A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (6 page)

The prince reached for the wax. “I trust you found her well,” he said at last.

“Well? I believe so. To be frank, I found her a little—perturbed.”

The ring seal paused just a little too long in the wax. Vlad lifted his hand, then turned deliberately to Szelényi.

“In what way?”

For the first time since his original meeting with Vlad, fear coursed through Szelényi’s veins. The prince’s green eyes darkened until they were hard as agates, relentless. His lips thinned to a cruel line. Szelényi couldn’t help remembering the stories, the legends that had built up around this man, the ones he had discounted over the months of what he had taken for growing friendship. But this, this man was one you would never cross. Christ, you wouldn’t even spill his wine.

But you bloody
would
answer his questions.

Even when you floundered.

“I’m not sure.” It was an effort simply not to stammer. “I don’t know the lady, so it’s very hard for me to judge. But I couldn’t help seeing that she was…” Szelényi cast around for the right word.

“Perturbed,” Vlad supplied. “We’ve established that part. What can have perturbed her?”

“I don’t know,” Szelényi said miserably. “I can’t—you,” he blurted. “Something about you. She came up to me especially, I’d swear, to ask how you were.”

The prince’s eyelids swept down over his hawklike eyes, granting Szelényi a brief respite. He let his breath out and continued. “Only when she’d asked, she seemed embarrassed. And then, when I said you looked forward to meeting her again, she looked
very
perturbed.”

Vlad’s gaze flickered back up to him. The anger still lurked there, cold and terrible, but Szelényi began to believe it wasn’t aimed at him. In fact, the large green eyes didn’t appear to be seeing him at all. He found himself hoping the fury wasn’t aimed at poor Ilona Szilágyi.

“What else,” Vlad said with such deliberation that Szelényi realised how difficult this was for him to ask, “did she say?”

Szelényi cudgelled his memory. “She asked if Countess Hunyadi had visited you and then…” He trailed off and swallowed. But under that commanding gaze there was no way to avoid it. “She asked if you had changed your mind.”

Vlad nodded, slowly, as if it made sense to him.

Encouraged if even more mystified, Szelényi added, “And she said I should tell her at once when you had. She didn’t seem to doubt that you would.” The last sentence was aimed more at himself, stating yet another tiny mystery, for he’d never encountered anyone less likely to change his mind about anything than Vlad Dracula. But having said it aloud, he blanched, not least because something sparked into life in the prince’s eyes, something blatantly dangerous.

After a second, his lower lip moved, clamping on the upper in an attitude of thought.

“The king,” he said, “has arranged for our formal betrothal to take place tomorrow evening.”

“Congratulations,” Szelényi said automatically.

A glint of sardonic humour lit the prince’s eyes. “Thank you.” He stood up. “I feel a visit to my promised bride is in order before then. It is not my intention to be betrothed to a perturbed lady.”

“You would like me to arrange something tomorrow?”

“No, I’d like you to take me there tonight.”

“I can’t!”

“You’ve been forbidden?”

“No, but—”

“Well, then. You needn’t come. Just tell me where to find her.”

“Sir, please, you must allow her time to prepare—”

“Wrong,” said Vlad, silencing him without raising his voice. Lifting his glass, he tossed the contents down his throat and strode toward the door. “The trouble is, she’s had too much time.”

***

Margit had served Ilona Szilágyi for more than eleven years. In that time, she realised, she had never really learned anything about her. She had first met her in the Szilágyi family home at Horogszegi, dazed and shocked, after her miraculous escape from the Ottomans in Wallachia. The rumour was she had been betrothed then to Wallachia’s hero prince, but she never spoke of it and neither did anyone else in the family. Presumably, when the prince turned out to be not only homeless but unheroic to the point of traitorous, the family called it off. Even Vlad Dracula couldn’t be married in prison. Not to a member of the king’s family at any rate.

Yet here she was, all but betrothed once more to the same imprisoned prince. Although Margit had seen him move freely enough around the palace when she had been exploring in her own time.

Margit had been delighted to come to court, to escape her pleasant but dull existence in Transylvania. She’d then been appalled when Ilona maintained her modest, excruciatingly drab dress. There were two fine court gowns in the trunk and a particularly pretty new silk dress for day wear, but the lady ignored them all.

Margit had hoped court and marriage would brighten her fading lady, had been ready to encourage her in all kinds of entertainment and fun. But frustratingly, her lady was wasting both their lives. Margit was aware she should be angry. And yet when she saw Ilona sitting on the floor, her back against the raised bedstead, her awful grey veil askew on her troubled head, what Margit chiefly felt was a surge of protection.

In sudden pity, she sank down before Ilona and took her hands. “My lady, what is it?” she pleaded. “Are you ill?”

Ilona’s eyes came back into focus. She looked guilty. “No. No, I’m not ill.”

“Won’t you go down to the king’s supper?”

She began to shake her head. “No—” She broke off, staring at her attendant. “Or perhaps I should?” she said uncertainly. Her gaze moved beyond Margit. “Will
he
be there?” she murmured.

“Who? The prince?”

Ilona flushed and drew her hands free to stand.

“You’re to be betrothed tomorrow,” Margit reminded her. “Perhaps it would be more comfortable—”

A spurt of laughter, halfway to a sob, escaped Ilona. “
Comfortable?
”

With compassion, Margit racked her brains. There was no way out for her lady. It was decreed she should marry a monster, and so she must. Surely even a monster would not be unkind to so gentle a wife? Perhaps the king would immediately send him off to win back Wallachia, and she—and Margit—could simply live out of range of his attention. After all, it was a political alliance, not a mere love match, and Vlad already had an heir. Ilona too was hardly in her first flush of youth for a bride.

But she had no idea how to say this to Ilona without insolence or offence, how to lighten the lady’s despair.

A knock on the outer door made them both jump. Margit tried to smile. “Someone’s come to take you to supper,” she said lightly. “I’ll help you to change,” she added, leaving the bedchamber to answer the door.

Ilona, who thought on the whole she’d rather keep the frumpish grey dress, stood in the connecting doorway to see, mainly, if her escort was someone who’d let her away with it.
Not Aunt Erzsébet…

Margit opened the door and revealed Count Szelényi.

Ilona’s heart lurched painfully. Had he brought news, a message? She couldn’t breathe. With one trembling hand, she tugged at the neck of her gown. Then Margit fell back, Szelényi stepped aside, and Vlad Dracula walked into her room.

Chapter Four

Hunedoara, Transylvania, 1454

He walked into Countess Hunyadi’s hall as if he had been there many times before. He didn’t swagger, like many young men, but strode with purpose and unexpected grace, his sword clanking at his hip as if to remind everyone that he was still dangerous to someone.

Ilona, standing behind the countess’s throne-like chair, beside Maria, Aunt Erzsébet’s other attendant of the day, was conscious of the strong, steady beat of her heart. It had been nearly three years since her first glimpse of the strange Wallachian prince, and she’d been looking forward to seeing him again with an urgency that surprised her. Perhaps curious to know if he could still impress the more mature woman she’d become at sixteen. Perhaps just curious to know
him
, who was still an enigma to her father and to Hunyadi himself.

This time, he came by formal invitation. The venue was not Mihály Szilágyi’s more informal home, but John Hunyadi’s impregnable castle at Hunedoara. And he’d ridden over the bridge ahead of several well-dressed attendant noblemen and men-at-arms. Ilona knew, because she’d watched from the upper window above the main hall.

“Is it he?” Aunt Erzsébet had demanded from her stool by the embroidery table.

“Oh yes. With quite an escort.”

“Hmm,” the countess had grunted. “Naturally, he’s collected a following from the exiled and dispossessed boyars. He’s their hope of going home.”

He sat very straight in the saddle, in a brave red cloak, holding the reins in one ungloved hand, resting the other on his thigh, just above his long boots. Ilona glimpsed, beneath a red velvet hat, the strong features she remembered, his expression untroubled by so much as a frown. He was acting again. Which made her wonder, as often before, what he was like when he didn’t act, this young man who had told her that, reluctantly, he liked her family? Or had even that been said in the knowledge that she’d pass it on? Just another man who’d say anything, do anything in pursuit of power.

The prince himself had looked neither to the left nor right as he crossed the bridge into the castle, but the man riding closest to him did. Perhaps even younger than Vlad, this youth had openly scanned his surroundings and inevitably come to Ilona, hanging precariously out of the window. At once, he grinned. And sweeping off his hat, he bowed low in his saddle. She saw him speak to his companion, who didn’t react, and then they’d ridden out of sight.

When Ilona, in her capacity as Countess Hunyadi’s official attendant, had accompanied her aunt to receive the Wallachian guests, they’d found Maria already waiting for them in the main hall—the Council Hall, they called it.

“I saw him!” Maria crowed. “At least I think I did. Do you suppose he’s the gentleman—”

“Stop gossiping and straighten your hair, Ilona,” interrupted Erzsébet, who was still keen to suppress all knowledge of the previous encounter with Vlad three years ago. If news of that had ever got out, it could have caused Hunyadi all sorts of problems, not least with his puppet prince Vladislav, the current Prince of Wallachia. “You look like a peasant.”

“It blew in the wind,” Ilona pointed out. She didn’t need to add that this had occurred when she’d been spying on Erzsébet’s orders. They all understood that.

Erzsébet made a derisive sound that in anyone else would have been a snort and glared at her niece. Ilona smiled serenely and submitted to the more skilful Maria’s ministrations. However, the sound of the men approaching caused her to brush the other girl’s hand aside, and she simply dragged her own fingers once through the tangled, copper clump. Since she wore her hair loose, it couldn’t look
too
bad…

There had been no more time, for the door was flung open to admit the Hunyadis’ guests. Ilona had simply dropped her hands to her sides and prepared to observe. It was a long walk to the countess’s throne. She’d designed it like that, the better to size up her visitors. As a result, a stately progress across the room could be a mistake. Even great men begin to look a little silly with a smile of greeting fixed on their faces for so long. On the other hand, advancing at Vlad’s rapid if splendid pace still allowed plenty of time for visitors to observe the magnificence of their surroundings on their way to the lady of Hunedoara.

Vlad himself looked neither right nor left. Nor did he smile or appear remotely uncomfortable with his long walk or the forbidding scrutiny of his hostess. As he drew closer, Ilona could see that his clothing, though still austere, was no longer shabby. Under the red cloak, pushed back now over one shoulder, he wore a black silk doublet with silver buttons and what seemed to be plain black hose beneath his long boots.

Above his full lips, the long, thin line of his moustache was a little more pronounced than before, his unusual green eyes piercing but veiled, with no frown between. A serious man, but not a desperate one. In this situation, impression was all. And Ilona was secretly pleased to see he was carrying it off so well. But then, she suspected she’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t.

Behind him, his noble following gazed around with blatant awe, taking in the fine portraits of the White Knight and his wife, the fine silver plate on display, the ornate carved benches with bright, beautifully embroidered cushions.

Of course, John Hunyadi himself had greeted the visitors downstairs and now walked among them to introduce them to his wife.

“My lady, allow me to present to you the lord Vlad, son of Vlad Dracul, Prince of Wallachia. And the lord Stephen, son of Bogdan, Prince of Moldavia.”

Erzsébet nodded graciously. Both young men removed their hats and bowed with synchronised elegance. Stephen, however, remained clutching his black hat. On rising, Vlad carelessly held his red velvet one out to his left, and one of his followers took it. Ilona wondered if he’d simply have dropped it on the floor if no one had troubled to catch it.

Vlad spoke, saying all the civil things expected of him, presenting each of his followers in turn. After which he at last raised his gaze above the countess’s head and encountered Ilona’s.

Prepared as she was, the clash of his dark green eyes still shocked her. Those eyes could never be bland, but they contained not one iota of recognition, not even the most secret glint of memory at that silly childish game. She should have been pleased. She had grown into a civilised young lady, far removed from the Ilona of three years ago, and she was glad of it. And yet, perversely, she felt the loss of the attention won by the child she’d once been.

“My niece, Ilona Szilágyi,” said Aunt Erzsébet. “And the lady Maria Gerzsenyi.”

She received a bow, but it was Maria who was honoured by his smile, faint and tantalising. Piqued, Ilona spoke to Stephen. She could never afterwards remember what she said or what the Moldavian replied, but the flash of appreciation in his eyes stayed with her while wine was served to the travellers. And then, before the odd tension in the room could begin to evaporate, a servant appeared at the door.

As if it were a signal, which it probably was, Hunyadi said, “Ah. Count Szilágyi has arrived.”

Ilona, who hadn’t been informed her father was expected, made an instinctive dash from behind the countess, past Stephen, only to be brought up short by her indulgent uncle.

“Later, my dear,” he said, catching and patting her arm. “We need him first on matters of state. He’ll send for you.”

Flushing with embarrassment as much as disappointment, Ilona returned to her stony-faced position behind the countess. She didn’t look at Vlad. Maria squeezed her hand.

Hunyadi said, “Gentlemen, I’ll leave you for a little in the gracious company of my lady wife. Vlad, if I may have your presence…”

It was why he’d come. His very tension spoke of his anxiety for this moment, and yet his bow to the countess, to herself, and Maria was unhurried, his gait as he departed the hall more leisurely than that with which he’d entered.

Stephen’s gaze flickered after him. So did the Wallachian boyars’. A few glances of hope or interrogation were exchanged.

“What’s going on?” Maria whispered in Ilona’s ear.

“I’m not sure. I think the count may be considering Vlad as the new Prince of Wallachia. They’ll be negotiating, finding a way to make that work for both of them before they get to
how
to make it happen.”

“What happened to the old Prince of Wallachia?”

“Nothing—yet,” Ilona murmured. “But everyone’s jumpy since Constantinople fell to the Ottomans, and there’s a suspicion Vladislav of Wallachia is growing too close to them. If the Ottomans are allowed free passage through Wallachia, then Transylvania and Hungary itself are in far more danger.”

But Maria’s eyes had glazed over. Politics didn’t interest her. Personalities did.

“What do you think of him?” she murmured.

Ilona shrugged, watching the Wallachian boyars.

Maria crowed, “He smiled at me—I think he likes me!”

At that, Ilona couldn’t help nudging her friend. Fortunately, the countess’s eyes were pointing in the opposite direction. “Of course he does. Everyone likes you.”

It was true. Beautiful, soft-hearted, and fun, she was justly popular with both the men and women of the Hunyadi household. A couple of years older than Ilona, she had quickly become a valued friend and confidante, although, to be fair, it was usually Maria who had anything worth confiding. Her betrothed, an old childhood friend, had died two years ago, and, grieving done, she was eager to be married to another. Ilona didn’t imagine this would be difficult. Although Maria’s family was not particularly wealthy or influential, she had a powerful friend now in Countess Hunyadi, and her personal charm would go a long way to securing which ever husband she chose.

“No, I mean
likes
me.” Maria pressed Ilona’s hand significantly.

Ilona glanced at her with a hint of irritation. Maria’s infatuations were just too impractical. The last, barely two months ago, had been a visiting Hungarian nobleman whose main fault was that he was married already. It hadn’t stopped him
liking
Maria. And now…

She swallowed her annoyance, because at heart she sometimes wished she was more like her friend, able to flirt while waiting for marriage. Ilona had never mastered the art of flirtation. She either got into serious discussions that convinced men she wasn’t flirting material or became tongue-tied, appearing overproud, thus convincing them of the same thing by a different route.

Fortunately, her father seemed in no hurry to make an alliance for her. His fortunes fluctuated with Hunyadi’s, and although her sisters were well married, Mihály was biding his time for Ilona. She was in no hurry either to tie herself to a stranger or to bear children.

Although she
would
like to have her own household and manage her own life. And, perhaps, her husband’s. He would be a great man who would value her insight and advice…

Of course he would
, she mocked herself.
Just see how the great men here all hang upon your every word.

***

It was two hours before her father sent for her. By then, the visitors had gone to inspect Hunyadi’s horses, but under Aunt Erzsébet’s eagle-like eye, she still forced herself to walk sedately as far as the hall door, before she picked up her skirts and flew downstairs to the knights’ hall, which was where the servant had informed her she would find Mihály Szilágyi.

She saw him through the half-open door, his shoulder leaning casually on the mantel above the fire. Her heart lifted as it always did at the sight of him, an echo of the intense childhood pleasure she’d known whenever he had come home safe from the wars that were his life.

Without hesitation, she ran across the room, swerving to avoid the corner of the table. Her father saw her at once. A smile lightened his austere face, and he opened his arms. By then Ilona had seen there was another figure in the room, one resting his hip on the table facing her father, but in the momentary joy of the reunion, she didn’t care.

Mihály Szilágyi hugged her close, and she kissed his rough cheek.

“I see my sister still hasn’t made a lady out of you,” he said. “Thank God.”

“Well, don’t tell her or she’ll turf me out,” Ilona said happily. Her father’s arms relaxed, and she turned, frowning, to face the interloper, who should have had the tact and sense just to go away.

Her stomach gave a lurch that was only half-unpleasant. Vlad Dracula straightened, easing his hip off the table, and inclined his head.

Her father said, “Vlad tells me your earlier greeting was so distant, he thought you really didn’t remember him.”

Ilona met the mocking green eyes with defiance. But she was a lady now. She extended her hand to him with elegant, slightly bored civility.

Vlad took it between his cool, firm fingers and bowed with equally practised politeness. His lips parted in a provoking smile. “Tag.”

Which was when she realised how remarkable it was that
he
should remember the childish incident in that day of important encounters, especially amid all that had gone on in his life since. Secretly, she’d hoped he would still be impressive; she hadn’t expected to find him so…human. The discovery was enchanting. A responsive smile tugged at her lips.

Her father said, “I must make my bow to your aunt. Vlad, my daughter will show you around the castle, conduct you back to your friends, or to the Council Hall, whichever you prefer. In any case, we’ll talk again over dinner.”

That, more than anything, told her they had done a deal with the exiled prince. The contrast with the fear in her father’s voice three years ago when he’d shouted her name across their own garden, when none of the children had been allowed too close to him, was marked.

As Mihály Szilágyi strolled from the room, Ilona asked politely where the prince would like to go.

“Outside, if you can bear it,” he said. “I need fresh air.”

It was only just spring, and the day was sharp and cold, but Ilona moved at once toward the door, and he fell into step beside her. She observed, “You prefer outdoor life.”