A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (4 page)

“He’s beaten you, Ilona,” Katalina crowed, her new adult dignity forgotten once more in the fun of the game. “Give him up!”

“Not I.” Panting for breath, she smiled at Vlad Dracula and flexed her fingers significantly. “I’m good at waiting.”

Vlad twitched in the direction of the river, and since she didn’t put it past him to get wet just to win, she followed immediately, only to discover it was a feint and he was already lunging the other way. Ilona didn’t hesitate. She hurled herself after him, knowing she’d fall hard but knowing too that she could reach some part of him as she went down.

It was his boot, encountered in midair as she tumbled and rolled. But, frustratingly, his other foot remained firmly on the bench, so it didn’t count. She was still It.

“Ilona! Come here.”

Her father’s sharp command froze her as she sprawled on the ground. Vlad, finely poised to leap off the bench, managed to retrieve his balance and hold still. The tolerant half smile on his lips died. The gleam in his blazing green eyes, which was part teasing and part pure fun, became something else entirely. She almost saw him gather an invisible cloak of splendour about his shabby person, and yet he didn’t move at all. His gaze went beyond her.

Ilona rose from the ground to face not only her father but Count Hunyadi, striding across the grass toward them, a gaggle of excited servants and men-at-arms streaming out in their wake. Obediently, she walked toward them, resigned to a lecture, at the very least, on the behaviour expected of a daughter of the Szilágyi family.

But although she slowed as she met the two men, they strode past her as if she didn’t exist. Both pairs of anxious eyes were on the stranger.

László, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice, said, “Let me introduce you to Vlad, son of Vlad Dracul, one-time Prince of Wallachia. Sir, Count Hunyadi, my father, the viceroy of Hungary and governor of Transylvania. And your host, my uncle the lord Mihály Szilágyi.”

Ilona turned to watch the spectacle, avidly curious to see how it would fall out, now that the insolent if fun trespasser was faced with the ultimate earthly authority in these parts.

Vlad Dracula stepped off the stone bench as if it were a raised dais supporting his throne, and bowed with impeccable grace and faultless respect.

“It is a great honour to meet the famous Count Hunyadi.”

Absolute civility, of face and voice and posture. So how come Ilona sensed an edge to his words? Just because she knew the history? Because Vlad’s father had once held Hunyadi prisoner? Because Hunyadi had been responsible for Dracul’s deposition? It was more than possible that the son held Hunyadi personally responsible for the death of his father. And of course, Hunyadi still supported the present Prince of Wallachia, Vlad’s enemy.

“You must excuse my not being present to receive you,” Mihály said coldly. “My people omitted to inform me of your arrival. I’ll have them flogged.”

Vlad couldn’t have been expected to care. It was interesting, though, that Ilona’s father presented him with the polite myth—perhaps to save his own face more than Vlad’s.

“That would hardly be fair,” Vlad observed, “since they didn’t know of my arrival. It is I who should be flogged for abusing your hospitality.”

Again, his voice held civil apology, his expression regret, and yet Ilona thought his eyes flashed a challenge.
Dare to flog me; just dare.

Whether it was the words or the unspoken challenge that held both older men speechless, the silence grew.

“I climbed over the wall,” Vlad explained.

Hunyadi stirred. “May one know why?”

“Because I was fairly sure I wouldn’t be admitted through the front door.”

Hunyadi blinked. But her father’s lip twitched. “There’s a hint in that knowledge that you failed to follow,” Mihály Szilágyi observed.

Vlad transferred his difficult gaze to the speaker. “I think we all understand the adage, ‘needs must.’” He smiled faintly. “Besides, if I had taken the hint, I would never have had the honour of meeting two such great soldiers. And your charming children.”

László made a sound of irritation in his throat.

Ilona’s father said, “I trust my daughter didn’t injure you?”

“Your timely intervention saved my skin.”

Ilona tried to swallow the rising giggle. It was as much released tension as amusement, and it didn’t help that Vlad’s gaze flickered to her as he spoke. Or that one of his eyes closed so speedily that it might have been merely a twitch.

“And did you walk alone into this lion’s den?” her father enquired.

“I did. Although my cousin may well be at the front door as we speak. Stephen of Moldavia,” he explained, as though anyone had any doubts.

“We regret the death of Prince Bogdan, his father,” Hunyadi said formally.

“I’d hoped you would say that,” Vlad confessed.

The two older men stared at him. Ilona’s father began to smile in a lopsided sort of a way.

Hunyadi said faintly, “You broke into my brother’s castle to ask for my help in restoring Bogdan’s son Stephen to the throne of Moldavia?”

“And Vlad’s son to that of Wallachia.”

Hunyadi exchanged glances with Mihály Szilágyi. Amid the astonishment, there might have been a hint of humour. Mihály said, “For so bold—if ultimately useless—a stroke, the least I can do is offer you refreshment.”

***

It was only later it struck Ilona that Stephen, Vlad’s companion, never appeared—whether the servants forbade him entry at the door or whether he simply gave up and went away when Vlad failed to return. It left Vlad alone to be entertained, the centre of all curiosity, whether veiled or blatant. The air of Horogszegi seemed to crackle that day. The images, the conversations stayed with Ilona in vivid detail long after.

Taking full advantage of her childhood status, Ilona lurked and observed without any of the burden of conversation or the need to impress.

Of course, Vlad’s need in that field was greatest, and he managed to impress without apparent effort. Despite the shabby clothes, he held himself with a pride that should have been laughable and yet wasn’t. Whether he stole the centre of the stage or accepted it from the wily Hunyadi was hard to tell, but he certainly retained it—and shone.

Without raising his voice or veering from his respectful attitude, he conversed in perfect Hungarian on all manner of topics thrown his way, from the current weather to learned treatises. He seemed to have acquired more than a smattering of education in the classics along with vast stores of knowledge from doctors in the Ottoman lands where, of course, he had been a hostage for many years.

“Then you acknowledge an affinity with the Ottomans?” Countess Hunyadi enquired. She alone maintained her barbed attitude to her brother’s uninvited guest for most of the day. In her middle years, Aunt Erzsébet was formidable, authoritative, and still beautiful. She bore her power as the great Hunyadi’s wife not with lightness but with regality.

“Affinity?” Vlad repeated, surprised. “No. Though I like many of them, there are some I hate with a loathing. Others, I learned a great deal from.”

“And into which category do you place those who helped you invade Wallachia?”

“Under a separate category,” Vlad said serenely. “That of ‘useful.’”

“Needs must?” murmured Ilona’s father.

Vlad smiled.

“I take it the sultan is no longer of that category,” Hunyadi said. “When you have not received further help.”

“I did not ask for further help. The price would not have been right.”

“There is a price for loosing the infidels in a Christian land?” Aunt Erzsébet sounded outraged.

“And if you didn’t ask,” Hunyadi pursued, “why did you return there when you lost the throne?”

Vlad’s lower lip claimed the upper for a brief instant. He stretched out his hand to the goblet on the table and took a sip before he answered. “My brother was still there.”

It wasn’t the answer they’d expected. They didn’t even know if it was true. But Ilona knew, just because she understood his difficulty in saying it.

And her mother picked something of that up too, for she leaned forward to say with compassion, “Do they treat him well?”

Did they treat
you
well?
He’d been younger than Ilona when his father had been forced to leave him and his brother as hostages with the sultan. Had they beaten him, mistreated him? At the very least he must have been terrified, especially when his father had broken his word and aided the Christian army against the Ottomans. For no greater a crime, the similarly hostaged sons of the Serbian, Brankovic, had been blinded. And their sister was the sultan’s wife!

Vlad laid down the cup. “He has no complaints.”

“But they would not let him leave?”

Ilona had the impression that only massive willpower stopped him wriggling with discomfort. Interestingly, this was one subject he did not wish to discuss.

Ilona’s father said, “I’m sure they wish to hold on to at least one possible candidate to the Wallachian throne.”

Mihály Szilágyi had given him a way out, but again, just as he’d refused to blame the servants for his stealthy entrance, he wouldn’t take it.

He said, “My brother did not wish to come with me.” It was careless, spoken with a shrug. Only the stillness of his mobile face betrayed him. “Radu,” he explained to Countess Hunyadi, “believes he
has
discovered an affinity with the Ottomans.”

With surprising gentleness, Hunyadi said, “I’m sorry.”

Vlad flicked one hand to dismiss the whole issue. “He is young, barely fifteen when I saw him last.” He switched the conversation then, but Ilona didn’t notice the subject. She was too intrigued by the discovery that Vlad was secretly hurt by his brother’s refusal to join him in exile. In Wallachia, a brother was more likely to be a rival than a friend, and surely this formidably intelligent young man was aware of it.

So what then of that other brother? Mircea, whom he couldn’t have seen since he was eleven years old, who was buried alive by Prince Vladislav’s noble supporters. They said Mircea had been Dracul’s favourite. What did Vlad feel for him?

His restless gaze shifted suddenly and discovered her staring at him. Just for an instant, she felt paralysed, unsure whether to smile, drop her eyes, or continue to stare with defiance. Before she could decide, he looked back at Hunyadi.

***

It was left to the women to tell her off.

“What were you thinking of?” fumed her mother when the men had gone for a walk in the gardens, no doubt to talk politics and possibilities. Ilona would rather have been with them, but this was one scolding she couldn’t escape. “A lady does not play tag with her uncle’s—or anyone else’s!—visitors! One certainly does not do so with an uninvited stranger who could easily be a dangerous enemy!”

“I’m sorry,” said Ilona. She had no choice but to plead guilty to unladylike behaviour. “It was just a—distraction.”

“To take his mind off killing us all?” Aunt Erzsébet said drily.

“Well, László,” Ilona corrected.

Both women stared at her, mouths ajar. “He was going to kill László?” Erzsébet demanded.

“Well, he might have, if László had attacked him,” Ilona said reasonably. “You see, László didn’t know he wasn’t a threat.”

Her mother closed her mouth, clearly still speechless. Erzsébet, without any of the expected sarcasm, said, “And you did?”

Ilona nodded.

“How?”

Ilona sighed. “Lots of things. If he was going to kill anyone, he’d have done it quickly, before he could be discovered. Also…” She broke off, trying to find the right words. “He wanted László to
think
he was a threat. To frighten him. Why would he want that if he actually was one?”

“Why would he want it anyway?” asked her mother faintly.

Ilona shrugged. “Because he’s powerless and hates it; because László’s father killed his. Indirectly,” she added hastily, flushing under her aunt’s unblinking stare. She swallowed and wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

Countess Hunyadi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just a pretty face, are you, Ilona?”

“I wish,” muttered her mother.

Ilona smiled tentatively and took a step nearer the door. The women exchanged glances.

“Oh, go on, get out!” snapped her mother, and Ilona grinned, blowing both ladies a kiss as she ran.

***

She could hear the voices of the younger children playing in the garden. Hunyadi had just gone inside to speak to the women, leaving her father and Vlad alone on the terrace. Ilona, sitting on the ground behind a low wall, unseen and unthought of, imagined herself drifting on the breeze. She wondered how far it would take her. Was there only one wind, constantly circling the Earth in ever-changing direction and force? Or were there lots of little ones that were born and died like people?

Her father said, “He won’t help you, Vlad. He can’t.”

Who wouldn’t help him? John Hunyadi, of course…

“Without considering how I can help him?”

“He doesn’t know you. We have a friend on the Wallachian throne. Of course he won’t replace him with a young, untried prince he doesn’t know well enough to trust.”

“You believe the usurper Vladislav is trustworthy?”

For the first time, Ilona shivered at the tone of his voice. When he spoke the name Vladislav. Vladislav had killed his father, at best had allowed the horrific murder of his elder brother Mircea.

“No,” her father agreed. “But better the devil you know. Besides, you should be aware that we are negotiating a truce with the sultan. The terms are likely to maintain the present state of affairs in Wallachia, forbidding interference from either side should Vladislav fall.”

Vlad’s cause was lost before he even came to Horogszegi. And his silence said he knew it.

Mihály Szilágy said, “It’s not yet your time, Vlad. My best advice to you—for what it’s worth—is to prove yourself while circumstances change. As they will.”

“My country and my family are the play things of circumstance.”

It was unfortunate. Ruling a small state, buffered between the might of the Ottoman Empire and the encroaching Hungarian crown, Wallachian princes needed the goodwill—or at least the toleration—of both to survive. At least the strange young man understood that. But impatience surged beneath the even temper of his voice. He wanted to live, to
do
now, not when circumstances dictated.