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

by Mary Lancaster

  Her heart beat like a drum. “Thank you,” she managed. “But more to the point, what do you think of it?”

  “I think it’s closed in, incestuous, and rife with intrigue.”

  Ilona blinked. “Then it isn’t worth all the waiting after all?”

  “On the contrary. Tîrgovişte is only a tiny part of the country, and one easily cured of its ills.” His gaze slid beyond hers, and he smiled at someone farther down the table. That smile made her shiver. And since he followed it up by turning politely to Mihály on his other side, Ilona cast a hasty glance down the table too.

  Roughly in the direction aimed at by Vlad’s smile, two noblemen were exchanging uneasy words.

  “Who are these gentlemen?” she asked Stephen bluntly.

  “Ah. Radul and his son. Once supporters of Vladislav who’ve come into the fold.”

  Ilona lowered her voice. “Does he trust them?” Would she? The men certainly looked uneasy, but then so would she at the receiving end of that smile.

  “He doesn’t trust anyone until they earn it. The question should rather be has he forgiven them.”

  Ilona let her gaze stray back to Stephen. “For what? They must all have supported Vladislav at some time.”

  Stephen lowered his voice. “But they didn’t all murder his brother.”

  Ilona blinked at the soup, which had materialised in the bowl before her. “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. But he does.”

  “What will he do?”

  Stephen picked up his spoon and began to eat. “That’s what worries me. It worries them too. He appears to have forgotten, if not forgiven, but I know that’s not true. He plays with them and with others, like a cat with a mouse, convincing them he’s won over and then resowing the seeds of doubt.”

  “As a punishment, it could be worse,” Ilona pointed out.

  “That’s what worries me. I’m sure it will be. Especially when I’m not here to—moderate him.”

  “Can you?” asked Ilona, distracted in spite of herself, and Stephen laughed.

  “No,” he admitted.

  ***

  The following morning, unable to stay away, Mihály Szilágyi went off with Stephen to inspect his troops and talk about war.

  Ilona, summoned by a knock on the front door of their house, and by the squeal of the maid who opened it to discover the prince leaning down from horseback, found herself out riding around the town with no escort but the prince.

  Though initially dazed and unnerved because of the way he’d looked at her yesterday, Ilona quickly relaxed. Although they weren’t on the open road, surrounded by soldiers, she was reminded of that journey home from Sighisoara last Christmas.

  Beyond the palace compound, they rode among narrow streets of large houses into an area of pleasant gardens that made Ilona exclaim with pleasure. Vlad pointed out the cathedral where he’d been formally invested as prince, another rather charming church, and the busy market square. The people didn’t pay them a huge amount of attention. Beyond bowing as their prince rode past, they got on with their lives. Noblemen and women made more elaborate obeisance, smiling and waiting to be addressed, but Vlad merely nodded and rode on.

  A moat and the inevitable walls surrounded the city. Vlad led her across the bridge, then turned to face his horse back toward the town. Ilona did likewise and enjoyed the view he showed her. A charming town of spires and turrets and flowers, nestling among the surrounding, vine-laden hills and sparkling blue lakes.

  “It is a beautiful city,” she observed. “You should appreciate it more.”

  “Perhaps.” His gaze flickered up to the hills. “I’d take you farther, show you the real Wallachia, but perhaps not today. You have no escort, and Mihály would kill me for risking your reputation.”

  Ilona, who hadn’t been aware he even noticed such mundane matters, blinked at him. For an instant, she imagined something vulnerable, almost wistful in his strong face, and knew an insane urge to touch it with her fingertips. Then his head turned, and he met her gaze. Unexpectedly and without reason, he began to smile, and his constantly veiled eyes softened.

  “And so you’re still waiting,” he observed. “I thought some dashing husband would have snapped you up in Buda.”

  Ilona shrugged uncomfortably. “Things are too uncertain.”

  “And no one wants to waste you on a lesser man.”

  “You make me sound like a flagon of wine,” Ilona said wryly. In truth, she often felt like one. She expected most women did.

  “A very fine wine,” Vlad assured her, and she laughed, urging her horse forward once more onto the drawbridge. Vlad came alongside her. She felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the spring sun.

  He said, “But what of you? Is there no one you wish to marry?”

  She shook her head. “Wishes are unwise. It will never be up to me.”

  “It might be. Mihály listens to you because you perceive things he doesn’t.”

  Ilona smiled with a trace of cynicism. “Perceiving a man’s beautiful soul would not sway Mihály Szilágyi.”

  “Is that what you want? A man with a beautiful soul?”

  “To be honest,” Ilona confessed, “I’m not perfectly sure what that is.” When he laughed, she gave another quick smile and apologised. “I was only babbling.”

  “Then you haven’t encountered one?” he teased.

  “A beautiful soul? I expect they’re only beautiful after death.”

  “Don’t be morbid. Does no living man stir your soul? Set your pulses racing and make you long for love?”

  Astonishment pulled her gaze back to him. He didn’t appear to be laughing at her. But his intense, long-lashed eyes looked straight into hers. She had no breath, no words.

  Oh God, help me, please…

  Struggling to avoid the question, she countered shakily, “Why? Do you ever feel like that?”

  “Not until recently.”

  Pain twisted through her, causing her hands to tighten on the reins. Confused, her horse, sprang forward, and she had to haul it back before it broke into a dangerous gallop through the narrow streets.

  Vlad’s hand seized her mount’s bridle, holding the animal soothingly but implacably. Ilona kept her gaze on that hand.

  “What will you do about it?” she asked, striving for lightness.

  “I honestly don’t know yet.”

  “I wish you well,” she muttered, urging the horse forward. Vlad released it, and for a time, they rode on in silence.

  Until recently, Ilona thought miserably. When he met Maria again? Maria had made it clear she’d fallen for the enigmatic prince, had told her every word, every gesture he’d made toward her, and it did sound to her as if Vlad had been flirting. Perhaps held back from anything else by his previous knowledge of Maria as Countess Hunyadi’s protégée. And there had been times yesterday, after the banquet, when as she’d sat with Maria, she’d felt his gaze and watched Maria blush.

  He didn’t know what to do about it yet. Marry her or take her as his mistress. Maria, she suspected, would be delirious with either arrangement.

  He said, “Do you never believe anyone is looking at you?” His voice, unexpectedly harsh, broke into her unhappy reflections.

  “What?”

  “Are you really not aware of your own beauty?”

  At a loss, she stared at him, feeling the colour mount high into her face and hating it. He looked almost…angry. “It’s the court dresses,” she explained.

  And Vlad’s hard eyes suddenly laughed. “Ilona—” He broke off as someone on horseback bowed right in front of them. A priest, who clearly knew him. Vlad spoke civilly to the man, asking after his health as well as briefly discussing the progress of some new monastery, and then they moved on.

  But the small interruption had crystallised some observations in her head.

  “They’re not afraid of you,” she blurted.

  “The priests? I flog them if they’re not polite.”

  “No,
you don’t. And I don’t just mean the priests. Everyone. The townspeople. The nobles. They bow, they hope, no doubt, for preference, but they’re not afraid of you.”

  “Should they be?”

  “Yesterday, you implied you ruled through fear. Or would do. But you ride among them openly as prince without fear, and they treat you the same way.”

  “I haven’t been here very long,” he excused.

  She regarded him with, no doubt, her mingled amusement and frustration clear in her face, for he smiled faintly in response.

  “Fear is an extremely powerful weapon,” he observed. “And the most useful one a ruler will ever have. Take the Ottomans, whose very name inspires terror throughout Europe. How many Europeans would believe that the Ottomans are a warm, gentle, generous-hearted people? All they need are a few atrocities from the past and an occasional military victory, and they can hold together an impossibly far-flung empire while the rest of the world shivers in its shoes, afraid to attack, terrified of the moment the monster advances.”

  Fascinated, Ilona began to make sense of it. But she couldn’t resist challenging, “All they need?”

  “Well, a massive army helps too.”

  “You don’t have that.”

  “On a smaller scale, I do. If necessary, every peasant will rise up and fight.”

  She smiled. “You’re a mass of contradictions, Vlad Dracula.”

  “I’m a successful mass of contradictions.”

  “So far,” she provoked.

  He closed one eye. “Keep watch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tîrgovişte, Wallachia, 1457

  “Of course you have leave to depart to your estates. They are not so far away, which will make it easy for you to return for my Easter banquet. I can promise you unprecedented entertainment.”

  The prince’s voice travelled the length of the great hall, where before the prince stood the nobleman Radul and his son, whom Stephen suspected of involvement with Mircea’s murder—or at least suspected that Vlad suspected.

  Ilona, who’d just strolled in with Maria, suddenly heard the blood singing in her ears.

  I will take my revenge on those who murdered my father and my brother. No mercy, Ilona Szilágyi. I will kill them all.

  Grabbing her friend by the hand, she pulled her back outside, into the passage.

  “Maria,” she whispered. “Your husband was Vladislav’s man.”

  “Right up to the end,” Maria confessed sadly.

  “And before? Did he help to oust Dracul? Vlad’s father?”

  “I think he probably did. The family were always Danesti supporters.”

  “Did he…?” Ilona broke off, struggling for words, casting a quick glance around for eavesdroppers. “Maria, was Dragomir involved in Mircea’s death?”

  “Oh, I really don’t think so…”

  “Think, Maria, was he here in Tîrgovişte when it happened?”

  Maria stared. “How should I know? Ilona, what’s the matter with you?”

  Ilona straightened, reaching up to tug at her hair. Maria tutted and immediately began to rearrange it. “I don’t know, to be honest…”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? Dragomir’s already dead.”

  But you’re not. The boy is not.

  Mary, Mother of God, what am I thinking? Why do I have to make him either a hero or a monster? He’s just a man in pain. A wounded man, perhaps even a damaged one…

  Ilona clutched her head again. “I’m going mad… But I don’t think you should be here at Easter. Something bad is going to happen.”

  Maria laughed and hugged her. “Nonsense! Easter is wonderful in Tîrgovişte, and this year, with him, it will be even better!”

  ***

  Dusk was falling on the gardens, lengthening and intensifying the shadows of the beech and the willow by the ornamental lake, dulling the brightness of the spring flowers and drawing the eye to the pink and gold of the setting sun instead.

  It was a fine night, mild and fresh, and it drew Ilona farther on until, nearer the palace building itself, she saw a familiar figure standing very still in the shadows.

  She couldn’t make out his face, but she knew it was Vlad Dracula, savouring his moment of solitude. God knew he didn’t get many of those. But although she meant to turn and tiptoe away from him, something far more powerful than tact drew her on like invisible ropes until she stood beside him. He didn’t turn, but she saw him smile.

  After a moment, something touched her hand. Before she could properly register what, his fingers had curled around hers and held. Astounded, Ilona didn’t move. She barely breathed. She’d no idea why he did it, but she knew even then that she’d treasure it long after he’d forgotten.

  From somewhere close by, the birds sang their final evening song. The gold changed slowly to a dusky, darkening pink. Vlad’s strong fingers held hers without moving.

  He said, “I thought if I touched you, you’d disappear like a desert mirage.”

  She could think of nothing to say to that. So she just gazed at his peaceful, averted profile.

  He said, “Why are you afraid of me, Ilona Szilágyi?”

  “I’m not,” she protested, finding her voice at last.

  He turned his head slowly toward her. “You never used to be. But I saw it in your eyes when you first came here with Mihály.”

  “Oh, that.” Stupidly, she felt relief, before she considered trying to explain it to him. She felt the blood seep into her neck and face. “That was just…because of the way you looked at me.”

  His eyes seemed to darken further between the long, almost womanly lashes. “And how was that?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t you I was afraid of.” She broke off, biting her tongue, dragging her gaze free of his too perceptive eyes. His thumb stroked the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger, just once. Slowly, his fingers uncurled and released her.

  “You’d better go inside, Ilona. Before I look at you that way again.”

  She flickered a glance at him, but he was watching the last rays of the sun and didn’t seem to notice. There might have been the faintest smile on his sensual lips; but equally, she might have imagined it.

  “Good night,” she murmured and walked quickly back toward her own quarters.

  She’d almost reached the path before he called, “Ilona?”

  She paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

  He said, “It’s not the dress.”

  Laughter bubbled up and spilled from her lips as she ran the rest of the way home. It felt like pure happiness.

  ***

  In the end, Mihály’s need to return to Hungary cut their visit short the day before the prince’s planned Easter celebrations. And since Maria offered her house once more as a staging post, she elected to miss the Easter fun and travel with them.

  Of course, her disappointment was mitigated by the soiree thrown by the prince to mark Mihály Szilágyi’s departure. Musicians played during the sumptuous feast, and afterwards, the tables were cleared away and gypsy musicians brought in to encourage the guests to dance.

  Ilona, in high spirits that amounted to exhilaration, realised she much preferred life in Tîrgovişte to the confusing hugeness of the Hungarian court. Although she didn’t want to leave tomorrow, she couldn’t contain the burgeoning happiness that glowed within her and kept growing. Because that strange interlude with Vlad in the gardens had made her wonder if he wasn’t regarding her at last as a woman, even a desirable one.

  She couldn’t think beyond that, but surely it was possible that all those glances she’d almost intercepted had been aimed at her and not Maria? And he had noticed her; he had looked at her like that when she’d first arrived. It had thrown her utterly because she hadn’t known what it meant, for him or for her, apart from the fact that it made her own secret burden harder to bear. But now…

  Now surely there was warmth in his profound green eyes whenever they rested on her.
And they rested on her often. It made her whole body flush but in a manner that was far from unpleasant. In fact, it was strangely exciting. And though he didn’t speak directly to her on many occasions during the feast, when he did, his deep, soft voice felt almost like a caress.

  She wasn’t even surprised when, as the gypsies struck up a lively tune, the prince stood and offered her his hand.

  Since she and Mihály were guests of honour, he was merely observing etiquette. And yet, when she looked up into his face, her breath caught. With the oddest feeling that she was giving over something of vital importance, she laid her fingers lightly in his, and he led her in dignified silence to the centre of the newly cleared floor.

  His fingers curled strongly around hers. He bowed, and a smile that was almost wicked gleamed in his eyes. And the dance began.

  It was a dance of the people rather than the nobility, but everyone knew it, however seldom practised as the stately Italian dances replaced it in noble entertainments. It didn’t surprise Ilona that Vlad knew it. It surprised her how good he was.

  Unexpectedly light on his feet, he stepped and whirled and spun her until the sheer fun of it held her completely captive. Breathless and joyful, she savoured secretly every touch of his hands, every brush of his powerful body against her own.

  The gypsies were clearly an inspired choice, for the floor was soon full of spinning, leaping dancers. And whether from a sense of fun or cruelty, the musicians went without pause from one tune to the next. Most of the dancers didn’t even notice. Ilona wouldn’t have if Vlad hadn’t suddenly dropped his arm around her waist and swept her to the side.

  “You’ll drop from exhaustion,” he observed, and Ilona laughed. She’d never seen him so relaxed, so dedicated to simple fun. It was a beguiling and dangerously attractive side to him.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “Come, a little fresh air will do us both good.”

  They were close to the inner door that led to his private apartments. And since it was open, it seemed natural enough to go through it. A staircase led upward, but it was to another door Vlad led her, and this opened onto the garden.