A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (20 page)

Although she could hear people, she saw no one, until finally, someone lurched around the corner she was aiming for, walking like a drunk. Stupidly careless of her own personal danger, she walked single-mindedly toward him to ask for directions, for news.

She was quite close before she recognised the drunk as the Prince of Wallachia.

“Vlad!” she sobbed and ran to him. When she hurled herself into his arms, he staggered back but held on to her from some instinct. His hand in her hair, pulling her head back, was rougher than she’d ever known it. His eyes, wide and terrifyingly blank, stared into hers.

“Ilona?”

“You’re alive,” she whispered, clutching his shoulders. He smelled of smoke and singed meat. “You’re alive.”

“And one more atrocity to my name.”

A different fear for him rose up to replace the old. “What have you done? Where is Pardo?”

“Dead,” he answered without any interest.

“Did you kill him?”

“Of course I killed him.” It wasn’t boastful, merely impatient. After a pause, he added harshly, “They’re all dead too. All the beggars.”

“The fire?” she whispered in horror. “Did Pardo burn them?”

His eyes closed. “No. I did.” His hands on her elbows gripped convulsively, then slid round to hold her tightly. Numb with horror, Ilona tried and failed to speak. “I barred all the doors and windows. I killed him and walked away without a thought to them. I never thought—I never once thought—that he might have lit the torch before he barred the door. Jesus Christ, I even smelled the smoke, and still I walked away.”

Relief mingled with the horror, weakening her limbs. She flung her arms around him. “Vlad. Vlad. This one isn’t yours. It isn’t.”

His cheek pressed into her hair, he whispered, “It is. I take it as mine. Even as a sin of omission, it is mine in the eyes of God.”

“God is not so unjust or so stupid.”

Wetness trickled onto her hair, rolled down her cheek. She tugged at his head until he raised it, and she saw the streaks down his blackened face. They weren’t her tears.

He said fiercely, “Don’t look at me, Ilona Szilágyi.” His arms tightened. “Just give me your comfort, because God help me, I can’t do without it.”

She tightened her arms around him in pity, reached up to press her lips to his cheek, but he moved his head and took her mouth instead. It was a strong, ravenous kiss, rough and desperate, full of at least as much pain as passion. She endured the assault, seeking only to soothe, to absorb his unbearable grief. Yet what began in compassion ended in flaring desire that left her just as helpless in his hold.

Only gradually did he become gentler, more tender, as some sort of sanity seemed to return to him. His arms moved so that he could touch her cheeks with his fingertips and slowly, reluctantly, detach his lips.

That was when she saw the blisters on his hands.

“You’re burned!” she cried in horror.

“I couldn’t get the damned boards off the door.” He rested his forehead on hers. “Take me home.”

Chapter Sixteen

Visegrád, Hungary, 1474

When Count Szelényi returned from arranging their horses and his own riding dress, he had with him a letter from Mihnea, which he handed at once to Vlad before departing under pretext of having forgotten something.

Although Vlad said nothing, he appreciated the other man’s discretion and understanding. A letter from his son was a rare enough event to be savoured alone. And yet although he looked forward to them and seized them greedily, these missives always left him feeling vaguely unsatisfied, vaguely anxious, while that gnawing ache in his heart intensified.

Without taking off his cloak or his hat, Vlad sank into the nearest chair and broke the seal. It didn’t take long to read. Mihnea’s letters seldom did. As always, Vlad drank in the boy’s evident affection, unwavering despite the years apart, the news of his doings and successes. But for the first time, he made himself look closely at the less savoury aspects.

The boy was not receiving enough education; his morality was as suspect as his view of his father. Vlad never doubted his love. What he did doubt was what was feeding it. It hurt to know that Mihnea was so excited by his father’s appalling reputation. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mihnea was dining out on his relationship to the Impaler. The balance of his life was all wrong. He needed endurance, harshness, wiliness, yes, but tempered by justice and perception and honesty.

The familiar pain of parting swept over Vlad once more. He was doing what he had vowed never to do. Allowing his son to be reared among strangers, away from his parents as he himself had done. Not that Vlad had had much choice. When he’d left Wallachia in search of Matthias, he’d entrusted Mihnea to the care of Carstian. There hadn’t been many options. Mihály Szilágyi was dead and Ilona hadn’t believed her brother would accept Mihnea willingly. Carstian was a good man with an honourable family, but in the end he’d been forced to give the boy up to Matthias.

To his credit, Matthias had not imprisoned him. Instead, he farmed him out to favoured nobles who filled the child’s impressionable mind with tales of his bold, bad father. Vlad could count the number of times on both hands that he’d been allowed to see Mihnea during his years of confinement. And those visits were never enough, either to assuage Vlad’s longings or to keep his son on the right track.

One of his many plans, once his door was permanently unlocked, was to bring Mihnea back to live with him and Ilona. Now, after reading the letter, Vlad knew more than ever that he had to act. So much more than his own personal desires were at stake.

Vlad stood up and stored Mihnea’s letter carefully in his desk with the others. He needed fresh air to clear his head, and then he’d seek another audience with the king.

***

From her bedchamber window, Ilona watched him ride out with Count Szelényi. Some emotion that was neither pleasure nor pain, yet contained something of both, rose up her throat and choked her. Without permission, her hand lifted and touched the part of the glass that covered him. He rode out from her fingers, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder as he’d done before.

She wondered if he could make her out through the glass. He made no sign, but his shoulders straightened, and he urged his horse into a gallop. Ilona smiled faintly. He had always been a fine horseman…

And he needed so much to be away from this confinement, this velvet-gloved torture.

Margit’s anxious voice said, “My lady? Countess Hunyadi is here again.”

Ilona moved her gaze to focus on her companion of many years. Because it crossed her mind, she frowned and asked, “Why do you stay with me, Margit?”

Because she provided Margit with a home and a lifestyle she would not otherwise enjoy coming from so very minor a noble family. But there were rather more disadvantages.

As Margit stumbled over mumbling about her duty, Ilona interrupted. “You’re wasting your youth with a dull and difficult mistress.”

“You’re not difficult,” Margit protested.

“Let it be written on my gravestone. Here lies Ilona Szilágyi, who wasn’t difficult. It’s a poor epitaph… I’ve never done a thing for you, have I?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Margit said with genuine incomprehension.

Ilona swung away from her.
I’m ashamed.

She didn’t know if she spoke the words aloud. It didn’t matter. They would only baffle Margit further. But she had to keep them there in front of her.
I’m ashamed.

Margit sighed, clearly imagining she’d drifted off again. “I’ll tell the countess…”

“I’ll come now,” said Ilona.

Margit’s eyes widened as she climbed off the bed. Then, clearly cramming in as much as possible while Ilona was listening, she added, “Also a messenger came from the king, saying you have leave to retire from court. Tomorrow.”

Halfway to the door, Ilona paused and drew in her breath. “Thank you.” She walked into the outer chamber. “He’s sending me away.” She didn’t trouble with a greeting, and Countess Hunyadi didn’t seem to expect one.

“The king? He’s fulfilling your request to leave. I passed it on to him.”

Ilona frowned at her. “You don’t want me to marry Vlad. You’ve never wanted me to marry Vlad.”

Erzsébet said dryly, “My dear, it was you who said you did not want to marry Vlad when the king and I brought you here for that very purpose.”

“There was no one else with whom to tie him to you. Now you have. And I’m being sent home. Again. In vague but unspecified disgrace. Again.”

“You bring it on yourself, Ilona.”

“And if I said now, I recant, I was wrong, I will marry Vlad. What then?”

“It’s too late. The king prefers the other marriage.”

“And you, Aunt Erzsébet? Which do you prefer?”

“It’s not my place to oppose the king,” she said with dignity.

“He’s your son,” said Ilona dryly. “You’ve opposed him since the day he was born—whenever you chose to.” She gazed closely at her aunt, clawing back the layers of confusion and dragging out the memories to try to aid her understanding. “You spoke for me to Matthias. Before you knew your daughter was free, you tried to dissuade him.”

Erzsébet nodded. “You’ve been through enough.”

“Have I? Who decreed that my life should end? Who decreed that I should never live again? Did you speak for me, Aunt Erzsébet? Or for you?”

***

The king had agreed to see him for five minutes. Vlad was aware the minutes could stretch if he said anything Matthias wanted to hear. If he didn’t, he’d be unceremoniously ejected and locked up by sunset.

As he strode to his chamber to prepare for the appointed time, he almost ran into someone, a woman, lurking at the corner of the passage.

Margit, Ilona’s “dragon.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “May I help you?”

“They’re sending her away,” Margit blurted.

Ignoring her informality, Vlad said only, “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! That gave him very little time to work in. Yet he couldn’t resist wasting a moment of it to ask, “Why do you tell me this? Did she send you?”

Margit shook her head. “Because now it seems she doesn’t want to go.” And she melted back down the passage, leaving Vlad to go in the other direction, reciting repeatedly in his mind like a war cry,
Still with me, still with me…

***

Matthias had the contract laid down in front of him. Vlad barely glanced at it.

The king said, “It’s all we agreed on before. You convert to the true Roman Catholic faith, swear allegiance to me, and marry my relative. I give you my support to retake the throne of Wallachia when the time is right, and many gifts, including the aforementioned relative in marriage and a private house across the river in Pest. And this time, I even throw in a military command while we wait for an advantageous position in Wallachia. It’s time we retook Bosnia from the Ottomans.”

He meant his last words to catch Vlad’s attention, and they did. In spite of everything, Vlad knew an upsurge of excitement, a spark of joy at the anticipation of such a battle. Apart from anything else, it would make Wallachia more secure.

Matthias smiled. “I knew you’d like that idea. It will be a bold alliance of the kind you recommended years ago.”

He didn’t even blush when he said it.

Of the type I recommended. Of the type I formed and you agreed to and reneged on in the most dishonourable manner possible.

Once, he would have said the words aloud. And got nowhere. Now, quelling his indignation without too much difficulty, he said only, “Your terms are even more generous. I am most appreciative. My only concern is the bride’s name.”

“This,” said Matthias, “is a better bride.”

Like a better horse or a better grade of gold. “I’m happy with the lesser bride.”

Matthias’s brows snapped together. “Damn it, man, why are you so stubborn?”

“Why are you?” Vlad countered. “You have an opportunity to give less. Save your honoured sister for a greater alliance.”

Matthias wasn’t even tempted. He’d thought it all out with perfect clarity.

Vlad leaned closer to the king, and softly, so that only the clerk standing closest could possibly hear too, he said, “You fear that together Ilona and I will make too much noise.”

Matthias rose abruptly, glaring at the prince, and everyone present in the room, nobles, lawyers, clerks, all stood too.

He said, “Look, my lord, I am being more than generous here. I admit your value. I need a good ruler in Wallachia and your half-infidel brother does not suit me! Nor does that idiot Stephen insisted on putting on the throne—Besarab Laiota is about as trustworthy as a snake. But you are not the only possible choice.”

“I’m the best choice.”

“I’m beginning to doubt it!” Matthias flashed. “There is never a shortage of candidates in Wallachia—not least of them your own son.”

“Mihnea is fifteen years old!”

“I can wait.”

His triumph wasn’t lost on Vlad, who could wait no longer.

He drew in his breath. “Your Majesty. Let us not quarrel. Truly, it is farthest from my wish. Give me Ilona and let the past be silent.”

Matthias stared at him. His eyes acknowledged the threat, understood it implicitly. An unpleasant smile curved his lips. “We all know what you are, Vlad.”

“I know what you made me and why.”

“The world doesn’t care. The world has moved on, and your reputation is
still
in my hands.” He reached out and took Vlad by one shoulder, murmuring in his ear, “I can give you it back, Vlad, a second chance at glory.”

Tied to another Hunyadi spy? Vlad let out an involuntary breath of laughter that clearly took the king by surprise.

Vlad turned his head so that now his lips were at the king’s ear. “I’d make her name infamous, and through it, yours.”

“The world understands politics and the lot of royal women. On the contrary, it’s
your
name that is in
my
hands.”

“I rather think my name has gone well beyond your hands or anyone else’s. I ignore that, as I’ll ignore the past. For Ilona.”

Matthias’s eyes, so close to his, dilated as they stared. And Vlad saw at last that it was useless. That Matthias feared his marriage to Ilona more than he wanted Vlad in Wallachia. But he didn’t fear Vlad or what he could reveal. Anything Vlad said was immediately suspect because he was the insane Impaler. Matthias had already admitted as much, and he was right. It was Ilona he feared, not the marriage.

Ilona. Isolated in Transylvania, more cut off from the world even than Vlad, especially in recent years. Ilona, vague, almost entirely abandoned by her family until now. Perhaps it had seemed worth the risk when the proposed marriage was revived. A vague, indifferent Ilona, whose words would carry as little weight as Vlad’s.

But married to Vlad, she was back in the public eye. Matthias could no longer bury her at Horogszegi, and perhaps he even feared that, with Vlad once more, she might recover enough to be a danger.

Jesus Christ, what sort of a danger? She couldn’t pull down the monarchy, depose the great King Matthias Corvinus! All she could do was sully his precious name, besmirch it as rumours of the truth began to emerge.

“She threatens your place in history,” Vlad said softly, wonderingly. “Finally, after all is said and done and suffered, this is what it comes down to.”

Matthias’s eyes shut down like a slammed door.

“She’ll never threaten anything. She’ll go home and be happy where she belongs. For you, it’s my sister or back to prison. Count Szelényi, show the prince to his chamber. It’s sunset. Make sure his door is locked.”

A furious pulse hammered in Vlad’s head, pounding home the knowledge that he’d failed. That at the last hurdle, he’d fallen, and with him came Ilona and Mihnea and Wallachia itself, everything and everyone he’d ever cared for.

But he couldn’t let it go; he couldn’t just drift back into melancholy and confinement and the exchange of letters confirming old loyalties that mattered not one gypsy’s curse when he lay rotting in this place.

Think, damn you! She’s leaving tomorrow, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.

No, but he needn’t give up either. Tomorrow, when she’d gone, he’d try again. Convince the king that
no
marriage was necessary. Then, when he had his freedom and a military command, he could find Ilona, take her back to Wallachia with him…

It was fantasy. He recognised it with growing despair as he strode silently along the palace passages with Szelényi sympathetic at his heels. He ignored everyone who bowed to him, everyone who stared. He may have stared back at a few since he caught a few hunted or fearful expressions, but he hadn’t been glaring at them, only at Matthias and the injustice of the world.

Uselessly venting his spleen, he kicked open his bedchamber door.

Count Szelényi said uncomfortably, “Shall I send your servant?”

“No. Just lock the door. Please,” he added with difficulty. He glanced back at the man who increasingly seemed his only friend in this country. “Forgive my ill manners. I will be better in the morning.”
I won’t. I’ll be a thousand times worse unless I can think of a way, any way to stop her leaving, to make this infernal marriage happen at last.