MY life now consists almost totally of whispers and dreams. The dreams are, of days and enemies long dead; the whispers in the hall and on the stairs and in my very room, as if I were here only as a corpse, are of the recovery of the child for the Investiture Ceremony. The whispers are smug now. They speak of their cleverness in recovering the baby. They do not talk of how the child was lost or which enemies abducted him. They can not imagine or do not seem to remember what terrifying wrath would have descended on them, what terrible tolls of punishment would have been extracted, were I the Vlad of old confronted with such knowledge of my underlings' incompetence.

It does not matter. I am not the Vlad of old. The slow erosion and certain tempering of decades and centuries have seen to that.

But my dreams are memories untouched for several of those centuries, and in my dreams I am seeing myself for the first time. I listen to the whispers as the final details of the Ceremony are planned, as my Family argues amongst itself as to whether their Father can be present in his dying and detached state. But even as I eavesdrop on these whispers, it is the dreams that compel my attention.

Frederick the Ill's poet laureate, Michael Beheim, has written of my encounter in 1461 with three barefoot Benedictine monks: Brother Hans the Porter, Brother Michael, and Brother Jacob. Beheim heard the story from the third monk,

Brother Jacob, and their distorted version has been written, quoted, and retold for five centuries. Poet Beheim's impartiality might be discerned from his original title for the poem as he sang it to the Holy Roman Emperor in 1463:

Story of a Bloodthirsty Madman Called Dracula of Wallachia.

Few have ever bothered to challenge Brother Jacob's account through poet Beheim's pen. None have ever heard the entire account. Until now.

The circumstances were thus: In those days the bishop of Ljubljana, Sigismund of Lamberg, seized on the popular assumption that the monks in the Slovenian abbey of Gorrion in the city of Gornijgard had adopted the outlawed reforms of Saint Bernard, and used that excuse to drive the monks from the monastery in order to make the property his own. Three of those monksBrother Hans the Porter, Brother Michael, and Brother Jacobfled across the Danube north to a Franciscan monastery in my capital city of Tirgoviste.

Even though I was later forced to convert to Catholicism for political reasons, I hated that vile religion then, and I care nothing more for it now. The Church was merely a rival power in those daysand a ruthless onedespite its attempts to cloak its grasping, clutching machinations in the guise of piety. I doubt that it has changed. And the Franciscans were the worst. Their monastery in Tirgoviste was a thorn in my side which I tolerated because the act of plucking it out would cause more political pain than the relief the extraction merited. The common people loved their fawning, praying, fasting Franciscans even as the monks bled the people dry with their alms and tithings and ceaseless whining for more money. The Church in Wallachia thenespecially that damned Franciscan monastery which, unaccountably, despite my best efforts of the day, still stands in 7Tirgoviste todaywas a parasite growing bloated and sated on blood money which would have served my kingdom better had it come to me.

The Franciscans could not stand the Benedictines in those days, and I suspect that they sheltered the three fleeing Benedictine monks merely to further irritate me. And it did.

I encountered Brother Jacob, Brother Michael, and Brother Hans the Porter a mile or so from their monastery as I returned to my palace from a hunt. Their lessthan deferential manner irritated me and I commanded the one called Michaelthe tallest of the threeto appear at an audience in my palace that very afternoon.

Beheirn relates that I frightened the monk with a harsh interrogation, but in truth the skinny friar and I had a pleasant chat over warm ale. I was softspoken and courteous, revealing nothing of my inherent distaste for his corrupt religion. My questions were mere polite theological probings. Brother Michael warmed to his proselytizing as the ale warmed his guts, although I could see the alarmed squint of his ferret like little eyes as my questions grew personal.,

“So the burdens of this life are merely an unpleasant prelude to the promise of the next life?” I asked softly.

“Oh, yes, My Lord,” the skinny monk hurried to agree. “Our Saviour has affirmed this. “

“Then, “ I continued, pouring more ale for the man, “someone who serves to shorten that burdensome period by hurrying the suffering mortal to his reward before he can accumulate more sins might be seen as being a benefactor?”

Brother Michael could not hide a slight frown as he lowered his lips to his ale. But the slurping sound he made might have been taken as affirmation. I chose to interpret it so.

“Then, “ I went on, “some poor servant of the Lord such as myself who has sent many hundreds of soulssome say thousandson to their reward before sin couldfurther blacken their chanceswould you say that I am a savior of those souls?”

Brother Michael moistened his already moist lips. Perhaps he had heard of my sometimes mischievous sense of humor.

Or perhaps the ale was beginning to affect him. Whatever the reason, he could not quite muster a smile, although he tried. “One might suggest that possibility, Sire,” he said at last. “I am only a poor monk, unused to the rigors of logic or the demands of apologetics.”

I opened my hands and smiled. “As you say, if we accept that premise, “ I said cordially, “then it stands to reason that someone such as myself who has helped thousands of souls shrug off their earthly burdens, why, that someone would have to be considered a saint for all of the souls he has saved before sin could damn their chances. Wouldn't you agree, Brother Michael?”

The skinny friar licked his wet lips again and looked even more like a ferret who has just discovered that a cage has been lowered over him while he was distracted. “A . . . uh . . . a saint, My Lord? Certainly it might be posited, but . . . ah . . . well, My Lord, sainthood is a difficult and delicate proposition to . . . ah . . . prove, and . . . uh . . .”

I decided to take pity on the panicked man. “Tell me this then,” I said, my voice sharpening a bit. “Could someone such as I, even if not guaranteed sainthood, find salvation through Jesus Christ?”

Brother Michael almost burbled in his relief at being asked this question. “Oh, yes, Sire! Salvation is yours just as it is every man's. Our Lord and Saviour has extended his mercy through His death on the cross, and that mercy cannot be denied if the petitioner is truly penitent and wishes to change his . . . that is, Sire, if the penitent sinner wishes to walk in the grace of Our Lord's teachings and commandments. “

I nodded. “And your fellow monks, of course, would express the same opinions on my chances for salvation?”

Again the ferret squint. Finally he managed to say, “All of my fellow brothers know the teachings of Jesus and the power of God's mercy, Sire.”

I smiledsincerely this timeand ordered the skinny friar to stay put while we called for his companions.

The evening shadows were long across the stone floor when I put the questions to Brother Hans the Porter, a smaller, stouter man whose tonsure looked like it had been administered by a gardener's shears.

“Sir Monk,” ! said, “you know who I am?”

“Of course,” said the little man while his two companions looked on with some anxiety. It was obvious that this was the fanatic of the group. His eyes were unafraid and tinged with the flames of righteousness. There was no deference in his voice, none in his posture. I chose to ignore the absence of courtesy in his not using the traditional “Sire” or “My Lord” in addressing me.