A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (12 page)

But now, the Ottomans had gone home to report to the sultan the unwisdom of raiding Transylvania this season, and the Transylvanians had gone home with renewed friendship for Vlad. It seemed to Stephen that everyone had won. And yet when he came to join in the celebrations of the court, Vlad was nowhere to be found.

Finally, Stephen had tracked him to an open piece of ground outside the palace walls. It was dark, the good citizens were mostly in bed, and the nobility celebrating either in the palace or in their own homes. Even those who had once opposed Vlad’s succession were coming round to him, having been granted a glimpse of his brilliance and determination. Like Carstian, whom he’d recently made governor of the fortress of Tîrgovi
ş
te, an act of trust in this newly sworn vassal that Stephen hoped would not come back to haunt him.

Vlad was not given to instinctive trust, of course. Carstian must have proved himself in some way. If this was a risk, it was a calculated one. For in this quiet little field, some yards away from Vlad, stood Carstian himself, watching unhappily while Vlad dug a hole in the ground.

It wasn’t the first hole either. The field looked as if it had a plague of giant moles.

“What the hell
is
he doing?” Stephen repeated.

In his shirtsleeves, the Prince of Wallachia was efficiently and steadily digging, his upper body bending and straightening, his arms working the spade without respite.

Carstian stirred. “You remember that his brother died in Tîrgovi
ş
te?”

“Mircea?” For the first time, a twinge of unease twisted through Stephen’s half-amused amazement at his cousin’s behaviour.

“Rumours say he was buried alive.”

“I heard that rumour. So did Vlad.”

Carstian nodded. To Stephen’s relief, Vlad flung down the spade, but instead of striding across to his friends, he crouched down and reached into the ground.

Carstian said, “I wasn’t here. I was with Vlad Dracul until he was killed, and then I returned to my estates. The prince knows that. But he asked me to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Where Mircea is buried.”

Stephen swore. “He can’t do that. He can’t rule his country now from the perspective of the past! He’ll ruin everything,
lose
everything…”

Without waiting for Carstian, to whom he’d probably said too much anyway—the man had that effect on people—he strode across the field toward Vlad, who sat back on his heels, staring into the hole he’d just dug.

“Vlad you have to leave this obsession. Now.”

Vlad didn’t glance at him. He didn’t seem to be even remotely surprised that he was there.

“What obsession would that be?”

“Mircea!” Stephen stepped forward, laying his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Forcing his voice to greater gentleness, he said, “You have to let your brother rest in peace.”

“Does that look like peace to you?”

“What?” Instinctively, Stephen glanced in the direction of Vlad’s gaze, into the hole. By the light of the lantern placed beside it, he saw what looked, stupidly, like a smooth, pale, misshapen ball. The back of a skull.

Stephen swallowed. “That could be anyone.”

“It’s Mircea.”

“He spoke to you?” Fear made him sarcastic; a need to jerk Vlad out of it made him unkind.

“Yes,” said Vlad. “He spoke to me. He said, ‘They threw me into this pit, facedown, and piled soil on top of me until I suffocated. My mouth and nose and eyes were full of dirt; the weight was unbearable. I couldn’t breathe in anything but mud until my heart burst and my lungs…”

“Vlad, stop it!”

Vlad lifted his head at last, gazed into Stephen’s frightened face. His eyes were opaque, not weeping as Stephen had feared.

“You can’t know that,” Stephen said.

“I can.”

“What will you do?” Carstian spoke the words Stephen was too afraid to ask.

When Vlad didn’t answer at once, Stephen blurted, “Don’t burn the bridges you’ve built here, Vlad. If this is true, the crime wasn’t committed by one man.”

“I know who was responsible.”

Stephen said, “You made him find that out too?”

“Carstian? No. I listened and I looked and I learned.”

“Don’t do anything hasty,” Stephen begged.

Vlad stood. “I told you years ago. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Go and fetch a priest.”

“It’s a bit late for that!”

Vlad turned on him. Though his limbs never moved, Stephen felt as though he’d been struck. As if Vlad’s pain had somehow slammed into Stephen’s body.

“Fetch a priest. My brother will have a proper burial.” Picking up the spade, he began to uncover the rest of the body.

While Carstian moved swiftly and silently in search of the nearest priest, Stephen watched helplessly as Vlad uncovered the bones of his dead brother, lifted them, and placed them faceup in his cloak for a shroud. Only then, when he laid his brother back in the ground, did something fall into the grave. A drop that glittered like rain from the clear sky.

Vlad dashed his dirt-spattered arm across his face, as if wiping sweat away, and turned to face the priest.

“Say the words,” he whispered.

***

It was Vlad’s birthday. He used the occasion to hold his first formal reception purely for entertainment. Previous affairs had been designed to receive the homage of his vassals or the ambassadors of foreign countries. This would be a more relaxed event, an opportunity to know his boyars better and let them know him, the man behind the splendour. Or at least as much as he chose to reveal.

Using the gold he’d found in Vladislav’s coffers, he served them fine wines from Hungary and Italy, the best local meat and poultry, cooked to perfection, and the most elegant of sweetmeats and pastries prepared by his Italian-trained cook. He hired the best musicians that could be located, and after the banquet, there was dancing.

Vlad didn’t care to dance, but he’d been taught in his childhood, along with all the other princely arts, and he knew his duty. To open the occasion, he led out the wife of Lord Tacal, his most senior boyar, and set out to entertain her. It wasn’t difficult. At least the woman danced well and possessed a sharp intelligence that made it easy to converse. Although she was an experienced and well-mannered lady, she couldn’t quite hide that he surprised her.

Vlad wanted to laugh. Which was when he caught sight of Maria, Countess Hunyadi’s old attendant and informant. Presumably she was still informing, though on him rather than his predecessor. She was dancing some distance away, but as if she sensed his brief scrutiny, she glanced up and cast him a quick, surprised smile from under her lashes.

Unexpected memory wakened. Seated at John Hunyadi’s table, catching something very like the same glance. Several times. While he’d been talking to Ilona Szilágyi, the girl with the laughing brown eyes that had no right to look so soft when they pierced like a sword point. Of course, Ilona was Mihály’s daughter.

Maria was not high on his list of people to entertain, but he didn’t forget her. Later in the evening, he approached her and asked if she was enjoying herself.

“Oh yes!” said Maria with the enthusiasm of a child. “And please allow me to congratulate you and wish you many happy returns.” The difference between this confident woman and the frightened supplicant who’d come to him in the summer was marked. Intrigued, Vlad teased her.

“Thank you. I think you must find your estates very dull.”

“Very,” she agreed frankly, then, as she realised what she’d said, her eyes flew back to his. “That is, I’m so grateful to have them, only living on them…”

“…can be tedious,” Vlad sympathised. “Nothing, I imagine, like your old position with Countess Hunyadi. How
is
the countess?”

“Well, I believe. Though devastated by the loss of her husband.”

“It must be a comfort to her to have your understanding.”

Maria looked blank. She may have picked up his hint of sarcasm.

“Having lost your own husband,” Vlad reminded her gently.

“Oh! Well, it
might
be…”

“Then what do the two of you talk about in those long letters?”

Maria blinked with incomprehension. “Countess Hunyadi never wrote to me in her life! But then, to be fair, I think I only ever wrote to her once, after I was married. Ilona writes to me, though, which is how I know the countess is well.”

For some reason, that annoyed him. His half-formed plan to take Maria to bed tonight—it was unfinished business, after all, and part of him rather liked the idea of suborning the Hunyadis’ informant by seduction—died before it was born.

In the end, he took an older lady, a widow like Maria, and quite as passionate and urgent. She had the advantage of lacking Maria’s connections.

Chapter Nine

Visegrád, Hungary, 1474

Ilona woke to birds’ song and the knowledge that things had changed. For a few moments, she lay still and let it wash over her.

Last night’s conversation through Vlad’s prison door had the quality of a dream. It was more than possible she’d fallen asleep here and dreamed of going in search of him, dreamed of the things he’d said and the things she’d agreed to.

What
had
she agreed to? And what did it matter if it was only a dream?

Was it?

In the years following Vlad’s exile and imprisonment, she’d dreamed of him a lot. Not wild or sensual dreams—or at least not very often. Most of them had been rather like last night’s—quiet conversation after coming upon him unexpectedly. In those dreams, talking to him had made everything all right. She’d been happy. And waking, knowing it was merely a dream, had broken her heart all over again.

“Real or not real?” she whispered.

“Beg your pardon, lady?” said Margit cheerfully.

“Nothing.” Ilona sighed, pushing back the covers and reaching for the grey dress.

“Oh, madam, not that one,” Margit begged. “Half the court will be watching…!” She bit her lip. “Don’t look like that, my lady, you know what this place is, how public everything is. Wear
this
gown. It will look beautiful.”

Ilona tugged indecisively at her hair. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d been here in this room. The assignation under the auspices of Aunt Erzsébet was real enough. She picked up the dull, grey gown. She didn’t care about the watchers.

People would make fun of him, tying himself to her for the sake of an unstable principality on the Ottoman border.

No one looks down their noses at Szilágyis.

Yes, they do, Father.

But no one must disrespect
him
, so which dress…?

“Here we go again,” she whispered, pacing around the room, dragging her fingers through her hair. “Back on the sleigh ride, up and down, turned this way and that, churned up like snow beneath its blades. All because I don’t know which wretched dress to wear? For God’s sake, what is wrong with me?
It doesn’t matter!”

She snatched the new silk from Margit’s stunned hands.

Unsure why, Margit began to laugh.

***

Vlad made sure he was early. There was no way he’d subject her to the stares of the curious alone. Of course, she probably wouldn’t be alone. She’d have the countess in tow at the very least.

Because he hated to be idle, he brought a book—one of Matthias’s fine collection—and some letters to answer. Accompanied by Count Szelényi, he entered the gallery, inclined his head to every eye he caught, and settled down on a carved bench with his book. He remembered to turn the pages, but he didn’t read them.

A faint rustle of activity alerted him before even Count Szelényi’s murmured, “Sir.”

He glanced up and forgot to breathe.

Countess Hunyadi was nowhere in sight, just Ilona’s attendant of last night, more gorgeously attired. But Vlad barely noticed her.

Ilona was beautiful.

Her shining dark gold hair was braided, pinned up, and veiled as was appropriate for a mature lady, but with such discreet artifice that it covered only the streak of grey. Her crespine was light but jeweled. The dark red silk of her gown intensified the pale roses in her white cheeks and soft lips, emphasising the taut skin over her high, delicate cheekbones. Heavily brocaded under her breasts, the gown was cut into a low V at the front, showing the palest pink of the underdress. The wide oversleeves were folded back, revealing brocaded cuffs, and the pale pink sleeve beneath. And on her fingers, she wore two rings. One of them, he’d given her.

Vlad’s throat constricted because she’d taken such care. Or, at least allowed it, surely, for the right reasons.

She walked quickly, not with pride but with a certain distance that gave a false impression of self-esteem to anyone who didn’t know her. Ilona was still held together by a thread, but she’d made the effort, and he wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. She was the only person in the world who’d ever had that effect on him.

He rose quickly, dropping his book on top of the letters, and went to meet her. She let herself see him then, and he could have sworn some more colour entered her cheeks before they paled.

“Countess Ilona,” he said formally and bowed.

Ilona curtseyed. “Prince.”

She was shaking. He could feel it. He lifted his arm and offered it to her. Her breath caught. Then one slim, still elegant hand lifted and rested on his velvet forearm. It did tremble, vibrating his skin, stirring memory and desire and a need to protect that had become urgent.

They began to walk.

She said, “I can feel their eyes like a thousand pinpricks in my back.”

“They’re admiring your beauty.”

“Oh, please…”

“As am I.”

“Vlad…”

“Yes?”

She glanced up at him uncertainly. And slowly, the tiny frown between her brows smoothed out. Her eyes seemed to clear. She said, “We talked last night.”

“I remember.”

A sound like a laugh came from her, quickly choked off. “I wasn’t sure
I
did. I—sometimes—I’m confused.”

Sharp as nails, Ilona. His gut twisted, but he said only, “I spoke to you often in dreams.”

Her step faltered. No wonder—she’d closed her eyes. He stopped and, for the benefit of watchers, turned her to face a painting—some garbage purporting to depict the birth of the Hungarian nation.

She whispered, “How awful has it been for you?”

“Not so bad. Even amusing in places. They wheel me out to frighten Ottoman embassies and other foreign dignitaries they want to impress.”

Ilona’s lips twisted. “On the assumption that a king who can keep the Impaler imprisoned must be powerful indeed?”

“You always had an incisive grasp of politics.”

“Of my cousin Matthias. And do you?”

“Frighten the dignitaries? I do my best to scowl and look fierce. I think it actually frightens the Hungarians more, but I can live with that.”

“Shh-shh!” Ilona looked around for eavesdroppers.

“Countess Hunyadi promised us privacy, remember? In fact, where is she?”

“I haven’t seen her this morning. I expected to, but she didn’t appear.”

“So you came anyway?”

Again that faintest of flushes that reminded him unbearably of the girl she’d been. A girl too honest and too serious to flirt, though never too serious to laugh.

“I felt I should. I didn’t know if you’d be here. Even if I hadn’t dreamed…our last conversation.”

“You haven’t changed your mind? You’re still content with this betrothal?”

She gave the strange, choking sound again. “Content? That’s a strange word.”

“You once thought happy was a strange word.”

“No, just your interest in its connection with me.” The light in her eyes dulled and vanished. “I don’t know what you want, Vlad, but I know I can’t give you it anymore.”

He reached with his free hand and covered hers on his arm. It jumped at his touch and was still.

“Ilona,” he said, low. “Ilona.” It was a plea, to keep her there with him, but words had deserted him. A tear began to form, trembling at the corner of her eye. “This is impossible,” he said intensely. “We can’t do this here… Ilona, you are the only gift I want. Then together we can make it right.”

“Make what right?” she asked in despair.

“Whatever is wrong.”

She brushed impatiently at her eye before she would look at him. She swallowed. “I—I am not the—help—to you I’d once hoped to be.”

“With you beside me, I’ll defeat the world single-handed. Wielding nothing more deadly than a wet fish.”

A tinkle of laughter broke from her. Encouraged, he smiled into her eyes. “It’s good to talk to you, Ilona Szilágyi.”

She held his gaze, searching. Then her eyes dropped and her head bent, and he thought with despair that he’d lost her again. Then he realised she was still moving. In front of all eyes, she laid her forehead on his arm, and when she lifted it again, she was smiling.

“There you are!”

So much for privacy. Not only Countess Hunyadi but the king himself.

“Renewing old acquaintance, I see,” said Matthias with false indulgence. “How wonderful. I have summoned another old friend for you to meet.”

“Stephen,” Ilona blurted, as if reminded she should have warned Vlad before. As if he hadn’t known the moment Stephen arrived. “Stephen is here.”

“So he is,” Matthias agreed. He smiled at her with open affection. “I mean yet another old friend, my sister. Do you know, Ilona, in view of your reluctance to enter the matrimonial state, I think a convent would suit you best. My sister shall marry the Prince of Wallachia.”

***

Erzsébet Hunyadi’s heart smote her. For an instant, gazing into the violent storm of Vlad’s furious green eyes, she wondered if they were doing the right thing. All very well to rescue Ilona. She owed Ilona. But to save her niece, only to throw her
daughter
to the Impaler?

“He’ll give my sister all the respect that’s her due,” Matthias had said impatiently. “And she won’t care about his temper or his wild starts. It’s the perfect solution for all of us. Vlad gets a better deal—sister instead of mere cousin. We get someone into his household we can trust.”

“She won’t be able to influence him!” Erzsébet had objected, instinctively protecting her daughter.

Matthias blinked. “And you imagine Ilona will? At least my sister can tell what’s going on. These days, I doubt Ilona knows what day it is.”

But it seemed the soon-to-be-Prince of Wallachia did not appreciate the honour done to him. Erzsébet was not fainthearted, but if looks could kill, she was well aware that both she and her son would be dead. And he had a nasty tongue. When his full, sensual lips parted, she prepared to sustain herself against whatever verbal vitriol was to come.

However, before he could speak, Ilona had jerked free of him, and he was distracted. Her hand clutched her veil as though to drag it off.

“Not
again
,” she whispered, and without another word began to walk away from them. Fiercely, Erzsébet signaled to the waiting woman, Margit, to go with her. She, Erzsébet would follow in a few minutes, and at a more dignified pace.

Vlad dragged his gaze away from Ilona’s back. Almost between his teeth, he said, “We have already given our words. I have contracted to marry Ilona.”

“My sister is better. Younger, fitter for childbearing, closer kin to me.” Matthias smiled. “And she wants to be Princess of Wallachia.”

As a warning, it wasn’t very subtle. Vlad must have understood it, and yet he continued to stare at the king as if waiting for more. Erzsébet found herself frozen, unable to move away. Even Matthias began to grow uncomfortable in the silence.

Matthias said, “You cannot insult…”

And Vlad interrupted him, leaning forward to say in that dangerous, soft voice that still made Erzsébet shiver, “I will not play, Matthias.”

And he turned and walked away. Troubling no more than Ilona had with the bad form of turning one’s back on the king.

Matthias called angrily after him, “Then I’ll find someone who will!”

“You want Vlad,” Erzsébet reminded him dryly.

“Yes,” Matthias admitted with an angry little shake. “And Vlad wants Wallachia. He won’t give that up by holding out for
Ilona
, will he?”

But it almost seemed that he would.

Ilona wouldn’t speak to her. By the time Erzsébet caught up with her, she was back in her own apartments, sitting curled up on a corner of the bed, her veil askew, gazing blindly out of the window, merely smiling faintly, abstractedly, if either she or the woman, Margit, spoke to her.

Eventually, Erzsébet gave up and went in search of Vlad instead.

He too was in his own apartment, but alone, with the door wide open. There was no sign of his servant, or of Count Szelényi. Perhaps he was deliberately reminding them that he stayed because he chose to, not because he was imprisoned.

It was tempting to slam and lock the door on his infernal insolence, remind
him
who had the power to make his incarceration considerably less comfortable. But he knew they wouldn’t do that. Not if they were planning to give him the sister of the king.

Like Ilona, he sat by the open window, letting the breeze stir his thick, still-black locks. But unlike her he was busy, writing furiously.

“Come in, Countess,” he said as her shadow fell across his doorway. He put aside his paper and pen and rose to his feet. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Now that you’ve recovered your temper?”

His smile was so thin it was barely a smile at all. “You are mistaken. My temper is far from recovered.”

“Then perhaps I’ll wait until it is.”

“No,” he said quickly, gratifying her that at last she had got to him. “Please, sit. Despite my temper, I promise to be good and not shout or scream. Countess, in your own way, you care for Ilona.”

“As my own daughter. She was my brother’s favourite child.”

“I know.”

She condescended to sit in the chair he placed for her, but annoyingly he stayed looming over her. He knew exactly how intimidating he was, but perhaps he considered her beyond that. She’d thought she was too, until now.

Then, with rare difficulty he said, “You can’t keep doing this to her. It’s tearing her apart, you must see that.”

“I see that she needs peace,” Erzsébet said stiffly. “Which is why the king and I have followed her wishes and released her from the obligation to marry you.”

“I do not release her.”

“Then
you
are tearing her apart!”

“No,” Vlad said. “No. Countess…” He drew in his breath, and she wanted to crow because this was so difficult for him. He didn’t want to ask, his pride forbade it, and for a moment, she was sure pride had won. Then he said abruptly, “What happened to her? Why is she so…frail?”