This time, he came by formal invitation. The venue was not Mihály Szilágyi’s more informal home, but John Hunyadi’s impregnable castle at Hunedoara. And he’d ridden over the bridge ahead of several well-dressed attendant noblemen and men-at-arms. Ilona knew, because she’d watched from the upper window above the main hall.
“Is it he?” Aunt Erzsébet had demanded from her stool by the embroidery table.
“Oh yes. With quite an escort.”
“Hmm,” the countess had grunted. “Naturally, he’s collected a following from the exiled and dispossessed boyars. He’s their hope of going home.”
He sat very straight in the saddle, in a brave red cloak, holding the reins in one ungloved hand, resting the other on his thigh, just above his long boots. Ilona glimpsed, beneath a red velvet hat, the strong features she remembered, his expression untroubled by so much as a frown. He was acting again. Which made her wonder, as often before, what he was like when he didn’t act, this young man who had told her that, reluctantly, he liked her family? Or had even that been said in the knowledge that she’d pass it on? Just another man who’d say anything, do anything in pursuit of power.
The prince himself had looked neither to the left nor right as he crossed the bridge into the castle, but the man riding closest to him did. Perhaps even younger than Vlad, this youth had openly scanned his surroundings and inevitably come to Ilona, hanging precariously out of the window. At once, he grinned. And sweeping off his hat, he bowed low in his saddle. She saw him speak to his companion, who didn’t react, and then they’d ridden out of sight.
When Ilona, in her capacity as Countess Hunyadi’s official attendant, had accompanied her aunt to receive the Wallachian guests, they’d found Maria already waiting for them in the main hall—the Council Hall, they called it.
“I saw him!” Maria crowed. “At least I think I did. Do you suppose he’s the gentleman—”
“Stop gossiping and straighten your hair, Ilona,” interrupted Erzsébet, who was still keen to suppress all knowledge of the previous encounter with Vlad three years ago. If news of that had ever got out, it could have caused Hunyadi all sorts of problems, not least with his puppet prince Vladislav, the current Prince of Wallachia. “You look like a peasant.”
“It blew in the wind,” Ilona pointed out. She didn’t need to add that this had occurred when she’d been spying on Erzsébet’s orders. They all understood that.
Erzsébet made a derisive sound that in anyone else would have been a snort and glared at her niece. Ilona smiled serenely and submitted to the more skilful Maria’s ministrations. However, the sound of the men approaching caused her to brush the other girl’s hand aside, and she simply dragged her own fingers once through the tangled, copper clump. Since she wore her hair loose, it couldn’t look too bad…
There had been no more time, for the door was flung open to admit the Hunyadis’ guests. Ilona had simply dropped her hands to her sides and prepared to observe. It was a long walk to the countess’s throne. She’d designed it like that, the better to size up her visitors. As a result, a stately progress across the room could be a mistake. Even great men begin to look a little silly with a smile of greeting fixed on their faces for so long. On the other hand, advancing at Vlad’s rapid if splendid pace still allowed plenty of time for visitors to observe the magnificence of their surroundings on their way to the lady of Hunedoara.
Vlad himself looked neither right nor left. Nor did he smile or appear remotely uncomfortable with his long walk or the forbidding scrutiny of his hostess. As he drew closer, Ilona could see that his clothing, though still austere, was no longer shabby. Under the red cloak, pushed back now over one shoulder, he wore a black silk doublet with silver buttons and what seemed to be plain black hose beneath his long boots.
Above his full lips, the long, thin line of his moustache was a little more pronounced than before, his unusual green eyes piercing but veiled, with no frown between. A serious man, but not a desperate one. In this situation, impression was all. And Ilona was secretly pleased to see he was carrying it off so well. But then, she suspected she’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t.
Behind him, his noble following gazed around with blatant awe, taking in the fine portraits of the White Knight and his wife, the fine silver plate on display, the ornate carved benches with bright, beautifully embroidered cushions.
Of course, John Hunyadi himself had greeted the visitors downstairs and now walked among them to introduce them to his wife.
“My lady, allow me to present to you the lord Vlad, son of Vlad Dracul, Prince of Wallachia. And the lord Stephen, son of Bogdan, Prince of Moldavia.”
Erzsébet nodded graciously. Both young men removed their hats and bowed with synchronised elegance. Stephen, however, remained clutching his black hat. On rising, Vlad carelessly held his red velvet one out to his left, and one of his followers took it. Ilona wondered if he’d simply have dropped it on the floor if no one had troubled to catch it.
Vlad spoke, saying all the civil things expected of him, presenting each of his followers in turn. After which he at last raised his gaze above the countess’s head and encountered Ilona’s.
Prepared as she was, the clash of his dark green eyes still shocked her. Those eyes could never be bland, but they contained not one iota of recognition, not even the most secret glint of memory at that silly childish game. She should have been pleased. She had grown into a civilised young lady, far removed from the Ilona of three years ago, and she was glad of it. And yet, perversely, she felt the loss of the attention won by the child she’d once been.
“My niece, Ilona Szilágyi,” said Aunt Erzsébet. “And the lady Maria Gerzsenyi.”
She received a bow, but it was Maria who was honoured by his smile, faint and tantalising. Piqued, Ilona spoke to Stephen. She could never afterwards remember what she said or what the Moldavian replied, but the flash of appreciation in his eyes stayed with her while wine was served to the travellers. And then, before the odd tension in the room could begin to evaporate, a servant appeared at the door.
As if it were a signal, which it probably was, Hunyadi said, “Ah. Count Szilágyi has arrived.”
Ilona, who hadn’t been informed her father was expected, made an instinctive dash from behind the countess, past Stephen, only to be brought up short by her indulgent uncle.
“Later, my dear,” he said, catching and patting her arm. “We need him first on matters of state. He’ll send for you.”
Flushing with embarrassment as much as disappointment, Ilona returned to her stony-faced position behind the countess. She didn’t look at Vlad. Maria squeezed her hand.
Hunyadi said, “Gentlemen, I’ll leave you for a little in the gracious company of my lady wife. Vlad, if I may have your presence…”
It was why he’d come. His very tension spoke of his anxiety for this moment, and yet his bow to the countess, to herself, and Maria was unhurried, his gait as he departed the hall more leisurely than that with which he’d entered.
Stephen’s gaze flickered after him. So did the Wallachian boyars’. A few glances of hope or interrogation were exchanged.
“What’s going on?” Maria whispered in Ilona’s ear.
“I’m not sure. I think the count may be considering Vlad as the new Prince of Wallachia. They’ll be negotiating, finding a way to make that work for both of them before they get to how to make it happen.”
“What happened to the old Prince of Wallachia?”
“Nothing—yet,” Ilona murmured. “But everyone’s jumpy since Constantinople fell to the Ottomans, and there’s a suspicion Vladislav of Wallachia is growing too close to them. If the Ottomans are allowed free passage through Wallachia, then Transylvania and Hungary itself are in far more danger.”
But Maria’s eyes had glazed over. Politics didn’t interest her. Personalities did.
“What do you think of him?” she murmured.
Ilona shrugged, watching the Wallachian boyars.
/> Maria crowed, “He smiled at me—I think he likes me!”
At that, Ilona couldn’t help nudging her friend. Fortunately, the countess’s eyes were pointing in the opposite direction. “Of course he does. Everyone likes you.”
It was true. Beautiful, soft-hearted, and fun, she was justly popular with both the men and women of the Hunyadi household. A couple of years older than Ilona, she had quickly become a valued friend and confidante, although, to be fair, it was usually Maria who had anything worth confiding. Her betrothed, an old childhood friend, had died two years ago, and, grieving done, she was eager to be married to another. Ilona didn’t imagine this would be difficult. Although Maria’s family was not particularly wealthy or influential, she had a powerful friend now in Countess Hunyadi, and her personal charm would go a long way to securing which ever husband she chose.
“No, I mean likes me.” Maria pressed Ilona’s hand significantly.
Ilona glanced at her with a hint of irritation. Maria’s infatuations were just too impractical. The last, barely two months ago, had been a visiting Hungarian nobleman whose main fault was that he was married already. It hadn’t stopped him liking Maria. And now…
She swallowed her annoyance, because at heart she sometimes wished she was more like her friend, able to flirt while waiting for marriage. Ilona had never mastered the art of flirtation. She either got into serious discussions that convinced men she wasn’t flirting material or became tongue-tied, appearing overproud, thus convincing them of the same thing by a different route.
Fortunately, her father seemed in no hurry to make an alliance for her. His fortunes fluctuated with Hunyadi’s, and although her sisters were well married, Mihály was biding his time for Ilona. She was in no hurry either to tie herself to a stranger or to bear children.
Although she would like to have her own household and manage her own life. And, perhaps, her husband’s. He would be a great man who would value her insight and advice…
Of course he would, she mocked herself. Just see how the great men here all hang upon your every word.
***
It was two hours before her father sent for her. By then, the visitors had gone to inspect Hunyadi’s horses, but under Aunt Erzsébet’s eagle-like eye, she still forced herself to walk sedately as far as the hall door, before she picked up her skirts and flew downstairs to the knights’ hall, which was where the servant had informed her she would find Mihály Szilágyi.
She saw him through the half-open door, his shoulder leaning casually on the mantel above the fire. Her heart lifted as it always did at the sight of him, an echo of the intense childhood pleasure she’d known whenever he had come home safe from the wars that were his life.
Without hesitation, she ran across the room, swerving to avoid the corner of the table. Her father saw her at once. A smile lightened his austere face, and he opened his arms. By then Ilona had seen there was another figure in the room, one resting his hip on the table facing her father, but in the momentary joy of the reunion, she didn’t care.
Mihály Szilágyi hugged her close, and she kissed his rough cheek.
“I see my sister still hasn’t made a lady out of you,” he said. “Thank God.”
“Well, don’t tell her or she’ll turf me out,” Ilona said happily. Her father’s arms relaxed, and she turned, frowning, to face the interloper, who should have had the tact and sense just to go away.
Her stomach gave a lurch that was only half-unpleasant. Vlad Dracula straightened, easing his hip off the table, and inclined his head.
Her father said, “Vlad tells me your earlier greeting was so distant, he thought you really didn’t remember him.”
Ilona met the mocking green eyes with defiance. But she was a lady now. She extended her hand to him with elegant, slightly bored civility.
Vlad took it between his cool, firm fingers and bowed with equally practised politeness. His lips parted in a provoking smile. “Tag.”
Which was when she realised how remarkable it was that he should remember the childish incident in that day of important encounters, especially amid all that had gone on in his life since. Secretly, she’d hoped he would still be impressive; she hadn’t expected to find him so…human. The discovery was enchanting. A responsive smile tugged at her lips.
Her father said, “I must make my bow to your aunt. Vlad, my daughter will show you around the castle, conduct you back to your friends, or to the Council Hall, whichever you prefer. In any case, we’ll talk again over dinner.”
That, more than anything, told her they had done a deal with the exiled prince. The contrast with the fear in her father’s voice three years ago when he’d shouted her name across their own garden, when none of the children had been allowed too close to him, was marked.
As Mihály Szilágyi strolled from the room, Ilona asked politely where the prince would like to go.
“Outside, if you can bear it,” he said. “I need fresh air.”
It was only just spring, and the day was sharp and cold, but Ilona moved at once toward the door, and he fell into step beside her. She observed, “You prefer outdoor life.”
“On the whole,” he agreed, but she had the impression he wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, no doubt on the agreements he had just made.
As they emerged from the castle’s great doors, the biting breeze cooled her overwarm cheeks. She had no cloak with her, but she found herself glad to step out into the cold, fresh air.
Only when she heard him exhale beside her did she realise he’d been holding his breath. For an instant, she thought he would leap down the steps in one bound. She wished he would, so she could do the same. But he didn’t, merely ran down them lightly before turning, hand held out as if to help her to the bottom. As if he’d just recalled her presence.
But she was already beside him. She saw another faint tug of his lips before he began to walk. With each stride, she saw the tension in his body ease. His shoulders sank almost imperceptibly lower, his mouth relaxed, and he actually smiled.
Ilona said, “Either you really don’t like being cooped up, or you’re very pleased with yourself.”
It wasn’t the sort of thing she should have said. Especially not to him. Even as the words tumbled out, she was aware of it, but he didn’t seem to mind.
A breath of silent laughter escaped his lips. “Both,” he said.
“Did the Ottomans keep you in close confinement?” She shouldn’t have asked that either, and his quick glance confirmed it. A frown twitched across his brow and vanished.
“Some of the time,” he answered. “The worst time.”
“How did you bear it?”
“I really don’t think you want to know that.”
“Don’t I?” she asked doubtfully. Then, answering herself, “Yes, I do.”
The green eyes glinted; whether with amusement or annoyance, they were too veiled for her to tell. “Then I dreamed of fresh air—and revenge.”
She continued to withstand his gaze, but it wasn’t easy. Her heart was thudding. “Against the Ottomans?” Or against my uncle?
His eyes moved, looking beyond her. “Against the world, I expect.”
She said nothing while he continued to gaze out over the peaceful Transylvanian countryside. It wasn’t always peaceful, of course, but you wouldn’t suspect so from the quiet brown and green fields spread out before them and the tiny figures working them. The oak forest spreading up the nearby hill looked as if it never harboured anything more dangerous than a few hedgehogs. Even the blue-green mountains, looming over everything, looked benevolent today.
He said, “Don’t you want to know why I’m pleased?”
“If you want to tell me.”
“Count Hunyadi has made me an officer in his army, given me a post and residence at Sibiu.”
Keeping him close—and safe. Stringing him along. Drawing the Wallachian’s teeth…
“Is that what you wanted?” she asked as neutrally as she could.
An opportunity to learn warfare under the greatest commander of his day. An opportunity to shine and win support. And he would. She knew that he would.
Almost to herself, she said, “Of course, you already have military experience.”
“With the Ottomans,” he agreed shamelessly. “And I had the honour to serve under my uncle, the Prince of Moldavia, when we drove out the King of Poland’s soldiers.”
She could feel excitement thrumming through his body as he walked beside her. For an instant, it blazed in his eyes too before he had them safely veiled again. When he turned them on her next, they were incalculably lighter. “And what of you, Ilona Szilágyi? You serve the countess now?”
“Well, I annoy her and stand behind her at formal receptions.”
“And are you happy?”
Surprised, Ilona blinked. No one had ever asked her that. “Happy? Yes, I suppose so… What a strange question—why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just make me think—this time as last—that you’re like me. Waiting. You said you were good at it.”
She stared at him, incomprehension struggling against some half-understood truth.
“And then I wonder,” he pursued, “what does a fifteen-year-old girl of good family wait for?”
“Sixteen,” Ilona corrected, affronted. But it was an easy question. “For a husband and family, if she doesn’t already have one. What were you waiting for at sixteen?”
“For the sultan to free me and give me an army to win back Wallachia.”
“You didn’t need the army,” she remembered.
“True. Your uncle was kind enough to take Vladislav out of my way. On the other hand, I doubt the sultan would have let me go without the army to keep its eye on me.”
“My uncle took Vladislav to war,” Ilona protested, “not on some expedition of pleasure!”
Since his only response to that was a subtle wink she wasn’t even sure she saw, she added, “Weren’t you afraid to go back? After you lost Wallachia again?”
A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula Page 6