Stepping out, with her hand still in his, Ilona inhaled the scents of the night, delicate spring flowers, a hint of herbs drifting over from the kitchen garden, the fading remains of the splendid dinner. She lifted her face into the cooling breeze and breathed deeply as they walked toward the formal flower beds.
As if making a discovery, she said, “That’s the first time I’ve danced with you.”
“I hope it won’t be the last.”
“I can’t remember ever having so much fun.” The words spilled out because they were in her head. Once said, she realised they were probably unwise, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t take them back.
“Even among all those fine young suitors in Buda?”
“Some of them were old,” Ilona confided.
“Who found the most favour?”
“With me? None of them.” She was already spoiled, because her heart had been given long ago to a strange, driven man with a hard face and profound green eyes you could drown in. Those heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to leap now at her flippant comment. A smile played around his full lips.
“You are a difficult woman to catch. Elusive…You slip through my fingers like…” He broke off, pausing in midstride to lift a lock of her hair, letting it trickle over his palm and between his fingers. “Like that.”
Though she’d recovered her breath, her heart still beat like a drum. She said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
The smile tugged his lips higher and faded. “I know you don’t.” Gently, he pushed the captured lock of hair behind her head and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered so hard it was almost painful. He bent toward her until his hair fell across her neck and she forgot to breathe.
His lips touched hers, brushed once, and sank into her mouth. Ilona closed her eyes, let the happiness consume her. It was a brief embrace, yet one so longed for and never imagined that it shook her utterly. When he released her lips, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. In wonder, she lifted her hand and touched his rough cheek with her fingertips, pleading, though for what she barely knew.
“Again?” he asked huskily.
“Again,” she whispered, and he took her mouth once more, this time in a longer, much more thorough kiss. She felt his tongue slide along her parted lips and delve into her mouth, exploring, caressing. Shattered, she pushed one arm up around his neck and kissed him back while her free hand clung to his velvet mantle like a drowning woman to a rope.
He drew back at last, staring at her from eyes so dark they looked opaque. “Now it’s changed,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, it’s all changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Life is like our sleigh ride—do you remember? Rushing up and down over bumps, striving through the fear and exhilaration to find a safe way to the end. You may know you’ve done wrong, made mistakes, but you can’t change them, and you never know quite how or where it’s going to lead you… Am I babbling?”
“Yes.”
He smiled and reached up to take her hand away from his neck. He kissed the palm before curling her fingers over it as if to hold a precious gift. “Then it’s time I took you back before your reputation is ruined beyond repair.”
I don’t care.
***
It was a moment of sweetness, undeserved but impossible to forego, before the ugly realities of life intruded once more. This feeling for Ilona Szilágyi, which seemed to have sprung up fully fledged from nowhere and yet had been growing unobserved and unacknowledged for years, was in danger of obsessing him. But a man could handle only so many obsessions, and before he could allow this one, he had to deal with another, far less palatable one.
So, with the echo of her warm, passionate kisses still on his lips, he bade her and her father farewell early the following morning. She blushed adorably when he kissed her hand, and he drew the memory around him like armour. When all else was done, for a few minutes on a warm spring evening, Ilona Szilágyi had loved him.
He handed her and Maria into their carriage in person and turned to embrace Mihály and wish him luck. In the coming struggle with the wayward young king, he was going to need it.
Then he stood back and let himself wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like never to watch her leave. To have her at his side as his partner in governance, his conscience, his lover, to share laughter and comfort.
It was a sweet, warm ambition, but one that would have to wait. For tonight, the dish of his revenge would finally be cold enough to taste. And Mircea could rest in peace.
***
Their souls as shriven as they could be by religious ritual, the prince’s carefully chosen guests trooped back from church and gorged themselves on his food. Bright, almost exotic in their finery, Vlad imagined those rich nobles, ladies, and merchants as rare animals and birds in some distant, tropical location, squabbling for every last piece of whomever or whatever they’d slaughtered last. Even though they each had more than enough.
But it was human nature too, to always want more.
His food untouched, Vlad sat back in his chair at the head of the table. “So, my friends—this is my first Easter here as your prince.”
“And a most notable one it is too,” said some sycophant near the middle of the table.
“Indeed? I’m honoured to stand out, since you must have known many Easters, with many different princes.”
“True,” said Radul with a nostalgic sigh.
They were all drunk on his wine, full of well-being and good cheer.
Vlad said, “Exactly how many princes have you known? In your lifetime?”
Radul thought. “Maybe thirty.”
“No, no, just twenty,” said the peacock next to him.
“Well, you’re younger than me. I count thirty. Listen…”
“What of you?” Vlad interrupted, addressing Radul’s son.
The young man shrugged. “Maybe seven or eight?” he hazarded.
“Certainly a lot,” Vlad agreed. “I could recite them to you, one after the other. Some names appear more than once, as you know. It would take a long time, just to enumerate the princes of the last fifty years. So how do you explain that phenomenon, gentlemen? Or ladies. How is it that there have been so many princes throughout your single lives?”
For the first time, a flutter of unease seemed to pass round the table. A few surreptitious glances were exchanged, a few buttocks shuffled on their seats.
Radul smiled and spread his hands deprecatingly. “Your Highness…”
“I’ll tell you,” Vlad interrupted. The harshness of his voice broke through Radul’s response, silenced every whispered conversation around the table. He stood up and leaned forward to gaze into each face in turn while he spoke with all the hate and contempt festering inside him since boyhood.
“This is your land, your country, and yet you destroy it. The guilt for that, for the murder and destruction of so many striving princes, is entirely due to your shameful intrigues.”
The faces blanched; each pair of eyes slid away as soon as he released them. He felt like a puppet master. He felt sick. Worse, he knew most of them would never even understand. Disgusted, he slammed the table once, making them all jump. Several women squealed.
“Well, it’s enough,” he uttered. “It ends here, now.”
Straightening, he pushed over his chair and strode to the door. It opened before he even got there, and several soldiers entered as he’d bade them.
“Take the six at the top of the table and execute them. The rest can start walking.”
“Walking?” one woman wailed, as if it was a worse punishment than execution. “Walk where? Home?” she added, optimistically.
Vlad paused to glance at her over his shoulder. “Oh no. You’ll walk to Poenari,” he said. “I need a castle built.”
***
“What’s going on?” Ilona asked in confusion.
Their departure from Wallachia seemed to be littered with obstacles
. Having spent the night with Maria and departed later than planned, due to a minor domestic crisis, they had then been forced to halt to repair one of the carriage wheels, thus wasting even more time in Mihály’s eyes.
And now, a dejected line of people were being moved to the side of the road by soldiers to let her and her father, together with their coach and escort, pass. The people were clearly prisoners of some kind, but very bizarre ones. Their garments were brightly coloured, expensive silks and velvets, although some were torn and all were spattered with mud and dust. Some, especially the women, even wore jewellery dangling from their ears and necks.
As Ilona edged her horse nearer her father’s, one woman caught her eye and implored, “Have pity, my lady, have pity and save me…”
“Save you from what?” Ilona asked, panicked. “Who are you, where are you being taken?”
A soldier dragged the woman away, pushing her roughly back into line.
“The prince’s orders,” he explained. “They’re all traitors and murderers, bound for hard labour—namely building His Highness a new castle at Poenari.”
“Murderers? Whom did that poor woman murder?” Ilona demanded.
“The prince’s brother. Prince Mircea. They all did.”
The blood sang in her ears. Understanding swamped her. “I thought he would kill them,” she whispered.
“Killed some of them,” said the soldier laconically. “The rest, as he says, can work for the first time in their lives.”
“Shut up, Alex, he’s coming,” hissed another soldier, coming up behind. “Keep moving there!”
As the bewildered line of torn beauty trudged onward, Ilona became aware of a solitary rider coming up fast behind them. Unmistakably, the proud, arrogant figure of Vlad Dracula.
Ilona couldn’t look at him. She continued to gaze after the sorry line. But Mihály halted to wait for him, blocking her escape as well as Vlad’s swift passage. The prince reined in only feet from them. His horse snorted. Still, Ilona kept her face averted.
Vlad said, “I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. The road parts not far ahead.”
“An odd, cruel sort of punishment for the nobility,” Mihály observed, and Ilona heard the mingled admiration and disapproval in his voice. “You intend that even the women should work?”
“Why not? Peasant women work all the time, in the fields, in the home. It could be worse,” he added brutally. “They could be dead. Like my brother.”
“They might wish they were,” Mihály said ruefully, and Ilona realised that that would be the verdict of the world. This was one of Vlad’s “few atrocities” in the name of peace, and no one would understand that in his own eyes, he was being merciful.
Slowly, Ilona turned and looked at him. After an instant, his eyes widened. As if he didn’t see what he expected in her face. Then the hooded lids came down.
She said, “Be at peace,” and didn’t know if she meant Mircea or Vlad. She urged her horse forward, following the slowly moving coach.
Behind her, Vlad said, “Mihály? I have another proposition for you. I’ll write to you.”
“I’ll receive it with pleasure.” There was a pause while Mihály’s horse danced. Then, more abruptly, “Take care, Prince.”
Ilona shivered. The best of Vlad’s troops were out of the country, winning Moldavia for his cousin. If the nobles revolted at this unusual punishment of their own kind or flocked to one of his rivals already hiding out in Transylvania, would he be able to survive?
But he only said, “You too.”
Chapter Twelve
Visegrád, Hungary, 1474
It was inevitable that one day Stephen would come face-to-face with Vlad Dracula. The king’s prisoner seemed to roam largely at will during the day, although he was generally accompanied by the watchful Count Szelényi, and the castle and grounds were not so huge that they could miss each other forever.
However, it was the day Stephen prepared to leave hurriedly for home that the dreaded and looked-for encounter finally occurred. And of course it had to be when Vlad’s fortunes were once more up in the air, and the exiled prince had no cause whatsoever to feel gratitude toward the man who had betrayed him.
Stephen was hurrying through the gallery on his way to make a hasty farewell to the king, when he saw the figure striding toward him. Unmistakably Vlad. The sun beamed in through the high windows, momentarily dazzling him, and for a moment it was if the years rolled back. Nothing seemed to have changed about Vlad—he had the same lean but powerful frame, the same devastating dark green eyes and luxurious black hair. As he moved beyond the direct beam, Stephen could see that of course he had aged. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth, a fuller moustache and, surely, a wealth of patient pain in those fathomless eyes.
For a moment, Stephen thought he hadn’t been noticed and wondered cravenly if he could pass by without a word. But although the other prince didn’t break his stride, he did see him. And it seemed Vlad was the one who would pass without a word.
Stephen said, “Vlad,” and was annoyed by the ridiculous huskiness of his own voice. Vlad halted almost abreast of him and regarded him without expression.
“Stephen,” he returned, as if they’d parted only yesterday and he counted him of no more importance than a dog.
Stephen blurted, “I’m sorry things have turned against you again.”
“I’ll survive. I’m sorry things have gone badly for you too.”
Stephen stared. “They haven’t.”
“I heard you married my niece. It’s not good blood. And of course, the usurper Besarab Laiota has betrayed you.”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Stephen, more annoyed by that than the slur on his wife, Radu’s daughter.
Vlad smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “He will.”
Stephen knew it. As soon as he’d put Besarab on the Wallachian throne, the ungrateful bastard had started grovelling to the Ottomans. It was why he was here, negotiating with the king to try to restore Vlad, who alone had the right touch to keep a proper balance and resist the sultan. But he hated that Vlad knew it.
Vlad nodded ironically and passed on.
“Vlad?” Stephen said to his back. He paused but didn’t turn. “Marry the king’s sister and take Wallachia back. It’ll be like the old days.”
Vlad turned his head slowly, and Stephen was amazed to see an expression of total disbelief on his face. Pain and guilt smote him so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then Vlad turned back and carried on his way.
***
So the betrothal would not happen tonight after all. Margit rather thought her lady had had a lucky escape and should probably thank God, fasting. But perversely, Ilona seemed even more upset by this turn of events. She wouldn’t speak to Countess Hunyadi, and when Margit tried to cheer her up, she simply laid her cheek on the pillow and closed her eyes. Margit knew she wasn’t asleep, but she couldn’t force comfort upon her.
Sighing, she left her in the inner chamber and decided to go in search of her own amusement. There was, for instance, a very nice young nobleman with a charming smile who’d spoken to her in the gallery this morning. She wouldn’t be averse to running into him again, although there probably wasn’t any point now if they were going to pack their bags and head home to Transylvania.
Opening the door, she stepped into the passage and almost bumped into Count Szelényi.
“Lady Margit,” he said, bowing, and Margit couldn’t help preening at the title. “The Prince of Wallachia begs a few words with you, if it won’t distract you from your care of Countess Ilona.”
Margit blanched. “The Prince of… Oh dear, what does he want with me?”
“He’s anxious for your mistress,” Count Szelényi said severely.
Margit squared her shoulders. “We all are,” she said with hostility. “And if you ask me, he’s the cause of all her troubles.”
“I don’t ask you. You may tell the prince,” said Szelényi maliciously.
Wel
l, she would! Terrified or not, she wouldn’t let Ilona be further upset if she could avoid it.
Count Szelényi led her into the formal gardens, where she saw the prince almost at once, seated on a stone bench with an open letter in his hand. He laid it down and rose to his feet as they approached.
“Thank you for coming,” he said before she could speak. “Shall we walk?”
Deprived of words, Margit obediently walked beside him.
“How is your lady?” he asked abruptly.
“Distraught.”
He nodded once, as though he expected that. Then, surprisingly, he said, “You have attended the countess for a long time?”
“Eleven years. Since her husband died.”
He frowned. “Her husband… Did you know him? Was he a good man?”
“I believe so. He died only months after they married.”
“Did she grieve?” If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the words were wrung out of him. But although they sounded slightly strangled, no doubt because of his excessively formal speech, his facial expression never altered.
Margit said, “It’s my belief she’s still grieving.”
He glanced at her. “Why?”
“Because…” Margit struggled with something she’d never put into words before. “Because in all the years I’ve known her, she’s never shown any desire for anything. She is sweet, kind, considerate—and completely indifferent to everything. Except her garden, which she nurtures like her own child.”
The prince frowned. If he’d been looking directly at her, her knees would have buckled. As it was, her heart jumped in her breast so that she could barely breathe.
“And in all those years, she’s never changed? She was like that when you met her?”
Margit nodded. “Yes.” With conscious bravery, she added, “But she never once wept until she came here.”
His gaze came back to her, and she made ready to run. But unexpectedly he said, “Is that a bad thing?”
“Is it good to weep?” Margit demanded.
“I don’t know. It’s better to laugh, as I recall, but at least either means you’re alive… Your family lives near Horogszegi?”
A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula Page 16