official) wedlock. We do not know the exact date of his birth — estimations vary between the years 1433 and 1437. I have decided to choose the middle ground and settle on the year 1435 which still makes sense for the timeline of Oltea’s life while making him a bit older and closer to his cousin’s age when Vlad comes to Moldavia. Ștefan was the only child Oltea had with Bogdan. He spent his childhood growing up at his mother’s family estate in Borzeşti, then moved with his father to the capital of Suceava when Bogdan became the voivode in 1449. There, Ștefan instantly assumed the role of co-ruler alongside his father.

#vlad dracula #vlad drăculea #vlad tepes #vlad ţepeş #vlad the impaler #cătălina costescu #dracea de măneşti #stephen the great #ştefan cel mare #bogdan ii of moldavia #historical fiction

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