May fate take care of Tudora, the noble maiden. How cleverly she twisted things so that I, of all the sixty brothers skilled in the art of shorthand, would be chosen by Father Superior for this gathering. Let me carry this sin alone, for I knew more than any man present. How could I stand before the lord of the White Castle when his own daughter had confessed to me her indiscretions? Especially since I already knew what it would be about.

‘Leave it be, Father. The good Lord willed it so—for you to be there and spare my Oana from the wrath and judgment of the ruler,’ the maiden had said to me. She paced the monastery like a wild creature in a cage. You could always tell when she entered—her scent of roses filled the halls. She reminded me of a girl from my village who smelled of lilac. Before I took the monk’s vows, she’d been promised to me. We might have been happy still, had she not died young of a terrible illness at just seventeen.

The fair-haired noblewoman had confessed to me, under the seal of the church, how she had met Oana, a Tatar at court, who struck her as a dangerous outlaw—yet impressed her with his gentleness. She had never seen skin as olive-toned as his, nor heard tales as thrilling as the ones he told. No doubt she had bewitched him too—with a face like rose petals. Her father entertained noble suitors weekly—Polish lords, Russian envoys—all eager to win her hand. The household was constantly hunting for their lavish feasts, and the lord would joke that his daughter would soon leave him penniless.

When I arrived at Suceava Fortress, I had never seen the ruler so distraught.

‘Father Ioasaf,’ he said. “You know me. You are a godly man. What sin have I committed to displease the Lord?”

‘By my beard and my old bones, how could the devout ruler of Moldavia offend the Lord?’ replied the abbot of Putna.

‘Pan Stanciu, am I unjust with my people?’ asked the ruler.

‘Great Stephen Voivode rules according to Romanian law, with great mercy for the innocent and harsh punishment for the guilty,’ declared the lord from White Castle without hesitation.

Two young lords—Alexandru, the ruler’s son, and Pan Marza, a minor noble who had earned his place at the royal council through faithful service—rubbed their eyes, having been roused from their beds in the middle of the night. They looked upon the ruler with all the compassion their young hearts could muster. They would have done anything to ease his pain, but they waited for the elders to speak first.

Pan Bordea rose and struck his chest.

‘My lord, all of us here would leap into fire for you. The army you entrusted me to command stands ready to cut down and hang any enemy who threatens your peace—just as we have done with the Tatars and Turks who trouble our lands.’

‘May the Lord bless your mission and all who serve it,’ added Father Ioasaf.

‘What weighs so heavily on the soul of our righteous ruler?’ pressed Pan Bordea.

The voivode stared into the void. He clutched his red mantle of rulership closer to his nightclothes. In the silence, Father Ioasaf’s words echoed through the stone halls as though spoken both by man and by fortress:

‘Perhaps the lord does not wish to share his grief with his unworthy servants. Perhaps he will find peace if he shows mercy to the Church.’

‘You speak, Luca, of the traitor Oana.’

At these words, both Pan Marza and I flinched. He stopped yawning and glanced around, realizing he wasn’t the only one carrying his sister’s secret.

“The ruler’s servant, the Tatar Oana, fled into the night like an ingrate—after the voivode had treated him as a son,” said the steward.

“My lord, shall I gather swift men and hounds to hunt him down?” asked Pan Bordea, already half-risen like he was about to lead the army into battle.

I looked to the abbot, not daring to speak, only praying that our ruler would show mercy to Oana.

‘Sit down, Bordea,’ said Stephen the Great. He rose from his throne step and leaned heavily on its back. So dark was his mood, he looked more like a peasant roused from sleep to plead for justice than the fearsome ruler of Moldavia. His mantle hung crooked over his shoulders. He was stooped—smaller than the throne from which he once rose so tall.

Young Marza glanced at Alexandru and, timidly, said:

‘If this servant’s escape causes such pain to our lord, perhaps he mattered more than we know.’

Alexandru didn’t understand why his friend defended a runaway Tatar, but he lifted his voice as well.

‘Maybe you cared for him, Father. If you saw him as a son, then I see him as a brother—like Marza. Don’t trouble yourself. Maybe he left for some girl,” he added, winking at Marza. ‘I promise I’ll look for him and bring him back.’

Encouraged by the prince, Father Ioasaf reminded the ruler gently:

‘God does not favor one man enslaving another. We are all His servants, equal in His love.’

All eyes turned to Pan Stanciu, the ruler’s most trusted advisor.

‘Stephen, I’m sorry you’ve lost such an ally in this holy struggle. Your son’s words are wise—as befits the son of a just ruler. This servant may not have fled out of ingratitude, but because envy poisoned the hearts of others at court. Perhaps they drove him away out of sin. Father Ioasaf knows envy is a heavy burden.’

‘The heaviest,’ agreed the abbot. ‘It drives men to reckless acts.’

‘To test his loyalty,’ Pan Stanciu continued, ‘you must show him trust. Set him free. Call him back of his own will. If he doesn’t return, perhaps he was unaware of your offer, and that was God’s will. But if he hears and chooses not to return—better to be rid of him.’

This cheered the ruler.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked me.

‘Paisie the Short, my lord.’

‘Can you write quickly?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then write,’ he ordered.

---

Letter of Liberation

By the grace of God, we, Stephen Voivode, ruler of the Land of Moldavia, declare the following: We issue this letter to our servant and Tatar, Oana, who fled from us into the Polish lands, and to his children, granting him the right to return freely. He and his children are forgiven from bondage for all time.

---

I wrote with tears in my eyes, begging God’s forgiveness. And the ruler seemed pleased.

‘If the text can move an old monk like Paisie the Short, then it must be good,’ he said. As I wept, the ruler added more with increasing warmth:

He shall not return to servitude, nor his children. He may live freely among us, as do all Romanians under our laws. Witness to this is myself, Stephen Voivode, and my son, Alexandru, and Father Ioasaf of Putna Monastery, and our boyars: Pan Stanciu of Cetatea Albă and his son Pan Mârza, Pan Albu of Neamț, Pan Bodea the Sword-Bearer, and Pan Luca the Steward.

‘Write it three times—one for Alexandru, one for Mârza, and one for Toma the logothete to seal and hang with our mark and those of our lords.’

‘I hope Oana proves worthy of our ruler’s wisdom,’ said Pan Mârza.

The nobles signed by rank. Marza left with Alexandru, while the others stayed for the meal.

‘If our sons bring him back, and it turns out envy drove him out, take him under your wing, Stanciu. Swear to treat him as my son.’

Pan Stanciu swore, and I was glad, for he was not one to break an oath. Little did he know he was saving kin.

I returned to my cell, where word awaited that a confession was needed. The moment I entered the chapel, I smelled roses. I told Lady Tudora everything, and she embraced this old monk, as if remembering her own youth.

She sent for Oana and brought him back to court.

When the ruler summoned the abbot, he was away—so once again, I was beside the ruler when the Tatar threw himself at Stephen’s feet.

‘My lord…’

‘Oană, you fool. What have you done?’

‘Sinned, my lord. Don’t deserve large mercy. Punish, Lord.’

‘Hold on, man. Justice isn’t dispensed like bread. It’s given according to the weight of the sin. Isn’t that so, Paisie?’

‘It is, my lord,’ I replied, trembling. ‘And God teaches us to be patient and forgiving with youth.’

‘I’ve been patient. Speak—what is your sin?’

‘Weakness, my lord.’

‘For gold or for soft skin?’

‘Soft skin. Shamed my master.’

Before he could say more, a guard approached.

‘My lord, forgive the intrusion. A lady is outside—she claims she can shed light on… the matter.’

‘A lady, you say? Then let her in—perhaps she’ll explain faster than this poor soul.’

Lady Tudora entered, blushing and shy.

‘My lord, if you seek cause to punish him, then know the fault is mine. I wish to take his punishment upon myself.’

Oana tried to speak, but the ruler stood, solemn.

‘Tell me, Paisie—should one punish the sinner, or the temptation that led him to sin?’ He winked at me, and I breathed easier.

‘The holy books teach us that love does not keep a record of wrongs,’ I said.

‘You bury me alive, children. Did you really think old Stephen had forgotten his youth? Why didn’t you come to me instead of running?’

‘My lord,’ Tudora said softly, ‘I am with child.’

‘Then I know your sentence.’

Oana opened his mouth—

‘You must make me godfather. To your wedding and the child’s baptism, for you have conceived a free child.’

Tudora wept and kissed the ruler’s cheeks.

‘My lord, nothing would bring us more joy. We only fear my father may not approve.’

‘Paisie, remind me—who was to take Oana under his care if he returned?’

‘Pan Stanciu, my lord.’

Stephen burst into laughter that shook the throne.

‘The Lord works in wondrous ways. He swore he’d treat him as my son—now he must keep his word. Does Marza know?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Tudora.

‘Let him come at once. We must plan how to tell your father.’

Pan Stanciu treated Oana right—he had promised the voivode—but he did not speak to Tudora until Oana’s child tugged his mustache for the first time.

And Stephen himself would find divine mercy a few years later, when he defeated Radu the Handsome and brought home his daughter, Maria Voichița, who had inherited her father’s beauty. Though the ruler was already married to another Maria—may God forgive me—I knew he would find happiness, for Stephen and the girl shared the same spark in their eyes as Tudora and the Romanian Oana on their wedding day.

---

^The photo is from Mihaela Nițulescu’s portfolio. See more on her Facebook page.