Vlad nodded, signalling to the soldier to open the window and pass him the rope already firmly tied to the roof’s stout beams.
“Take care, sir,” the soldier said anxiously as he climbed out of the window. Vlad didn’t pause, just ran forward across the roof, pulled the rope tight, and walked backwards off the edge.
Lowering himself foot by foot, Vlad listened carefully, looking constantly around for observers. But he saw no one, and the only sound was his boots bouncing softly, rhythmically off the walls as he went down.
Landing on the street, he moved quickly farther into the shadows, then stood perfectly still. Nothing moved in the darkness.
He moved to one corner and glanced around. Nothing and no one. Vlad ran back the way he’d come and on to the other corner. The narrow passage down that side of the building was empty too.
However, he could hear something, some movement close by. His heart began to beat with excitement.
Pardo…at last.
Swiftly, lightly, he ran the length of the passage, his hand on his sword hilt to stop it clanking against the wall. But as he moved, he realised they were hardly the noises one would expect. Not pacing, surreptitious rustling as someone hid in ambush, no whispered conversation or instructions. There was a low scraping sound, followed by gentle tapping, Then more scraping and tapping which grew louder. Like a hammer on nails and wood.
Vlad began to understand.
He paused for an instant at the corner, listening to the hammering, which had become more speedy than silent. Then, ready to meet the last of those who’d betrayed his father, he walked round the side of the building.
He saw both men at once, by the door, one holding the wood in place, one hammering in the nails. They’d done a pretty efficient job of barring the door, he allowed. What a pity for them that the prince they’d planned to trap was already on the outside. Whether they’d meant to set it on fire or unblock a window and shoot arrows at him, they’d misjudged him again. He’d learned long ago always to leave himself two exits.
He strolled toward them and drew his sword. At the scraping of steel, they both whirled round. And gaped. Even in the moonlight, Vlad could see their stunned expressions and almost laughed aloud.
Pardo, a broad man of medium height with a dark, drooping moustache and a large nose which had obviously been broken at least once, recovered first and reached for his sword.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Vlad said. “Are you looking for my Majesty?”
Just in case they didn’t know him. Just in case they were in any doubt as to who killed them.
The servant scrabbled for his dagger, but before he even drew it free, Vlad was upon him, stabbing him cleanly through the heart with his own dagger while with his sword he parried Pardo’s powerful lunge.
Once, Vlad might have drawn it out. Having gauged the level of his opponent’s skill, he might have played with Pardo, inflicting pain as viciously as he knew how before the final blow. But he’d grown tired of long revenge. Now, he just wanted it over. And so he slashed him twice across the chest and hacked the sword from his numb fingers. For an instant, he stared into the stunned, desperate eyes of his enemy.
He said, “For my father, Vlad Dracul.” And, just as he had with Vladislav, he swung his sword high and cut off Pardo’s head.
Vlad stood back, his breathing only a little quickened, and surveyed his handiwork. A distant smell of smoke tickled his nostrils, reminding him of wood fires and home. And Ilona, whom he’d hurt and whom he longed for all the more because of her admission.
Bending, Vlad bent and wiped his sword on Pardo’s deliberately tatty clothes. Then, sheathing sword and dagger, he began to walk home.
Perhaps because he’d had enough of ugliness, he let his mind dwell on Ilona, on memories of her shy, passionate kisses and the feel of her body melting in his arms. On the physical pleasures he would so enjoy teaching her when she became his companion, his lover, his wife. They were sweet fantasies, and he had every intention of making them reality. Even without Mihály’s offer of support, he’d planned to pursue the matter with the king. When the time was right.
Vlad stopped. Smoke. He could still smell smoke, more strongly than ever. Like a bonfire rather than a campfire.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” he whispered. He turned, facing the rising plume of smoke above the rooftops. “Oh, please, no….” He began to run back to the warehouse, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets and then blending with the sounds of other running feet, of cries of “Fire!” and “Help!”
He could hear their screams long before he got there and began tearing at the wooden barriers with his bare hands. But the whole building was already a mass of flame and the heat intense enough to have thrown back all other would-be rescuers.
His soldier, the one from the loft, tried to pull him away, but Vlad shook him off furiously, even while he acknowledged gladness that he at least survived.
His foot kicked at something—Pardo’s hammer. Seizing it, he swung it twice at the largest strip of wood and dislodged it. With another mighty swing, he broke in the rest of the door. The fire sucked the air into a torrent. A huge fireball exploded in front of his eyes, and something blasted him across the street.
When he could see again, he rose to his feet and stumbled across to the burning warehouse. He waited, watching them douse the blaze. But he already knew that all his guests were dead. All they would find were charred remains.
***
Ilona left Maria to sleep and was escorted back to her own house within the palace grounds. Mihály had already retired. Without taking off her cloak, she went straight outside into the garden. Perhaps because she’d once met him there.
But everything was different tonight. Tonight she churned with fear for him, not fear of her own feelings. And tonight soldiers patrolled the garden perimeters, and their effect on her was the opposite to that intended. They prevented any peace.
There was a smell of burning in the air. When she looked out between the trees, she saw a faint glow over part of the town. Unease multiplied as she recognised a major fire, though surely it was unconnected with Vlad or his beggars.
Close by, someone shouted. An order to the soldiers, who at once began running away from the garden toward the palace building. Ilona, unable to help herself, ran too, crying out to the first man she met, “What’s going on? What’s happened.”
“Fire in the town, lady,” he said grimly. “The beggars’ feast.”
There was a roaring in her ears. She knew it was blood, but it sounded like fire. With an inarticulate cry, she too began to run toward the glow.
She knew where the building was. Turcul had pointed it out to them as they arrived earlier—much earlier—this evening. But as she ran and walked and ran again and lost sight of the soldiers in the darkness, she also lost her precise sense of direction. She moved in the general direction of the noise and the powerful reek of smoke.
Although she could hear people, she saw no one, until finally, someone lurched around the corner she was aiming for, walking like a drunk. Stupidly careless of her own personal danger, she walked single-mindedly toward him to ask for directions, for news.
She was quite close before she recognised the drunk as the Prince of Wallachia.
“Vlad!” she sobbed and ran to him. When she hurled herself into his arms, he staggered back but held on to her from some instinct. His hand in her hair, pulling her head back, was rougher than she’d ever known it. His eyes, wide and terrifyingly blank, stared into hers.
“Ilona?”
“You’re alive,” she whispered, clutching his shoulders. He smelled of smoke and singed meat. “You’re alive.”
“And one more atrocity to my name.”
A different fear for him rose up to replace the old. “What have you done? Where is Pardo?”
“Dead,” he answered without any interest.
“Did you kill him?”
“Of course I killed him.” It wasn’t boastful
, merely impatient. After a pause, he added harshly, “They’re all dead too. All the beggars.”
“The fire?” she whispered in horror. “Did Pardo burn them?”
His eyes closed. “No. I did.” His hands on her elbows gripped convulsively, then slid round to hold her tightly. Numb with horror, Ilona tried and failed to speak. “I barred all the doors and windows. I killed him and walked away without a thought to them. I never thought—I never once thought—that he might have lit the torch before he barred the door. Jesus Christ, I even smelled the smoke, and still I walked away.”
Relief mingled with the horror, weakening her limbs. She flung her arms around him. “Vlad. Vlad. This one isn’t yours. It isn’t.”
His cheek pressed into her hair, he whispered, “It is. I take it as mine. Even as a sin of omission, it is mine in the eyes of God.”
“God is not so unjust or so stupid.”
Wetness trickled onto her hair, rolled down her cheek. She tugged at his head until he raised it, and she saw the streaks down his blackened face. They weren’t her tears.
He said fiercely, “Don’t look at me, Ilona Szilágyi.” His arms tightened. “Just give me your comfort, because God help me, I can’t do without it.”
She tightened her arms around him in pity, reached up to press her lips to his cheek, but he moved his head and took her mouth instead. It was a strong, ravenous kiss, rough and desperate, full of at least as much pain as passion. She endured the assault, seeking only to soothe, to absorb his unbearable grief. Yet what began in compassion ended in flaring desire that left her just as helpless in his hold.
Only gradually did he become gentler, more tender, as some sort of sanity seemed to return to him. His arms moved so that he could touch her cheeks with his fingertips and slowly, reluctantly, detach his lips.
That was when she saw the blisters on his hands.
“You’re burned!” she cried in horror.
“I couldn’t get the damned boards off the door.” He rested his forehead on hers. “Take me home.”
Chapter Sixteen
Visegrád, Hungary, 1474
When Count Szelényi returned from arranging their horses and his own riding dress, he had with him a letter from Mihnea, which he handed at once to Vlad before departing under pretext of having forgotten something.
Although Vlad said nothing, he appreciated the other man’s discretion and understanding. A letter from his son was a rare enough event to be savoured alone. And yet although he looked forward to them and seized them greedily, these missives always left him feeling vaguely unsatisfied, vaguely anxious, while that gnawing ache in his heart intensified.
Without taking off his cloak or his hat, Vlad sank into the nearest chair and broke the seal. It didn’t take long to read. Mihnea’s letters seldom did. As always, Vlad drank in the boy’s evident affection, unwavering despite the years apart, the news of his doings and successes. But for the first time, he made himself look closely at the less savoury aspects.
The boy was not receiving enough education; his morality was as suspect as his view of his father. Vlad never doubted his love. What he did doubt was what was feeding it. It hurt to know that Mihnea was so excited by his father’s appalling reputation. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mihnea was dining out on his relationship to the Impaler. The balance of his life was all wrong. He needed endurance, harshness, wiliness, yes, but tempered by justice and perception and honesty.
The familiar pain of parting swept over Vlad once more. He was doing what he had vowed never to do. Allowing his son to be reared among strangers, away from his parents as he himself had done. Not that Vlad had had much choice. When he’d left Wallachia in search of Matthias, he’d entrusted Mihnea to the care of Carstian. There hadn’t been many options. Mihály Szilágyi was dead and Ilona hadn’t believed her brother would accept Mihnea willingly. Carstian was a good man with an honourable family, but in the end he’d been forced to give the boy up to Matthias.
To his credit, Matthias had not imprisoned him. Instead, he farmed him out to favoured nobles who filled the child’s impressionable mind with tales of his bold, bad father. Vlad could count the number of times on both hands that he’d been allowed to see Mihnea during his years of confinement. And those visits were never enough, either to assuage Vlad’s longings or to keep his son on the right track.
One of his many plans, once his door was permanently unlocked, was to bring Mihnea back to live with him and Ilona. Now, after reading the letter, Vlad knew more than ever that he had to act. So much more than his own personal desires were at stake.
Vlad stood up and stored Mihnea’s letter carefully in his desk with the others. He needed fresh air to clear his head, and then he’d seek another audience with the king.
***
From her bedchamber window, Ilona watched him ride out with Count Szelényi. Some emotion that was neither pleasure nor pain, yet contained something of both, rose up her throat and choked her. Without permission, her hand lifted and touched the part of the glass that covered him. He rode out from her fingers, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder as he’d done before.
She wondered if he could make her out through the glass. He made no sign, but his shoulders straightened, and he urged his horse into a gallop. Ilona smiled faintly. He had always been a fine horseman…
And he needed so much to be away from this confinement, this velvet-gloved torture.
Margit’s anxious voice said, “My lady? Countess Hunyadi is here again.”
Ilona moved her gaze to focus on her companion of many years. Because it crossed her mind, she frowned and asked, “Why do you stay with me, Margit?”
Because she provided Margit with a home and a lifestyle she would not otherwise enjoy coming from so very minor a noble family. But there were rather more disadvantages.
As Margit stumbled over mumbling about her duty, Ilona interrupted. “You’re wasting your youth with a dull and difficult mistress.”
“You’re not difficult,” Margit protested.
“Let it be written on my gravestone. Here lies Ilona Szilágyi, who wasn’t difficult. It’s a poor epitaph… I’ve never done a thing for you, have I?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Margit said with genuine incomprehension.
Ilona swung away from her. I’m ashamed.
She didn’t know if she spoke the words aloud. It didn’t matter. They would only baffle Margit further. But she had to keep them there in front of her. I’m ashamed.
Margit sighed, clearly imagining she’d drifted off again. “I’ll tell the countess…”
“I’ll come now,” said Ilona.
Margit’s eyes widened as she climbed off the bed. Then, clearly cramming in as much as possible while Ilona was listening, she added, “Also a messenger came from the king, saying you have leave to retire from court. Tomorrow.”
Halfway to the door, Ilona paused and drew in her breath. “Thank you.” She walked into the outer chamber. “He’s sending me away.” She didn’t trouble with a greeting, and Countess Hunyadi didn’t seem to expect one.
“The king? He’s fulfilling your request to leave. I passed it on to him.”
Ilona frowned at her. “You don’t want me to marry Vlad. You’ve never wanted me to marry Vlad.”
Erzsébet said dryly, “My dear, it was you who said you did not want to marry Vlad when the king and I brought you here for that very purpose.”
“There was no one else with whom to tie him to you. Now you have. And I’m being sent home. Again. In vague but unspecified disgrace. Again.”
“You bring it on yourself, Ilona.”
“And if I said now, I recant, I was wrong, I will marry Vlad. What then?”
“It’s too late. The king prefers the other marriage.”
“And you, Aunt Erzsébet? Which do you prefer?”
“It’s not my place to oppose the king,” she said with dignity.
“He’s your son,” said Ilona dryly. “You’v
e opposed him since the day he was born—whenever you chose to.” She gazed closely at her aunt, clawing back the layers of confusion and dragging out the memories to try to aid her understanding. “You spoke for me to Matthias. Before you knew your daughter was free, you tried to dissuade him.”
Erzsébet nodded. “You’ve been through enough.”
“Have I? Who decreed that my life should end? Who decreed that I should never live again? Did you speak for me, Aunt Erzsébet? Or for you?”
***
The king had agreed to see him for five minutes. Vlad was aware the minutes could stretch if he said anything Matthias wanted to hear. If he didn’t, he’d be unceremoniously ejected and locked up by sunset.
As he strode to his chamber to prepare for the appointed time, he almost ran into someone, a woman, lurking at the corner of the passage.
Margit, Ilona’s “dragon.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “May I help you?”
“They’re sending her away,” Margit blurted.
Ignoring her informality, Vlad said only, “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow! That gave him very little time to work in. Yet he couldn’t resist wasting a moment of it to ask, “Why do you tell me this? Did she send you?”
Margit shook her head. “Because now it seems she doesn’t want to go.” And she melted back down the passage, leaving Vlad to go in the other direction, reciting repeatedly in his mind like a war cry, Still with me, still with me…
***
Matthias had the contract laid down in front of him. Vlad barely glanced at it.
The king said, “It’s all we agreed on before. You convert to the true Roman Catholic faith, swear allegiance to me, and marry my relative. I give you my support to retake the throne of Wallachia when the time is right, and many gifts, including the aforementioned relative in marriage and a private house across the river in Pest. And this time, I even throw in a military command while we wait for an advantageous position in Wallachia. It’s time we retook Bosnia from the Ottomans.”
A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula Page 21