A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (19 page)

He said, “Do you know why I took Maria? Because her shawl smelled of you. I wanted to be
your
lover,
your
husband. But Mihály rejected me as the latter, and without that I could not be the former. Do you understand?”

Through her own body’s yearnings, she understood more than he knew. He touched his forehead to hers in a gesture of unexpected tenderness.

She whispered, “I understand you should have asked.”

And was instantly appalled by her own words. Any desperate hope that he’d fail to grasp their meaning vanished at the stunned expression on his face. Astonishment loosened his hands, and at last Ilona whisked herself free, stumbling hastily down two steps away from him.

She barely heard his sudden movement as he leapt past her and again stood facing her, this time from the step below, breathing as heavily as if he’d just run all the way up. In agony, she laid her hand flat against the curved wall for support and waited for his next words, which could only humiliate her further.

He said, “Mihály told me he’d speak to the king for me.”

She felt her eyes widen. It seemed he could still surprise her.

“About our marriage,” he added, as if to remove all doubt from her mind. Hope leapt in her like fire, yet was quickly squashed by her grasp of reality. Emotion swamped her. From the maelstrom, she plucked the warmth of his persistence and hugged it to her for the future.

“Don’t,” she begged. “Matthias won’t agree, and I can’t bear that sleigh ride again.”

With a gasp, she spun away from his hot, determined eyes and ran up the steps as fast as she could. Behind her, she heard his soft laugh, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t pause. She almost burst into the cool sunlight at the top of the tower, where she stood, gasping, her back against the wall as her breasts rose and fell with the erratic rhythm of her breathing.

For several moments, she thought he might follow her, wondered wildly if she felt more fear or longing. But when she heard his boots thudding on the stone steps once more, they were heading downwards and away from her.

She didn’t move, just stood there, leaning heavily against the supporting wall, gazing outward through the window at the woods and hills. Only when she heard the sounds of his departure did she move forward, unable to help herself, to see him ride out with the small escort, which spoke volumes for his rule here.

He turned once, as if he felt her avid gaze on the back of his head, and lifted his hand. It could have been to anyone, to Mihály and Turcul who moved together in the courtyard below. But she wanted to believe it was only for her.

Chapter Fifteen

Tîrgovi
ş
te, Wallachia, 1459

It was a free meal. Vlad knew with his native cynicism that far more than the disabled and the destitute passed inside his doors. Among the old soldiers with missing limbs, the cripples, the beggars, and the homeless, came able-bodied gypsies with only temporarily bent backs, working men in clothes they would have thrown out but for the occasion. Vlad didn’t mind. They were all his people, and if he could turn any of them toward being productive members of his community, then he counted the effort well worth it.

Of Pardo, his most persistent and elusive enemy, there had been no sign. But, still convinced that the beggars’ feast was the event he’d be waiting for, Vlad welcomed each of his guests individually with his piercing gaze. After which they passed between Carstian and Stoica, two of his most trusted boyars who knew Pardo well.

Since the number of beggars had grown well beyond the ability of the palace hall to accommodate, Vlad had bade them all to a warehouse he’d inherited from a Wallachian merchant who’d been seized and murdered by the citizens of Brasov during their previous disagreement with him. He hoped Pardo would appreciate the significance. All the doors and windows were already boarded up, so Vlad had only one door unblocked for the occasion. There was only one other exit, one he’d had made specially and secretly.

Otherwise, he treated the event as if he was welcoming foreign dignitaries and his own boyars. The vast room was scrubbed and clean. Rugs and pictures adorned the walls, covering the ugliness of the boarded windows. The tables were decorated with flowers and set with as much silver as he could beg, borrow, and steal. It would be interesting, he reflected, to see how much of it remained tomorrow, or if his fearful reputation for punishing wrongdoers would deter would-be thieves. For their own sakes, he hoped the latter, for dining with a man would not deter Vlad from killing him.

And so, for what seemed like hours, they counted all the “beggars” into the feast, and when the places were all full, another table was set up. And Vlad could swear Pardo was not in the room.

And so it would be when the feast was finished and he left the building. Pardo would hope to escape among the departing guests. Fair enough. He could deal with that too.

Vlad took his customary place at the head of the first table and toasted his ragged guests, who set up a cheer for him in response. Under cover of the noise, Vlad nodded dismissal to his boyars. But at his side, Carstian bent and murmured in his ear, “I admire your courage, sir, but at least let us stay.”

He’d said it before and as then, Vlad shook his head. “No, go and keep watch on my son. I’ve been misdirected before.”

“Sir, what if it’s not Pardo but his servant who is in the room? None of us would know him…”

“Even if he is, he isn’t armed. Before they even stepped over the door, they were all searched by the sluji. Have faith in me, Carstian.”

As Carstian gave up and left with Stoica, Vlad reflected that though he’d used logic to convince them, his own feeling was far more instinctive, that though Pardo wanted him dead, he wanted to do the deed himself. He too was looking for vengeance, for his equally traitorous friend Michael, whom Vlad had killed last year.

Vlad spread his hands. “Eat, my friends,” he invited. “Enjoy.”

***

Ilona suspected it was no accident that they arrived back in Tîrgovi
ş
te on the evening of Vlad’s beggars’ feast. While doing his duty by the guests as the prince bade him, Turcul was clearly determined to return in time to protect his lord if it became necessary. A devotion that rather contradicted the criticisms voiced by Vlad’s detractors.

They found the city quiet but full of sluji, Vlad’s police force, watchfully patrolling the streets. The palace itself was surrounded by soldiers, who looked carefully inside the carriage before permitting them to enter the palace.

There was even a guard placed outside the nursery, Maria told them with nervous amusement as she welcomed them back. At Maria’s request, Ilona ate quietly in her friend’s private chamber. The unusual security in the palace made Maria uncomfortable. Ilona, though used to living under more martial conditions from time to time, understood how she felt and did her best to soothe.

Although all the while, she thought of Vlad, her stomach twisting with fear for him. Like Maria, she would be glad when this night was over.

Later, watching Maria struggle over some embroidery work—she was sure it was the same cloth she’d been sewing during her last visit—Ilona said abruptly, “What will you do if he marries?”

She was aware of guilt as well as concern in her question. Maria had no idea, she had
never
had any idea, how Ilona felt about Vlad. And perhaps this convoluted situation would not exist if Ilona had just been open when they were younger.

Maria sighed. “I’ve asked myself the same question many times.” She laid her needle down. “I think—at least I like to think—that I won’t mind, providing he still loves me best.”

It felt like a stab in her stomach, whether of jealousy or of anger she didn’t know and didn’t much care. All she knew, instinctively, was that she could never share as Maria seemed prepared to. And yet Ilona had so much less of him than Maria already possessed.

Or do I? If he loves me, is that not more?

If what he had told her was the truth…but then, she knew in her heart that Vlad did not love Maria, not as she deserved to be loved, and that broke Ilona’s heart all over again.

Her eyes strayed restlessly to the blackness of the window. Surely his feast was over by now? Had they found Pardo? Or had Pardo found the prince?

***

Vlad sat back in his chair, sweeping his gaze around his guests, who, by now, were well and truly drunk. Several were snoring into their food. Others sprawled across the table to address friends on the other side. Some had fallen down altogether and lay helpless on the floor. One or two had vomited.

With distaste, Vlad had bade the servants clean it up, but he ejected no one. In all, it had been an interesting experience. He’d learned from his lowliest subjects, and he trusted they had learned something from him. If they remembered it in the morning.

Of course, they weren’t all inebriated. One or two more comprehensible discussions could still be heard, including those on either side of him. No doubt his presence had imposed a certain constraint there. Well, it was time to remove all constraints.

Quietly, Vlad pushed back his chair and rose, moving to the back of the room, where a rickety staircase led upward to the loft. If anyone watched him go, they would assume he had private facilities for relieving himself.

In the loft, Vlad found his sentry still alert beside the newly installed skylight. He should be the only guard left inside or outside the building. The sluji had all been dismissed in order to draw Pardo out.

“All quiet?” Vlad asked.

The soldier nodded. “Not a thing. I glanced out a couple of times, but there was nothing. The men at the door have gone, as you ordered. But I’ve heard nothing since except the occasional footstep in the street outside.”

Vlad nodded, signalling to the soldier to open the window and pass him the rope already firmly tied to the roof’s stout beams.

“Take care, sir,” the soldier said anxiously as he climbed out of the window. Vlad didn’t pause, just ran forward across the roof, pulled the rope tight, and walked backwards off the edge.

Lowering himself foot by foot, Vlad listened carefully, looking constantly around for observers. But he saw no one, and the only sound was his boots bouncing softly, rhythmically off the walls as he went down.

Landing on the street, he moved quickly farther into the shadows, then stood perfectly still. Nothing moved in the darkness.

He moved to one corner and glanced around. Nothing and no one. Vlad ran back the way he’d come and on to the other corner. The narrow passage down that side of the building was empty too.

However, he could hear something, some movement close by. His heart began to beat with excitement.

Pardo…at last.

Swiftly, lightly, he ran the length of the passage, his hand on his sword hilt to stop it clanking against the wall. But as he moved, he realised they were hardly the noises one would expect. Not pacing, surreptitious rustling as someone hid in ambush, no whispered conversation or instructions. There was a low scraping sound, followed by gentle tapping, Then more scraping and tapping which grew louder. Like a hammer on nails and wood.

Vlad began to understand.

He paused for an instant at the corner, listening to the hammering, which had become more speedy than silent. Then, ready to meet the last of those who’d betrayed his father, he walked round the side of the building.

He saw both men at once, by the door, one holding the wood in place, one hammering in the nails. They’d done a pretty efficient job of barring the door, he allowed. What a pity for them that the prince they’d planned to trap was already on the outside. Whether they’d meant to set it on fire or unblock a window and shoot arrows at him, they’d misjudged him again. He’d learned long ago always to leave himself two exits.

He strolled toward them and drew his sword. At the scraping of steel, they both whirled round. And gaped. Even in the moonlight, Vlad could see their stunned expressions and almost laughed aloud.

Pardo, a broad man of medium height with a dark, drooping moustache and a large nose which had obviously been broken at least once, recovered first and reached for his sword.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Vlad said. “Are you looking for my Majesty?”

Just in case they didn’t know him. Just in case they were in any doubt as to who killed them.

The servant scrabbled for his dagger, but before he even drew it free, Vlad was upon him, stabbing him cleanly through the heart with his own dagger while with his sword he parried Pardo’s powerful lunge.

Once, Vlad might have drawn it out. Having gauged the level of his opponent’s skill, he might have played with Pardo, inflicting pain as viciously as he knew how before the final blow. But he’d grown tired of long revenge. Now, he just wanted it over. And so he slashed him twice across the chest and hacked the sword from his numb fingers. For an instant, he stared into the stunned, desperate eyes of his enemy.

He said, “For my father, Vlad Dracul.” And, just as he had with Vladislav, he swung his sword high and cut off Pardo’s head.

Vlad stood back, his breathing only a little quickened, and surveyed his handiwork. A distant smell of smoke tickled his nostrils, reminding him of wood fires and home. And Ilona, whom he’d hurt and whom he longed for all the more because of her admission.

Bending, Vlad bent and wiped his sword on Pardo’s deliberately tatty clothes. Then, sheathing sword and dagger, he began to walk home.

Perhaps because he’d had enough of ugliness, he let his mind dwell on Ilona, on memories of her shy, passionate kisses and the feel of her body melting in his arms. On the physical pleasures he would so enjoy teaching her when she became his companion, his lover, his wife. They were sweet fantasies, and he had every intention of making them reality. Even without Mihály’s offer of support, he’d planned to pursue the matter with the king. When the time was right.

Vlad stopped. Smoke. He could still smell smoke, more strongly than ever. Like a bonfire rather than a campfire.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he whispered. He turned, facing the rising plume of smoke above the rooftops. “Oh, please, no….” He began to run back to the warehouse, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets and then blending with the sounds of other running feet, of cries of “Fire!” and “Help!”

He could hear their screams long before he got there and began tearing at the wooden barriers with his bare hands. But the whole building was already a mass of flame and the heat intense enough to have thrown back all other would-be rescuers.

His soldier, the one from the loft, tried to pull him away, but Vlad shook him off furiously, even while he acknowledged gladness that he at least survived.

His foot kicked at something—Pardo’s hammer. Seizing it, he swung it twice at the largest strip of wood and dislodged it. With another mighty swing, he broke in the rest of the door. The fire sucked the air into a torrent. A huge fireball exploded in front of his eyes, and something blasted him across the street.

When he could see again, he rose to his feet and stumbled across to the burning warehouse. He waited, watching them douse the blaze. But he already knew that all his guests were dead. All they would find were charred remains.

***

Ilona left Maria to sleep and was escorted back to her own house within the palace grounds. Mihály had already retired. Without taking off her cloak, she went straight outside into the garden. Perhaps because she’d once met him there.

But everything was different tonight. Tonight she churned with fear for him, not fear of her own feelings. And tonight soldiers patrolled the garden perimeters, and their effect on her was the opposite to that intended. They prevented any peace.

There was a smell of burning in the air. When she looked out between the trees, she saw a faint glow over part of the town. Unease multiplied as she recognised a major fire, though surely it was unconnected with Vlad or his beggars.

Close by, someone shouted. An order to the soldiers, who at once began running away from the garden toward the palace building. Ilona, unable to help herself, ran too, crying out to the first man she met, “What’s going on? What’s happened.”

“Fire in the town, lady,” he said grimly. “The beggars’ feast.”

There was a roaring in her ears. She knew it was blood, but it sounded like fire. With an inarticulate cry, she too began to run toward the glow.

She knew where the building was. Turcul had pointed it out to them as they arrived earlier—much earlier—this evening. But as she ran and walked and ran again and lost sight of the soldiers in the darkness, she also lost her precise sense of direction. She moved in the general direction of the noise and the powerful reek of smoke.