A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (15 page)

“True,” said Radul with a nostalgic sigh.

They were all drunk on his wine, full of well-being and good cheer.

Vlad said, “Exactly how many princes
have
you known? In your lifetime?”

Radul thought. “Maybe thirty.”

“No, no, just twenty,” said the peacock next to him.

“Well, you’re younger than me. I count thirty. Listen…”

“What of you?” Vlad interrupted, addressing Radul’s son.

The young man shrugged. “Maybe seven or eight?” he hazarded.

“Certainly a lot,” Vlad agreed. “I could recite them to you, one after the other. Some names appear more than once, as you know. It would take a long time, just to enumerate the princes of the last fifty years. So how do you explain that phenomenon, gentlemen? Or ladies. How is it that there have been so many princes throughout your single lives?”

For the first time, a flutter of unease seemed to pass round the table. A few surreptitious glances were exchanged, a few buttocks shuffled on their seats.

Radul smiled and spread his hands deprecatingly. “Your Highness…”

“I’ll tell you,” Vlad interrupted. The harshness of his voice broke through Radul’s response, silenced every whispered conversation around the table. He stood up and leaned forward to gaze into each face in turn while he spoke with all the hate and contempt festering inside him since boyhood.

“This is
your
land, your country, and yet you destroy it. The guilt for that, for the murder and destruction of so many striving princes, is entirely due to your shameful intrigues.”

The faces blanched; each pair of eyes slid away as soon as he released them. He felt like a puppet master. He felt sick. Worse, he knew most of them would never even understand. Disgusted, he slammed the table once, making them all jump. Several women squealed.

“Well, it’s enough,” he uttered. “It ends here, now.”

Straightening, he pushed over his chair and strode to the door. It opened before he even got there, and several soldiers entered as he’d bade them.

“Take the six at the top of the table and execute them. The rest can start walking.”

“Walking?” one woman wailed, as if it was a worse punishment than execution. “Walk where? Home?” she added, optimistically.

Vlad paused to glance at her over his shoulder. “Oh no. You’ll walk to Poenari,” he said. “I need a castle built.”

***

“What’s going on?” Ilona asked in confusion.

Their departure from Wallachia seemed to be littered with obstacles. Having spent the night with Maria and departed later than planned, due to a minor domestic crisis, they had then been forced to halt to repair one of the carriage wheels, thus wasting even more time in Mihály’s eyes.

And now, a dejected line of people were being moved to the side of the road by soldiers to let her and her father, together with their coach and escort, pass. The people were clearly prisoners of some kind, but very bizarre ones. Their garments were brightly coloured, expensive silks and velvets, although some were torn and all were spattered with mud and dust. Some, especially the women, even wore jewellery dangling from their ears and necks.

As Ilona edged her horse nearer her father’s, one woman caught her eye and implored, “Have pity, my lady, have pity and save me…”

“Save you from what?” Ilona asked, panicked. “Who are you, where are you being taken?”

A soldier dragged the woman away, pushing her roughly back into line.

“The prince’s orders,” he explained. “They’re all traitors and murderers, bound for hard labour—namely building His Highness a new castle at Poenari.”

“Murderers? Whom did that poor woman murder?” Ilona demanded.

“The prince’s brother. Prince Mircea. They all did.”

The blood sang in her ears. Understanding swamped her. “I thought he would kill them,” she whispered.

“Killed some of them,” said the soldier laconically. “The rest, as he says, can work for the first time in their lives.”

“Shut up, Alex, he’s coming,” hissed another soldier, coming up behind. “Keep moving there!”

As the bewildered line of torn beauty trudged onward, Ilona became aware of a solitary rider coming up fast behind them. Unmistakably, the proud, arrogant figure of Vlad Dracula.

Ilona couldn’t look at him. She continued to gaze after the sorry line. But Mihály halted to wait for him, blocking her escape as well as Vlad’s swift passage. The prince reined in only feet from them. His horse snorted. Still, Ilona kept her face averted.

Vlad said, “I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. The road parts not far ahead.”

“An odd, cruel sort of punishment for the nobility,” Mihály observed, and Ilona heard the mingled admiration and disapproval in his voice. “You intend that even the women should work?”

“Why not? Peasant women work all the time, in the fields, in the home. It could be worse,” he added brutally. “They could be dead. Like my brother.”

“They might wish they were,” Mihály said ruefully, and Ilona realised that that would be the verdict of the world. This was one of Vlad’s “few atrocities” in the name of peace, and no one would understand that in his own eyes, he was being merciful.

Slowly, Ilona turned and looked at him. After an instant, his eyes widened. As if he didn’t see what he expected in her face. Then the hooded lids came down.

She said, “Be at peace,” and didn’t know if she meant Mircea or Vlad. She urged her horse forward, following the slowly moving coach.

Behind her, Vlad said, “Mihály? I have another proposition for you. I’ll write to you.”

“I’ll receive it with pleasure.” There was a pause while Mihály’s horse danced. Then, more abruptly, “Take care, Prince.”

Ilona shivered. The best of Vlad’s troops were out of the country, winning Moldavia for his cousin. If the nobles revolted at this unusual punishment of their own kind or flocked to one of his rivals already hiding out in Transylvania, would he be able to survive?

But he only said, “You too.”

Chapter Twelve

Visegrád, Hungary, 1474

It was inevitable that one day Stephen would come face-to-face with Vlad Dracula. The king’s prisoner seemed to roam largely at will during the day, although he was generally accompanied by the watchful Count Szelényi, and the castle and grounds were not so huge that they could miss each other forever.

However, it was the day Stephen prepared to leave hurriedly for home that the dreaded and looked-for encounter finally occurred. And of course it had to be when Vlad’s fortunes were once more up in the air, and the exiled prince had no cause whatsoever to feel gratitude toward the man who had betrayed him.

Stephen was hurrying through the gallery on his way to make a hasty farewell to the king, when he saw the figure striding toward him. Unmistakably Vlad. The sun beamed in through the high windows, momentarily dazzling him, and for a moment it was if the years rolled back. Nothing seemed to have changed about Vlad—he had the same lean but powerful frame, the same devastating dark green eyes and luxurious black hair. As he moved beyond the direct beam, Stephen could see that of course he had aged. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth, a fuller moustache and, surely, a wealth of patient pain in those fathomless eyes.

For a moment, Stephen thought he hadn’t been noticed and wondered cravenly if he could pass by without a word. But although the other prince didn’t break his stride, he did see him. And it seemed Vlad was the one who would pass without a word.

Stephen said, “Vlad,” and was annoyed by the ridiculous huskiness of his own voice. Vlad halted almost abreast of him and regarded him without expression.

“Stephen,” he returned, as if they’d parted only yesterday and he counted him of no more importance than a dog.

Stephen blurted, “I’m sorry things have turned against you again.”

“I’ll survive. I’m sorry things have gone badly for you too.”

Stephen stared. “They haven’t.”

“I heard you married my niece. It’s not good blood. And of course, the usurper Besarab Laiota has betrayed you.”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Stephen, more annoyed by that than the slur on his wife, Radu’s daughter.

Vlad smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “He will.”

Stephen knew it. As soon as he’d put Besarab on the Wallachian throne, the ungrateful bastard had started grovelling to the Ottomans. It was why he was here, negotiating with the king to try to restore Vlad, who alone had the right touch to keep a proper balance and resist the sultan. But he hated that Vlad knew it.

Vlad nodded ironically and passed on.

“Vlad?” Stephen said to his back. He paused but didn’t turn. “Marry the king’s sister and take Wallachia back. It’ll be like the old days.”

Vlad turned his head slowly, and Stephen was amazed to see an expression of total disbelief on his face. Pain and guilt smote him so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then Vlad turned back and carried on his way.

***

So the betrothal would not happen tonight after all. Margit rather thought her lady had had a lucky escape and should probably thank God, fasting. But perversely, Ilona seemed even more upset by this turn of events. She wouldn’t speak to Countess Hunyadi, and when Margit tried to cheer her up, she simply laid her cheek on the pillow and closed her eyes. Margit knew she wasn’t asleep, but she couldn’t force comfort upon her.

Sighing, she left her in the inner chamber and decided to go in search of her own amusement. There was, for instance, a very nice young nobleman with a charming smile who’d spoken to her in the gallery this morning. She wouldn’t be averse to running into him again, although there probably wasn’t any point now if they were going to pack their bags and head home to Transylvania.

Opening the door, she stepped into the passage and almost bumped into Count Szelényi.

“Lady Margit,” he said, bowing, and Margit couldn’t help preening at the title. “The Prince of Wallachia begs a few words with you, if it won’t distract you from your care of Countess Ilona.”

Margit blanched. “The Prince of… Oh dear, what does he want with me?”

“He’s anxious for your mistress,” Count Szelényi said severely.

Margit squared her shoulders. “We all are,” she said with hostility. “And if you ask me, he’s the cause of all her troubles.”

“I don’t ask you. You may tell the prince,” said Szelényi maliciously.

Well, she would! Terrified or not, she wouldn’t let Ilona be further upset if she could avoid it.

Count Szelényi led her into the formal gardens, where she saw the prince almost at once, seated on a stone bench with an open letter in his hand. He laid it down and rose to his feet as they approached.

“Thank you for coming,” he said before she could speak. “Shall we walk?”

Deprived of words, Margit obediently walked beside him.

“How is your lady?” he asked abruptly.

“Distraught.”

He nodded once, as though he expected that. Then, surprisingly, he said, “You have attended the countess for a long time?”

“Eleven years. Since her husband died.”

He frowned. “Her husband… Did you know him? Was he a good man?”

“I believe so. He died only months after they married.”

“Did she grieve?” If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the words were wrung out of him. But although they sounded slightly strangled, no doubt because of his excessively formal speech, his facial expression never altered.

Margit said, “It’s my belief she’s still grieving.”

He glanced at her. “Why?”

“Because…” Margit struggled with something she’d never put into words before. “Because in all the years I’ve known her, she’s never shown any desire for anything. She is sweet, kind, considerate—and completely indifferent to everything. Except her garden, which she nurtures like her own child.”

The prince frowned. If he’d been looking directly at her, her knees would have buckled. As it was, her heart jumped in her breast so that she could barely breathe.

“And in all those years, she’s never changed? She was like that when you met her?”

Margit nodded. “Yes.” With conscious bravery, she added, “But she never once wept until she came here.”

His gaze came back to her, and she made ready to run. But unexpectedly he said, “Is that a bad thing?”

“Is it good to weep?” Margit demanded.

“I don’t know. It’s better to laugh, as I recall, but at least either means you’re alive… Your family lives near Horogszegi?”

Margit, as baffled by his change of subject as by his previous words, could only nod.

“Then do you remember when she first came home from Wallachia?”

“I remember. Her brother brought her.”

“Miklós… How was she then? Just as you remember her?”

“I didn’t see her then. It was said she’d had a terrible fright escaping the Ottomans and was alive only through God’s intervention. I think she was very ill. Countess Hunyadi visited. They say even the king came, though I never saw him. Then she married György Baráth…”

“Who the devil is Baráth? I’ve never heard of him.”

“They are an old family. Of the same stock as the Szilágyis. And my own family. Although neither of us rose as high as the Szilágyis.”

“A curious marriage for the king’s most marriageable cousin.”

“She needed peace. He gave it to her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

Margit bit her lip. “No,” she admitted. “It’s what we all thought.”

“We being all the concerned neighbours around Horogszegi?”

When she nodded, he stared broodingly into the depths of a large bush before reaching out and pulling the head off the nearest flower. Margit swallowed.

He said, “I suppose there is no one in her train—servants or attendants of whatever station—who have been with her for longer than you?”

“No,” said Margit with satisfaction.

The Impaler said, “Thank you for your time, and your help.” And, turning on his heel, he strode back toward the palace.

Margit gazed after him with her mouth open. It was some time before she remembered to shut it.

***

“There
will
be war,” Stephen told the king during his farewell audience. “I’ve invited it by not paying Moldavia’s tribute to the sultan. A gesture from you could stave it off or enable a notable Christian victory.”

Matthias sighed and went back to staring out the window onto his formal gardens. Today there was precious little enjoyment in them, let alone peace.

“I’m aware of it,” he said at last. “As I told you before, everything possible will be done to preserve the principalities.”

“And Vlad Dracula?”

Matthias lifted one annoyed hand as if to wave that name away. “I have offered him my sister—apparently that is not enough for His Mighty Majesty.”

He sounded petulant, and he knew it. Vlad always brought out the worst in him. But he was damned if he’d pander to the Wallachian’s every whim. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that continuing to withhold Ilona had less to do with his mother’s request and more to do with his desire to show Vlad who held all the cards. After twelve years’ incarceration, it should have been obvious.

Stephen smiled slightly. “You never saw them together much, did you?”

Unbidden, a vague, half-forgotten vision flashed through Matthias’s mind. His brother and cousins tense before an oddly magnificent stranger with a fabulous sword which he showed especially to him. And Ilona, taking his attention in a wild game of tag that somehow excluded everyone else. His small self had been resentful, glad when his father and Mihály had come to break it up…

Matthias frowned. “Not much, but enough,” he said dryly.

Stephen said, “I always thought of them as two halves of the same whole. I told her that once, although I never told him…”

Matthias stared at him as the words sank in. He remembered Ilona when he’d seen her in the garden shortly after her arrival; and Ilona with Vlad in the gallery this morning, the vagueness falling from her like autumn leaves under his attention. Two halves of the same whole that it seemed he really couldn’t afford to unite. Not for Ilona’s sake, or even his mother’s. But for his own. For the sake of his dynasty. His mother’s scruples about Ilona had probably saved him from a disastrous decision.

Stephen’s eyes fell before his, as if he sensed Mathias’s new determination.

“You could,” Stephen said delicately, “leave the matter of his marriage for future negotiation. Vlad’s usefulness does not depend on his marriage to anyone.”

Matthias glanced at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s more than a prince. He’s a military commander with considerable skill and genius. He inspires confidence and devotion among his own men, and among the Ottomans, as you know, he inspires a terror second to none that can only count in our favour.”

Matthias tugged thoughtfully at his upper lip. “This confidence and devotion may no longer be so great.”

“He’ll win it back,” Stephen said with certainty.

Matthias regarded him. “You are a man full of ideas, suddenly. Is this your reparation to your cousin, or are you helping yourself?”

Stephen’s gaze didn’t waver. “I hope I’m helping all of us.”

***

When Count Szelényi reentered the room, Vlad turned from his desk and said impatiently, “Well?”

“Countess Ilona is resting.”

Vlad smiled sourly. “You didn’t get past the dragon, did you?”

“No,” Szelényi confessed with a sheepish smile. “She is a very determined, if comely, dragon. However, I believe she is entirely devoted to her mistress.”

“Devoted and misguided is a difficult combination to deal with.”

“I don’t believe she’ll keep your message from the lady,” Szelényi added with a shade of anxiety. “She just won’t disturb her in order to deliver it.”

Vlad nodded thoughtfully. “However, a note she may leave by her side without disturbing her. Would that offend our dragon’s protective instincts?”

“It might work…”

With sardonic amusement, Vlad drew a piece of paper toward him and began to write swiftly, conscious always of other eyes that might read it. In fact, it was Szelényi’s duty to read it. Vlad was fairly certain it would be beneath his honour to do so now, but then it was not really Szelényi’s prying eyes which concerned him.

“Ilona,” he wrote. “I will not give up. Give me something, anything that might aid me.” It might, he thought, be taken as a request for a love token. Although he was pretty sure Ilona wouldn’t see it that way. The old Ilona would have understood immediately that he was asking for information, for anything, to use as leverage to change the king’s mind. Whether this frail, vague, and distraught version would be able to read between the lines was another matter.

He sealed it with unnecessary force, as anger invaded him once more. But all his life he had schooled himself to put the anger aside before it prevented his brain from working and brought about disaster and even now, he forced himself to remember courtesy and common sense.

“Forgive me for treating you like a messenger boy,” he said ruefully to Szelényi. “It is a matter of honour to me, and you are the only man I trust to act for me.”

A tinge of colour spread into Szelényi’s cheeks. “I am glad to. And please know, it is also an honour for me.”

Then, taking the brief note, he departed. Vlad watched him go, then turned back to the letter he’d been previously writing to Carstian. That too was a difficult task. It had taken Carstian a long time to become reconciled with Radu, and Vlad didn’t want to endanger his old friend or the man’s family by speaking out of turn.

He still had friends in Wallachia, good people who had never deserted him in their hearts, however necessary the physical submission to his enemies had been. He would reward that when he went home. In the darkest of days, when hopelessness had engulfed him, their loyalty had been all that kept him going.

The words he’d written danced in front of his eyes. It was Ilona’s face he saw clearly. Ilona as a girl, laughing and lively and insatiably curious. Ilona on their first sleigh ride, berating him. Ilona dancing in his arms, glowing with such happiness that her beauty dazzled him. Ilona now, thin and faded perhaps, but still beautiful, still his…