As it fluttered to the floor, she made an instinctive grab for it and missed. Through the tangle of her lovely, burnished hair, streaked now with grey down one side, she returned her gaze to his. Huge and wet, her desperate, dark eyes stared at him—with shame, it was true, but also with an echo of the old defiance.
“Tag,” he said. “What now, Ilona Szilágyi?”
Her eyes widened impossibly. Her trembling lips parted.
“Now,” said Countess Hunyadi’s furious voice from behind him, “you leave the room until you can meet in a more appropriate place!”
Damn the woman, she had always had ears like a dog’s, and old age seemed only to have sharpened them further. And of course, the attendant was there too, a protective arm around her lady’s waist.
“My lady is not well,” she said, clearly intending, despite her own fright, to help Ilona back into the bedchamber. Ilona, however, appeared to be still rooted to the spot.
As Countess Hunyadi swept across the room, ordering, “Take her inside!” Ilona’s hands lifted. For an instant, Vlad thought they were reaching for him. And then her eyes closed, as if to hide the tears she couldn’t stop. But her eyelids only squeezed them down her cheeks faster. She swallowed once, like a gulp.
“I want everyone to leave.” Though her voice shook, the words were clear enough.
Vlad, who knew he could clear the room in one short sentence, was forestalled in doing so by Countess Hunyadi, who said fiercely, “I will not go until he does.”
“Oh God.” That was Ilona, halfway between desperation and hysterical laughter. “Then I will go.” And instead of retreating backwards with the force of her woman’s urging, she stepped forward, brushing past him, clearly with every intention of leaving the room.
He could stop her, physically. The thin body which touched his so briefly was pathetically frail. He could eject everyone else and do what he came here to do. Only this was not how he intended it to happen—reinforcing every word of his terrible reputation. And somewhere, somewhere he didn’t even want to acknowledge right now, he couldn’t do it because she didn’t wish it.
“There is no need,” he said, in his most distant, princely voice. “I shall leave until you—feel better.” She paused, her back to him now. “You will feel better in the morning?”
Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. Then Ilona nodded, once.
“In the gallery,” Countess Hunyadi ordered. “It is a good place to talk.”
In public. Under a thousand eyes.
“I will ensure your privacy,” she added regally.
Privacy of speech, perhaps. A few yards of space. And still the thousand eyes beyond. It was not what he wanted, but at least he could talk enough to calm her, make her allow him the space he needed to do this properly.
“Very well,” Vlad allowed. “Ten o’clock.” It felt more like arranging a duel. He walked past her this time, careful not to touch her. When he turned to bow from the doorway, he half expected her to be safely bolted behind her bedchamber door. There were enough people fluttering behind him in that direction as he walked. But she still stood where he’d last seen her, flanked by the attendant and the countess. She held herself rigid, as if she would shatter if she let anything go for an instant.
Jesus, what have they done to her?
What have I?
The questions stayed with him, nagging unendurably as he strode back to his comfortable prison and let Szelényi lock him in. It was a formality, one that would be over with his betrothal tomorrow. But somehow, this massive step on his road to freedom and restoration had sunk to the realms of trivia.
His plan had got stuck on the vague but desperately troubled face of what should have been its joyful centre.
Don’t do this to me, Ilona Szilágyi… Don’t do this to yourself.
It seemed to be too late. Whatever it was had already been done to her, and he had no idea if he could undo it.
As darkness fell, he threw himself on the bed. He hadn’t allowed the servant to light the lamps as he usually did, so there was little to distract him from his own thoughts. Only a blank darkness in which to conjure up a thousand images and memories of Ilona. What had happened to the triumph of winning her once more? It was lost in the ghosts, and he was haunted by images of the Ilona he’d just seen, tired, frightened, and unworldly. Images of her mother, sick and dying, of Maria, distraught and broken. Ilona, wild with grief and love and guilt. And himself, Vlad Dracula, villain of a thousand stories and legends. Vlad the Impaler, a fierce and terrible tyrant.
He wanted to impale Countess Hunyadi on a very high stake. Second only to bloody Matthias’s.
How in hell did he go about making that right? He couldn’t undo the past; he’d always known that. All he could do was build a new future. And for the first time, he doubted that that would be enough for her…
A knock sounded at the door, breaking into his boiling, unpalatable thoughts. A very faint knock, nothing like Szelényi’s cheery tattoo or the servant’s dull thudding. Frowning, Vlad swung his legs off the bed and stood. He still wore his boots.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The soft knock sounded once more. But there was no way whoever was outside wouldn’t have heard him. Years of such encounters had taught him precisely how to pitch his voice to avoid confusion.
An unlikely idea caught at his breath. His heart beat and beat as he walked toward the door. A light shone underneath it, shadowed by the swishing of a skirt.
The women who assuaged his bodily needs came at his command, not at their own whim. Erzsébet Hunyadi would not knock like a thief in the night. Which left…
The woman? Had she sent her faithful attendant?
No, Ilona Szilágyi possessed too much pride for that. Or, she had once…
Vlad laid his cheek against the cool wood of the door and closed his eyes, trying to sense the presence on the other side, listening in vain for the sound of her breathing. Afraid to be wrong. And yet if he didn’t speak, she would leave, and he would have lost this chance too.
“Ilona?”
Then at last he heard her breath, a gentle shudder as she drew nearer the door.
“Vlad Dracula,” she whispered.
***
How has it come to this?
The words sliced through her pain as she drove them all finally from her apartment, and stayed with her through the darkening of the lonely night.
How had she, the most private of people, who had hugged that privacy ever more tightly around her with the passage of years, come to be seen in this condition by so many? Her aunt, a total stranger, her faithful Margit, and him.
Above all, him. Why in God’s name had he come?
Because he doesn’t know what’s going on. He has the chance of freedom, of restoration, and you’re pulling against his plan.
And he didn’t know why. He was fulfilling his old promise without understanding that if Matthias wanted him in Wallachia, he’d put him there with or without Ilona. She was an easy gift, and Vlad’s pride would make him take it. Even now, when he’d seen her in all her “glory.”
Ilona closed her eyes, laying her forehead on the cold glass of the darkened window. How long ago was it she had watched from another window as he’d come into view below? With Stephen, once his best friend… And Maria, once hers, had seen him too and fled down to them to make her pathetic attempt at seduction and save her reputation by trickery. Ilona hadn’t been able to watch. Knowing he would reject Maria, riddled with jealousy in case he didn’t.
Tonight there was nothing to see, but she closed her eyes anyway.
It didn’t take away the image of his face, the fierce gleam of mockery in his blazing green eyes. “Tag. What now, Ilona Szilágyi?”
So like the man she remembered that even now the pain in her chest caught at her breath. He had come to her, to talk. He had tagged her, and she was It. The next move was hers.
“He remembered,” she whispered, wrapping both arms
around herself and hugging. “He remembered.” And she wanted to weep again, because it was no longer enough. There was what he remembered, and there was this. This Ilona she was now.
But even this Ilona would not spoil his plan, and she had to tell him so. Tomorrow. In the gallery. Under the watchful eye of her aunt, possibly even the king himself. And behind them a thousand others. It was what he had tried to avoid by coming here tonight.
Maybe he was right. Maybe it would have been the best thing. Only Aunt Erzsébet had come in, snarling for a fight, and Count Szelényi, the amiable stranger she could never look in the eye again, was there too. And Margit… What did Margit think of her now?
Do I care?
She opened her eyes, staring out into the night. The sky was clear and black, showering a million stars down on the world. On her.
She was It, and it was her time to act. Not tomorrow. Now.
Her breath caught at the boldness of the idea. It had been a long time since she’d done anything more outrageous than missing mass to care for her garden. But she knew where he was, where they kept him. She’d made it her business to find out, so that she could more easily avoid him. Well, she couldn’t avoid it anymore.
Her stomach twisted, her heart drummed in her breast, but her mind was made up. Pinning the ugly veil back onto her hair at last, she left Margit asleep on her pallet and crept through the dark, empty corridors to go to him.
She knew the door was his. In an otherwise unlived-in passage, it was particularly stout. And when she lifted her lamp, she could see the heavy lock holding it in place. On the other hand, no light shone under it from inside. He must be asleep.
The disappointment was like a blow. She knew she should go back to her room before she was discovered here. People wouldn’t think less of her for visiting her betrothed—until he no longer was. But it would be embarrassing all the same. Especially with a locked door between them.
Mocking herself, she lifted her hand and knocked softly. Over the beating of her own heart, she heard a faint, rustling sound. His voice said, “Enter!” loudly enough to make her jump. And so, unable to speak, she knocked again.
She heard his footsteps, measured and firm, cross the floor. Then, silence.
Speak, Ilona, tell him you’re here! But her throat had closed up.
“Ilona?”
It was little more than a breath, so close he might have been speaking against the door itself. Her throat opened.
“Vlad Dracula,” she whispered.
There was a pause, then, “I’d offer you a seat, but there is this obstacle between us.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, she lifted her hand, placing it over the spot his voice seemed to come from, and closed her eyes. Vlad. Vlad.
“I can still manage to stand.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. There were too many people before. And I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“To talk to you. I tried to tell you before…”
“That I can change my mind and not dishonour you or me?”
“Yes,” she said, relieved as so often in the past by his quick understanding.
“Why would I do that?”
The abrupt question threw her, but only for a moment. “Because you don’t need me. Matthias will support you with or without me.”
“Circumstances will always determine Matthias’s support, or lack of it,” he said impatiently. “It isn’t about Matthias or honour. Yours or mine. It never was.”
Gladness rose up, swift, aching, unendurable. Without meaning to, she laid her cheek on the door. “I know,” she whispered. “But that was before. I’m not the Ilona you remember. You’ve seen me, I am—old…”
“I am still seven years older. When did age come into it?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Vlad. You need a young wife who can give you an heir.”
“I have an heir.”
“A legitimate heir would please the Church better.”
“Then we shall marry quickly.”
“Oh, Vlad, don’t be so stubborn!” Her fingers curled into the door, as if embracing the stubbornness her words reproved. “Have you learned nothing in these twelve years? There is too much between us. Too much tragedy, too much guilt. I can’t live with that. I can’t live with you because of it.”
She could hear his breath through the door, as if he held her. Her arms ached.
His voice husky, he said, “Can you live without me now?”
“I’ve lived twelve years without you,” she whispered. Tears gathered in her throat, threatening to choke her all over again.
“I said live.”
Oh Jesus, did he still see everything? “As I did then? Without a thought for the hurt or the care of others? Something died in me after that, and now I don’t know which I want more—my own peace, or your happiness.”
“I’ll give you both.”
She couldn’t help smiling till her mouth ached. Probably there was only an inch of wood between her lips and his. “Peace with you, Vlad? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I want to make you laugh. I want you by my side.”
“You want Wallachia.” But thank you, thank you for saying it… She touched her lips to the door, a last kiss and one he would never know about, let alone feel.
He said, “I can’t have you without Wallachia. You’re the king’s cousin.”
Her lips froze against the wood. Her heart beat and beat. She gasped. “Vlad, stop, I’m old and tired—you’ve seen me…”
“And you’re twelve years more beautiful. Though your dressmaker should be impaled.”
A sob that was more than half laughter spilled out of her mouth, and this time, she heard unmistakable relief in his voice. “I was afraid they’d turned you against me. Irrevocably.”
“I stopped paying attention, Vlad, but I was never stupid.”
“Then smile when you promise yourself to me. And mean it.”
She could have sworn his breath touched her through the warm wood. She could smell him, taste him on her lips. Like wine after a long thirst. Her body stirred, remembering.
She whispered, “Is that the solution after all? Back on the sleigh ride…with you?”
A door slammed somewhere farther along the passage, and she jumped, gasping. “Someone’s coming! I have to go.”
Yet she’d only dashed a few paces when, on impulse, she turned and ran back. “Vlad?” she whispered. She thought he’d have gone, back to bed perhaps, at any rate too far away to hear her.
But his voice returned at once, so close it made her shiver. “Yes?”
“I’m glad your waiting is over.”
****
King Matthias was grumpy at being wakened so early just to receive a messenger. Sitting up in bed, he snatched the accompanying letter from the silver tray with ill grace and tore it open.
After a moment, he began to laugh. The messenger looked shocked.
“Good news for my mother,” he said jovially. “My sister is a widow.”
His chamberlain picked up the dropped letter. “I cannot imagine it will cause the countess great joy.”
“Of course it will,” said Matthias flippantly. “Her precious Ilona’s off the hook. We’ll stick my sister on it instead. At least she’ll be some use to us.”
Chapter Eight
Wallachia and Transylvania, 1456
Under the boiling sun, Vladislav fought with surprising fury. He’d been defeated by a small army of exiles and mercenaries, and the country had risen up against him. Vladislav had lost, and he must have known it, yet, here at Targsor, surrounded by his halfhearted men-at-arms, he alone fought with conviction.
It was how Vlad recognised him and was able to force his way through the melee to meet him. Shoving aside the two who already engaged him, Vlad raised his father’s sword and looked into his kinsman’s eyes.
Neither of them wore helmets.
Vladislav smiled. “At last. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Anxious to die, like your sorry supporters?”
“You’re my last hope, Vlad Dracula. You’ve taken my country, but I can still get it back by one simple act.”
He lunged at Vlad, his stroke powerful and unexpectedly quick, managing to draw blood from Vlad’s shoulder, slicing just outside the breastplate. But Vlad’s sword had largely deflected the blow, and the sudden despair in Vladislav’s face said that he knew it was the only chance he’d be given. Nevertheless, he fought fiercely and could have done considerable damage against anyone else. But Vlad, who hadn’t slept in three nights and was living on a volatile combination of determination and nervous excitement, with destiny on his shoulder and no possibility of failure in his heart, was invincible.
Vladislav knew it too. The deathblow seemed almost to come as a relief to him in the end. Vlad’s cut to his arm had already ripped tendons, and he could no longer hold his sword, which fell to the ground with a dull thud. It was all Vlad needed. With one mighty stroke, he severed his kinsman’s head.
Vlad gazed down at the broken, fallen body of his enemy, waiting for the inevitable triumph, for the sense of fulfillment to invade him and let him rest.
Vlad had wanted this for so long, played the scene so often in his head, his final victory over his father’s killer. And yet there he lay, just one more death in the greater struggle for power. While John Hunyadi engaged the Ottomans at Belgrade, Vlad had won this smaller war for him. There would be no Ottoman attacks through Wallachia and Transylvania. Vlad had given his word, and he would keep faith. It didn’t interfere with his own agenda.
Stephen stood beside him, nodding slowly. “It’s over,” he said, something approaching wonder in his voice. “You’ve done it.”
Vlad lifted his gaze beyond the fallen men and the cheering victors. Before him lay the nervous little town of Targsor and the majestic countryside of his homeland, spreading out through low hills and valleys, over gentle lakes and rushing rivers to the mountains that must keep it safe.
“Oh no,” he said softly. “I haven’t even begun.”
***
A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula Page 11