A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula

by Mary Lancaster

  John Hunyadi was dead.

  For Maria, the news was more devastating than the loss of her own husband. As Ilona had prophesied, she’d grown fond of Dragomir, but her grief at his passing was not unmixed with annoyance, because he’d backed the wrong horse. Even when so many of the other boyars left Prince Vladislav, either secretly or blatantly, to support the exile, Vlad Dracula, Dragomir had thrown everything behind Vladislav in the belief that the prince’s alliance with the sultan would bring most benefit.

  And though she didn’t pay much attention to political matters, Maria could see why he might think so. No one really believed that the Christian states of Europe, not even the White Knight, John Hunyadi himself, could organise any kind of viable resistance to Ottoman invasion.

  And when the Ottomans finally made their long-expected attack on Belgrade, even the brave heart of its commandant, Mihály Szilágyi, Ilona’s father, must have quailed to see the tiny size of the force John Hunyadi led to his aid. If it hadn’t been for the crusading rabble which appeared out of nowhere thanks to the no longer quite so awful Roman churchman John of Capistrano, Belgrade would surely have been lost.

  Or so she’d heard people say. At any rate, Hunyadi had won his last great victory and died three weeks later of the plague which the Ottomans carried everywhere in their wake. The same plague had done for the papal legate.

  But she hadn’t known any of this when Vlad Dracula swept into Wallachia and ruthlessly took back his throne. Dragomir had died fighting him, as had Prince Vladislav himself. She hadn’t known about Hunyadi when she’d dressed this morning, and presented herself as bidden in Vlad Dracula’s public hall at Tîrgovişte. She’d come to plead for her stepson’s life and estates, and people had said John Hunyadi was dead. The countess would be devastated…and her children…and Ilona.

  Someone called her name, impatiently, as if it had been said several times before. She moved forward in a dream, not thinking as she should, I’m about to meet Vlad Dracula, who holds the power of life and death over me and the boy, but thinking, John Hunyadi is dead.

  And then the gaggle of lawyers and clerks and noblemen parted to let her through, and she thanked God she’d taken the trouble to dress well for the occasion.

  Before her, on a high, ornately carved throne, sat Vlad Dracula. Not the young soldier who’d let her kiss him before he rejected her. But the Prince of Wallachia in all his splendour. He wore a red silk hat encrusted with rows of pearls and jewels, a red velvet mantle with golden buttons, and a snowy collar of the finest lace, and he looked every inch the stern, implacable ruler.

  Her legs began to shake as she took the final few steps to the throne and knelt. Someone may have told her to, but mostly, she thought, her knees just gave way.

  She couldn’t look at him. Those dark green eyes were like shards of ice, hard and cold and piercing. His face was so haughty, she could only pray he didn’t remember her from Hunedoara.

  “I know you,” he said, and she shivered as much at the sound of his voice as at his words. Only later did she realise it was the first time she’d heard him speak Romanian. Slowly, knowing the game was up, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “You attended Countess Hunyadi.”

  “Is it true he’s dead?” she blurted.

  The green eyes darkened. His eyelids dropped like hoods, and when they lifted once more, she read nothing more than the original ice. And yet she could have sworn there had been a storm of pain and fury. Certainly he didn’t ask who she meant. He knew.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “That is…awful.”

  “Yes,” he said again. “It is.” And surely there was a hint of amusement in there now. She didn’t dare risk a smile, but she didn’t look away either. “And yet I think you would have been better staying at Hunedoara.”

  “It was the countess who arranged my marriage.”

  “You have not brought your son,” he observed.

  My son. That was one loss she would never get over. Dragomir had agreed to marry her, to gain Hunyadi’s valuable friendship as well as a beautiful young wife—but not to bring up another man’s son as his own, even though he already had an heir. And so she had given birth in secret on one of the Hunyadis’ smaller estates, and the child had been given to a well-to-do free farmer and his wife. Part of her heart had stayed there when she’d come to Wallachia as Dragomir’s bride.

  But of course, the prince did not mean that son. He meant Dragomir’s.

  “My husband’s son is only eight years old. It didn’t seem fitting to bring him.”

  “Or safe?” asked Vlad.

  Maria’s eyes flickered. They said he’d already butchered entire families to punish those who’d stood against him.

  Vlad’s lips twisted. “In the absence of trustworthy relatives to care for his estates, we shall do so. In the meantime, upon swearing allegiance to me, he—and you—may live on them.”

  Someone almost dragged her to her feet and out of his presence.

  I’ve done it, she thought in wonder. I’ve done it…

  ***

  Ilona clung convulsively to her father. Beyond words, they both knew that it could so easily have been his body brought home by John Hunyadi. There were many—probably including Mihály Szilágyi himself—who believed that would have been a better outcome for the world. But Ilona wasn’t one of them. If there was guilt in her fierce joy at her father’s survival, it couldn’t overwhelm it.

  Her father’s arms loosened. She knew why. Slowly, she drew herself out of his embrace and stepped back.

  Countess Hunyadi stood in the doorway, the wind catching at her veil. Erzsébet’s wailing was done. Not her weeping, but the basic, uncontrollable element of her grief. White-faced and drawn, she stood poker straight, forcing herself to look at the carriage which brought her husband to her for the last time.

  Mihály Szilágyi said, “Forgive me. I never thought to have such unhappiness in bringing him to Hunedoara. Like the rest of the world, I thought he would live forever.”

  Erzsébet nodded. “Thank you for bringing him here and not…”

  Not to Hungary, not to the king, who had done so little to help but who would now take credit for the victory of Belgrade. But she broke off, unable to continue.

  “It was one of his final wishes.”

  “László?”

  “In command of Belgrade. He feels the loss of his father deeply, but he’ll do his duty.”

  She nodded again. She didn’t say she wanted him here instead, but Ilona knew. She thought her heart would burst from pity, from her own grief.

  But more than that, who would look after Hungary and Transylvania, who would pull the strings and wield the sword to keep the Ottomans at bay now that the White Knight of Christendom was dead?

  ***

  “I will,” said Mihály Szilágyi.

  It was when they heard the news that László Hunyadi had nearly destroyed everything. Left with the awesome responsibility of governing Belgrade, he’d invited the young king to visit the scene of the great victory. And when King Ladislas had graciously arrived with his favoured followers among the hated Cilli clan, László had pulled up the drawbridge before his men-at-arms could follow. After that, Count Cilli had been killed—whether by László himself or one of his henchmen was unclear.

  Ilona knew why. Furious with grief, László was avenging the many slights and insurmountable obstacles placed in the way of his father by this self-serving and much lesser man. He’d probably even enjoyed his brief power over the surely terrified young king, though in the end Ladislas had left the fortress unharmed and László continued as governor of Belgrade and of Transylvania in his father’s stead. But for how much longer? If the Cillis had been enemies before, how much was the feud aggravated now? Worse, whatever things appeared on the surface, he must have made an open enemy of the king. And that meant the whole family was in danger.

  And if the Hunyadis fell, what would become of Hungary and the network of alliances
and balances that had kept the kingdom safe for so many years? Strong hands were needed at the helm, to placate the king and to guide him. In the long term, it would be László and young Matthias. Right now, it had to be Ilona’s father.

  “And I will,” said Erzsébet in a small, hard voice, and when her brother glanced at her in surprise, a sour smile curved her thin lips. “For twenty years I have been the consort of the man who effectively ruled Hungary. I may be a woman, but I am not no one. János rose high—with our backing, my sons will rise higher yet.”

  Ilona, forgotten in the background as she often was, lifted her head, struck by something in the countess’s voice.

  “Higher than John Hunyadi?” she blurted in disbelief. “Why that would make them…”

  “Hold your tongue, Ilona,” said Mihály.

  Ilona closed her mouth and swallowed. She understood, finally, that they’d talked about this before, that John Hunyadi himself had not ruled out the ultimate promotion of his son—to King of Hungary.

  She had a bad feeling about it.

  Mihály said, “We must consider our position, strengthen all alliances, make new ones. First of all, László and Matthias must be kept apart at all times. I’ll leave at once to see the king and try to mitigate what László has done, but you must make László understand the danger he’s now in.”

  Erzsébet nodded. “Perhaps it’s time I too went again to court. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ilona? We might even find you a suitable husband at last.” Ilona, feeling slightly hunted under both pairs of eyes, looked from one to the other. Erzsébet said consideringly, “She’s quite an attraction in her own right, Mihály. She can only help our cause. And if she can just learn when to keep her mouth shut and stop asking the wrong questions, she’ll be a positive asset.”

  “What cause?” Ilona asked. Her deliberate provocation went over Erzsébet’s head, busy as she was in her own plans, but Mihály frowned at her.

  “We need you, Ilona,” he said briskly. “Go and prepare your own and your aunt’s things for court. We travel immediately. Prepare for a long absence. After Hungary, I may take you to Wallachia.”

  Ilona tugged once at her hair, a tiny gesture of agitation, but she’d already stood to obey.

  “Keep young Vlad on the straight and narrow,” Erzsébet approved. “No slipping back toward the Ottomans.”

  “There’s that,” Mihály allowed. “And also that if it comes to a struggle, we’re going to need him on our side.”

  ***

  “What the hell is he doing?” Stephen asked.

  He’d come in search of Vlad that evening, imagining there would be some kind of celebration. In Dracula’s first major diplomatic victory of his reign, he’d managed to convince the Ottomans that Transylvania was too strong for them to attack it this year. Very cleverly, he’d enlisted the help of the major Transylvanian towns to do this, having them send major, powerful-looking delegations to Tîrgovişte while the Ottoman ambassadors were there. And so Transylvania also saw how the new Prince of Wallachia protected them and prevented the Ottomans attacking them through Wallachia.

  It had come at a price, of course—the inevitable one of swearing allegiance to the sultan and promising tribute. Despite the fact that he’d already sworn allegiance to the Hungarian king. Balkan princes had to preserve a highly precarious balance to maintain the independence of their countries and Stephen was well aware he’d just received a masterful lesson from his cousin. When he ruled neighbouring Moldavia, it would be beyond useful.

  But now, the Ottomans had gone home to report to the sultan the unwisdom of raiding Transylvania this season, and the Transylvanians had gone home with renewed friendship for Vlad. It seemed to Stephen that everyone had won. And yet when he came to join in the celebrations of the court, Vlad was nowhere to be found.

  Finally, Stephen had tracked him to an open piece of ground outside the palace walls. It was dark, the good citizens were mostly in bed, and the nobility celebrating either in the palace or in their own homes. Even those who had once opposed Vlad’s succession were coming round to him, having been granted a glimpse of his brilliance and determination. Like Carstian, whom he’d recently made governor of the fortress of Tîrgovişte, an act of trust in this newly sworn vassal that Stephen hoped would not come back to haunt him.

  Vlad was not given to instinctive trust, of course. Carstian must have proved himself in some way. If this was a risk, it was a calculated one. For in this quiet little field, some yards away from Vlad, stood Carstian himself, watching unhappily while Vlad dug a hole in the ground.

  It wasn’t the first hole either. The field looked as if it had a plague of giant moles.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Stephen repeated.

  In his shirtsleeves, the Prince of Wallachia was efficiently and steadily digging, his upper body bending and straightening, his arms working the spade without respite.

  Carstian stirred. “You remember that his brother died in Tîrgovişte?”

  “Mircea?” For the first time, a twinge of unease twisted through Stephen’s half-amused amazement at his cousin’s behaviour.

  “Rumours say he was buried alive.”

  “I heard that rumour. So did Vlad.”

  Carstian nodded. To Stephen’s relief, Vlad flung down the spade, but instead of striding across to his friends, he crouched down and reached into the ground.

  Carstian said, “I wasn’t here. I was with Vlad Dracul until he was killed, and then I returned to my estates. The prince knows that. But he asked me to find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Where Mircea is buried.”

  Stephen swore. “He can’t do that. He can’t rule his country now from the perspective of the past! He’ll ruin everything, lose everything…”

  Without waiting for Carstian, to whom he’d probably said too much anyway—the man had that effect on people—he strode across the field toward Vlad, who sat back on his heels, staring into the hole he’d just dug.

  “Vlad you have to leave this obsession. Now.”

  Vlad didn’t glance at him. He didn’t seem to be even remotely surprised that he was there.

  “What obsession would that be?”

  “Mircea!” Stephen stepped forward, laying his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Forcing his voice to greater gentleness, he said, “You have to let your brother rest in peace.”

  “Does that look like peace to you?”

  “What?” Instinctively, Stephen glanced in the direction of Vlad’s gaze, into the hole. By the light of the lantern placed beside it, he saw what looked, stupidly, like a smooth, pale, misshapen ball. The back of a skull.

  Stephen swallowed. “That could be anyone.”

  “It’s Mircea.”

  “He spoke to you?” Fear made him sarcastic; a need to jerk Vlad out of it made him unkind.

  “Yes,” said Vlad. “He spoke to me. He said, ‘They threw me into this pit, facedown, and piled soil on top of me until I suffocated. My mouth and nose and eyes were full of dirt; the weight was unbearable. I couldn’t breathe in anything but mud until my heart burst and my lungs…”

  “Vlad, stop it!”

  Vlad lifted his head at last, gazed into Stephen’s frightened face. His eyes were opaque, not weeping as Stephen had feared.

  “You can’t know that,” Stephen said.

  “I can.”

  “What will you do?” Carstian spoke the words Stephen was too afraid to ask.

  When Vlad didn’t answer at once, Stephen blurted, “Don’t burn the bridges you’ve built here, Vlad. If this is true, the crime wasn’t committed by one man.”

  “I know who was responsible.”

  Stephen said, “You made him find that out too?”

  “Carstian? No. I listened and I looked and I learned.”

  “Don’t do anything hasty,” Stephen begged.

  Vlad stood. “I told you years ago. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Go and fetch a priest.”

&nb
sp; “It’s a bit late for that!”

  Vlad turned on him. Though his limbs never moved, Stephen felt as though he’d been struck. As if Vlad’s pain had somehow slammed into Stephen’s body.

  “Fetch a priest. My brother will have a proper burial.” Picking up the spade, he began to uncover the rest of the body.

  While Carstian moved swiftly and silently in search of the nearest priest, Stephen watched helplessly as Vlad uncovered the bones of his dead brother, lifted them, and placed them faceup in his cloak for a shroud. Only then, when he laid his brother back in the ground, did something fall into the grave. A drop that glittered like rain from the clear sky.

  Vlad dashed his dirt-spattered arm across his face, as if wiping sweat away, and turned to face the priest.

  “Say the words,” he whispered.

  ***

  It was Vlad’s birthday. He used the occasion to hold his first formal reception purely for entertainment. Previous affairs had been designed to receive the homage of his vassals or the ambassadors of foreign countries. This would be a more relaxed event, an opportunity to know his boyars better and let them know him, the man behind the splendour. Or at least as much as he chose to reveal.

  Using the gold he’d found in Vladislav’s coffers, he served them fine wines from Hungary and Italy, the best local meat and poultry, cooked to perfection, and the most elegant of sweetmeats and pastries prepared by his Italian-trained cook. He hired the best musicians that could be located, and after the banquet, there was dancing.

  Vlad didn’t care to dance, but he’d been taught in his childhood, along with all the other princely arts, and he knew his duty. To open the occasion, he led out the wife of Lord Tacal, his most senior boyar, and set out to entertain her. It wasn’t difficult. At least the woman danced well and possessed a sharp intelligence that made it easy to converse. Although she was an experienced and well-mannered lady, she couldn’t quite hide that he surprised her.

  Vlad wanted to laugh. Which was when he caught sight of Maria, Countess Hunyadi’s old attendant and informant. Presumably she was still informing, though on him rather than his predecessor. She was dancing some distance away, but as if she sensed his brief scrutiny, she glanced up and cast him a quick, surprised smile from under her lashes.