A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (21 page)

As Szelényi smiled sympathetically and stepped outside, closing and locking the door, Vlad wondered if he should just agree to everything. Take Matthias’s sister and lose her somewhere. Of course, he’d been down that road before, and his heart rebelled against wounding Ilona in this way a second time.

But this wouldn’t be like Maria, taken for the needs of his body. Just for politics. And hadn’t Ilona once said to him,
“I understand you should have asked.”

A faint movement behind him irritated. “Christ, are you still here?” Neither he nor Szelényi had noticed the servant, and now, adding to Vlad’s annoyance, the man would have to sleep in his chamber.

Receiving no response, Vlad spun round and saw the still figure of a woman, standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. In the lamp’s shadows, her dark eyes were huge, and her red silk gown vibrated to the trembling of her limbs.

“Ilona,” he whispered.

Chapter Seventeen

Horogszegi, Transylvania, and Tîrgovi
ş
te, Wallachia,1460-1461

Welcoming Mihály back to Horogszegi almost had the intensity of Ilona’s childhood. Only the time of year was wrong, spring instead of autumn. And instead of overwhelming relief at his surviving the latest battle, her relief was that he’d survived a visit to his nephew.

It spoke volumes for Mihály’s fears that he’d insisted on going to court alone, without any of his family.

But finally, it seemed, there was some kind of reconciliation with Matthias.

“He’s confirmed my appointment as governor of Transylvania,” he told his eager family as they gathered about him, pressing on him wine and food and affection. “And I believe we understand each other better. I have to let him go his own way, but he won’t imprison me for speaking my mind.”

“I should think not!” Ilona said forcefully, and her father smiled at her.

“Forgive him,” he advised. “I have. Also, it may please you to know we have talked about a marriage for you.”

On either side of her, Miklós and her visiting sisters hooted. For as long as anyone could remember, they had been talking about a husband for Ilona, but here she still lived with her mother, unmarried. Only Ilona felt the thrill of anticipation, a rush of fear in case it wasn’t the marriage she wanted.

“With whom this time?” her mother demanded.

Ilona held her breath.

“The Prince of Wallachia.”

Ilona closed her eyes, letting the blood pound in her ears with relief and gladness, while all around her, questions and answers ebbed and flowed.

“Dracula?” sneered Miklós. “Has he stopped beating up Transylvania?”

“You know he has. He has made peace with the towns, who have in return delivered up Dan’s supporters.”

“Didn’t the king mind, considering the supporters were on his side?”

“He couldn’t really, since Vlad exterminated Dan and his invading army.”

In fact, according to rumour, when the prince had captured Dan with his few surviving followers, he’d made him dig his own grave, had a priest read him the rites of the dead, and then personally cut off his head. It was a gruesome tale, like so many Ilona automatically discounted. But in this case, she thought it might just be true. It fitted Vlad’s black humour as well as his ruthless quest to discourage any further pretenders to his throne.

Mihály added, “Matthias has other things to think about now. He needs peace with Wallachia.”

“And our daughter is the price?” said her mother with indignation.

“It’s a price we’re all willing to pay.” There was a touch of severity in Mihály’s voice, which silenced any further criticism. Ilona, registering that the silence had gone on too long, opened her eyes to find everyone looking at her.

“Aren’t we?” Mihály prompted.

Ilona swallowed. “Yes.”

***

Of course, negotiations dragged on interminably. It wasn’t until October, after Vlad had finished punishing his rebellious subjects in the duchies of Amlas and Fagaras—trouble also stirred up by Matthias’s agents—that the marriage became part of the accord agreed between Wallachia and Hungary. And even then Matthias, piqued at having lost a war to a lesser prince, quibbled over details to avoid having to give his former enemy everything he wanted.

Ilona, still waiting, tried to be patient. Longing for a life with him, she wondered if Maria knew what was happening, how she would receive the news. Since it was still by no means certain, she didn’t mention it in her few letters to her friend. And Maria, in her even less frequent correspondence, said nothing about it either.

Finally, during the long winter, Matthias agreed, but, no doubt striving to hold the prince to him by dangling the carrot a little longer, insisted on postponing the marriage for a year.

“To see if I’ll behave myself,” said Vlad sardonically.

He’d arrived with the thaw, almost chasing it across the mountain passes to spend one night at Horogszegi. He only just caught Mihály, who’d been about to leave on a military commission for the King in Bulgaria, where the Ottomans had recently made alarming advances. Naturally, the entire household had been thrown into confusion by the news of Vlad’s imminent arrival, and Ilona, forced to submit to the grooming ministrations of her mother and visiting sister, had grown mutinous. Only the overwhelming need to see him, subduing all other instincts, kept her still.

And when he finally arrived with an escort little larger than that with which he’d first ridden into Hunedoara all those years ago, it felt to her like a dream. Larger than life, martially dressed, and formally mannered, his personality filled the castle. Even Miklós, who in his infrequent visits from the larger estates at Bistrita had been heard to deride the prince as being somehow inferior for not being Hungarian—how did he come to that conclusion? —was clearly overwhelmed.

He greeted her formally, barely brushing his lips against the back of her hand. If his eyes seemed to blaze like green flame, it might have been the fault of the poor light. So long anticipated and yearned for, the meeting stung Ilona with anticlimax. He barely spoke to her, concentrating on her parents. Her mother, clearly charmed, agreed over dinner to visit his principality in the summer, bringing Ilona.

“Why
is
His Majesty insisting on next spring?” Countess Szilágyi asked.

“To see if I’ll behave myself.”

“And will you?” Ilona blurted.

“Of course.” His gaze shifted across the table to her, and he smiled. “I have to. He may have been worried because I renewed my peace treaty with the Ottomans last year.” He shrugged. “That was something I had to do. I need time. But this year I’ll pay the sultan no tribute, and when the time is right, I will help Hungary defeat the Ottomans.”

It was a risky strategy. Ilona understood that. She also understood the huge gains Vlad could make out of its success. Having already won effective autonomy from Hungarian interference, he could, through military alliance with mighty Hungary, win the same from the Ottomans.

“You mean Hungary will help
you
defeat the Ottomans,” said Miklós. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d sat down at the table.

“I mean all who agreed to the crusade and accepted papal money for preparations are honour-bound to help each other. To everyone’s gain.”

He could be a haughty devil when he chose to be, and the effect was clear in Miklós’s painful flush. Perhaps Vlad recognised that. Rather more graciously than her brother deserved, he added, “Perhaps I do have more to gain than the king. But my country is on the frontier. I also have most to lose.”

As the meal proceeded, Ilona tried to be content in his mere presence, but it was no longer enough. Her whole being churned in a maelstrom of vague but powerful desires, in fierce joy in his coming and premature grief at his leaving so soon. He would go home to rule and plan his fights, and she would go back to another year of interminable waiting. Although there was the summer to look forward to if her mother kept to her word…

But her mother was rising from the table, taking her away from him again. He and Mihály would talk long into the night, and in the morning, they would both be gone.

Her maid was late to her bedchamber when she finally retired. Ilona didn’t mind. She wanted to be alone, to savour the lingering memory of his all too brief kiss on her hand, and the warmth in his eyes when he’d smiled his good-night. Staring out into the cold, blustery darkness, she wanted to
feel
that he was under the same roof.

When the maid finally did appear, she didn’t notice at first, until the girl actually touched her arm. “My lady? I have a message from the prince!”

Ilona stared at her. The girl was clearly torn between outrage and delight that this first sign of romantic intrigue she’d glimpsed for her mistress concerned the man who was also her betrothed.

Smothering a breath of excited laughter, Ilona said, “What? What did he say?”

“He says he’s on the stairs, waiting…”

Perhaps she had more to convey, but Ilona didn’t hear it. She’d already flown across the room and out the door.

The stairs were in darkness. But below her she saw the blackness of a figure sitting on the stone steps. Modestly thanking God that she hadn’t got around to undressing, Ilona ran lightly down the steps. The figure turned and rose.

Even in the dark, she recognised him, the straightness of his posture, the quickness of his stride as he leapt silently up two more steps to meet her. She tried to speak, but his arms seized her, crushing her to his chest. She gasped, inhaling his warm, distinctive smell of earth and horses, spices and good wine, and his mouth, hot and urgent, captured hers.

She couldn’t breathe and didn’t care. Throwing her arms up around his neck, she kissed him back, welcoming his tongue and teeth as well as his devouring lips.

“Ilona,” he whispered into her mouth. “Ilona.” And then went back to kissing her. “I have yearned for you… Sometimes, I’d sell my soul for one night with you… But I can’t do that. I’m playing for it all, for everything, forever.”

His words washed over her in a tide, feeding the gladness and the passion that held her helpless and trembling in his arms.

He swept one hand down the length of her body from shoulder to thigh, eliciting involuntary responses from her every quivering nerve.

“There isn’t even a formal betrothal. I can’t make you gifts. But God help me, I need to know that you’re mine.” His hand delved inside his tunic, tugging something free. “Will you wear this, for me?”

By the pale moonlight filtering through the opposite window, she saw that he held a small golden ring. In wonder, she gave him her hand, felt the ring slip over her knuckle, and gazed almost blindly at the single white pearl that adorned it. Somewhere, she recognised that it was a very fine one, but mostly her heart was singing because he’d given it.

He said, “It was my father’s. A love token from a lady who was not my mother, but I know he treasured it because it came to me with his sword and his Dragon. If you don’t care for it, I’ll buy you new ones.”

“I don’t want new ones.” It came out as a husky whisper. She brought her hand to her face, touching the ring with her cheek, her lips, and saw him smile with relief, as if he hadn’t been sure at all that he was doing the right thing. Enchanted by this rare sign of vulnerability, it took her a moment to drag herself out of her daze and remember.

“Wait,” she said abruptly. “One minute.” And slipped out of his reluctant arms to run back upstairs to her bedchamber. Ignoring the maid who gazed at her from huge, wide eyes, she went straight to the chest under the window and rummaged till she found the tiny box. Tearing it open, she grabbed the golden ring inside and bolted back out and down the steps to where he still waited in the darkness, though closer now, as if drawn ever nearer to her bedchamber.

“I bought you this,” she whispered, pressing it into his hand “Just in case…”

He pushed it on, holding it up to the faint glimmer of moonlight.

“It’s not rare or expensive,” she excused, afraid suddenly that he would find her gift tawdry, or, worse, silly. “It was all I could see in Bistrita…”

When he dragged his gaze away from the ring to her face, she saw with relief that he was smiling.

“Even in the darkness, I can feel its beauty. Rare because you gave it, and priceless.” With the hand that wore the ring, he touched her cheek in a gentle, tender caress. She turned her face into it, kissing his palm, Then, daringly, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips. His eyes closed as if he savoured her touch, and in wonder, Ilona thought that perhaps he valued her kiss even more than the ring.

The idea was so intoxicating that she gave him another. His arms crept round her again, and soon they were both lost once more in kissing and caressing.

At last, Vlad groaned softly and lifted his head as if by brute force. “Go to bed, Ilona Szilágyi, before I find myself taking you here on your father’s stairs.”

Ilona burned. She managed to say shakily, “I can’t. You’re holding me too tightly.”

“One more kiss,” he said and took it, thoroughly, before releasing her. Dropping his arms to his sides, he stepped away from her.

Across the darkness, their eyes met and held. Ilona’s heart beat and beat; she wondered what she should say to keep him with her. If she should say it.

Vlad lifted his hand to his mouth, kissed the ring she’d given him. Then, with a flicker of a smile, he ran down the stairs, away from her.

Joyful and aching, Ilona walked back upstairs to her bedchamber and let the maid undress her at last. She closed her eyes and wished it was him.

***

“You can’t go there! Not now!” Miklós raged.

“On the contrary,” said Ilona, “now is exactly when we agreed to go.”

“That was before. My father is not two months in his grave!”

At that, Ilona felt everything erupt in fury. She’d had little enough to do with Miklós since they’d grown up, but even before that, from the time she’d decided she no longer needed to pacify him for every childish tantrum—because he was, in fact, too old to be having them—they’d grown apart. She was tired of his criticism and his whining. But to use Mihály’s death as an excuse not to do Mihály’s own bidding was the last straw.

She took a deep breath, ready to annihilate him.

“I forbid it!” he announced, thus saving himself from Ilona by provoking their mother.

“
You
forbid it?
You
cannot forbid what your father, what the king himself has ordered. You stand in Mihály’s shoes and had best learn to fill them. Go to the king! Ask what his commands are for you. Our duty is already clear. We leave as planned and will probably stay through the winter to prepare for the wedding. Who knows? We may even manage to bring it forward by a few months.”

Miklós slammed out the door, only to throw it back open a second later for a parting shot. “He isn’t even a proper Christian!”