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

  A Prince to be Feared

  The love story of Vlad Dracula

  Mary Lancaster

  A PRINCE TO BE FEARED

  All Rights Reserved © 2013 by Mary Lancaster

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  DEDICATION

  To Harriet and Dorothy,

  who joined in my first pursuit of Vlad through Transylvania.

  The Principality of Wallachia around 1450-1475

  “it is much safer for a prince to be feared than loved…”

  Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, 1513.

  The Characters

  The Wallachians

  Vlad Dracula, son of Vlad Dracul, Prince of Wallachia.

  Vlad Dracul, Vlad Dracula’s father, Prince of Wallachia

  Prince Mircea, Dracul’s eldest legitimate son, Vlad Dracula’s elder brother

  Prince Radu, Dracul’s youngest son, Vlad Dracula’s younger brother who shared his imprisonment in the Ottoman Empire.

  Vladislav, Prince of Wallachia, who deposed and killed Vlad Dracul and his son Mircea.

  Besarab Laiota, another ruling prince of Wallachia from an alternate family line

  Dragomir, minor Wallachian boyar, Maria’s husband, supporter of Prince Vladislav

  Carstian, Wallachian boyar, friend of Vlad Dracula

  Tacal, Wallachian boyar, supporter of Vlad Dracula

  Radul, Wallachian boyar, one time supporter of Prince Vladislav

  Stoica, Wallachian boyar, friend of Vlad Dracula

  Dan, a pretender to the Wallachian throne

  Mihnea, son of Vlad Dracula and Maria

  Turcul, Wallachian boyar, friend of Vlad Dracula

  Cazan, Wallachian boyar

  Pardo, Wallachian boyar, enemy of Vlad Dracula

  Gales, Wallachian army commander

  The Hungarians

  Ilona Szilágyi, daughter of Count Mihály Szilágyi, niece of John Hunyadi and cousin to László and Matthias

  Count Mihály Szilágyi, Transylvanian nobleman and soldier, loyal supporter of his brother-in-law, John Hunyadi

  Countess Szilágyi, his wife

  Miklós, their son, Ilona’s younger brother

  Katalina, their daughter, Ilona’s elder sister

  Count John (János) Hunyadi, viceroy of Hungary, known as The White Knight, Ilona’s uncle

  Countess Erzsébet Hunyadi, his wife, sister of Mihály Szilágyi, Ilona’s aunt

  László Hunyadi, elder son of John Hunyadi, Ilona’s cousin

  Matthias (Corvinus, King of Hungary), younger son of John Hunyadi, Ilona’s cousin

  Ladislas the Posthumus, King of Hungary

  Count Cilli, Hungarian nobleman, supporter of Ladislas, opponent of John Hunyadi

  Margit, Ilona’s gently bred attendant

  Count Szelényi, Hungarian nobleman and courtier, official Keeper of the prisoner Vlad Dracula.

  Helena, Count Szelényi’s mistress

  Maria Gerzsenyi, member of minor Transylvanian nobility, Ilona’s friend, first encountered as Countess Hunyadi’s attendant.

  Josef, Maria’s married ex-lover.

  Mihaela, wealthy resident of Sibiu, Transylvania, family friend to the Szilágyis

  John of Capistrano, Papal legate to Hungarian lands.

  György Baráth, minor Transylvanian nobleman

  The Moldavians

  Bogdan, Prince of Moldavia, Vlad Dracula’s uncle

  Stephen, his son, Vlad Dracula’s cousin

  Petru Aaron, Prince of Moldavia, who deposed and killed Bogdan; Stephen’s opponent

  The Ottomans

  Zafer Bey, Ottoman Ambassador

  Mehmed “the Conqueror”, Sultan

  Hamza Pasha, Ottoman soldier and representative of the Sultan

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  About Mary Lancaster

  Sample Chapter: An Endless Exile

  Connect with Mary Lancaster Online

  Chapter One

  Visegrád, Hungary, 1474

  He made a perfect villain. Even after years of imprisonment and the loss of all he’d once won, even with the prospect of regaining his country and his crown being dangled before him like a carrot, Vlad Dracula still looked fierce, arrogant, and utterly unrepentant.

  From his shadowy position in the gallery above the exercise chamber, Stephen, Prince of Moldavia, watched the long, hard fight reach its inevitable conclusion. Both men wielded their swords with skill and with such force that without the protective padding they wore, and the presumably blunted blades of their swords, there would have been blood everywhere. But although his opponent was younger and this was sword play rather than battle, Vlad, the one-time Prince of Wallachia, always fought to win.

  Stephen would have been disappointed if defeat and hardship had dimmed the ferocious gleam in his cousin’s eye, if the humiliation of his long imprisonment had managed to bow him. If it ever had, and Stephen couldn’t really doubt it, he was back with a vengeance, and the knowledge made Stephen smile involuntarily as the pleasure of memory overcame the dull pain of loss.

  At heart, surely, he and Vlad were still the same men who’d set out together as youths, shoulder to shoulder, to win the world for themselves and each other. Young and invincible.

  The swords, flashing in the streaming sunlight, clashed together, screeched painfully, and suddenly the younger man staggered backwards, his sword falling to the floor.

  At the same time, the door into the exercise chamber flew open, and a crowd of young men strode in. They stopped in their tracks, staring, as Vlad dropped his padded jacket on the floor and said something to his erstwhile opponent. It might have been gracious or taunting. Stephen couldn’t tell, and neither could the noisy youths at the door who exchanged low-voiced comments in an excited sort of way as Vlad walked across the room.

  He still moved like a large cat, quick and dangerous yet peculiarly graceful, sure in the knowledge that whoever was in his path would swiftly get out of it. But the youths, clearly, had never met Vlad Dracula, only heard of him, and they were looking for easy glory.

  Behind him, on his feet once more, the man he’d just defeated watched in silence. Vlad himself, finding his way blocked, stood very still. Stephen, his heart beating unaccountably fast, eased backwards to observe better as the prince looked around the four bristling youths.

  “If you wish to address me,” he said haughtily, his voice sending shivers down Stephen’s spine, “you must stand at least a foot away from my person.”

  “I was here first,” the largest blustered with unforgivable rudeness. Vlad’s age as well as his rank entitled him to far greater courtesy. But with a flash of rueful insight, Stephen saw what his old friend
was up against: boys who imagined it was safe to bait the monster of Wallachia because he was a helpless prisoner. And he would be a magnet for the young glory hunters. Stephen’s guilty heart wrenched as if the humiliation was his own rather than Vlad’s.

  But Vlad appeared to be used to it. Without warning, he seized the young man by the throat and hurled him across the room. Before the others could react, he rattled his sword between the heads of the two on either side, knocking them apart.

  “Let me help you with your manners,” Vlad said contemptuously and strolled out of the room.

  His recent fencing partner grinned, somewhat to Stephen’s surprise since the half-strangled youth on the floor was choking and clutching his throat, and blood oozed down the faces of the two who’d come in contact with Vlad’s sword. Clearly it wasn’t so very blunt after all.

  Vlad’s fencing partner sauntered across the floor, tutting. “That’s no way to pick a fight with His Highness,” he observed. “I’m sure your parents taught you better.”

  Stephen didn’t wait to hear more. Judging it was now safe to descend from the gallery without encountering Vlad, he made his way to the stairs just as a servant appeared at the top with the news that the king awaited him in the garden.

  “Well, did you see him?” the King of Hungary demanded almost as soon as Stephen stepped into the fresh air. Slightly disoriented as much by his own churning emotions as by the sight of the royal retinue spreading around the terrace, Stephen took a moment to focus on King Matthias Corvinus. The king beckoned him away from the rest of his following, and Stephen obediently fell into step beside him. They appeared to be walking alone in the direction of the king’s formal garden.

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “Did he look pleased with himself?”

  A breath of laughter escaped Stephen. “No more than usual.”

  “Well, Ilona’s here, so our plan is almost complete.”

  Stephen breathed a sigh of relief. With the Ottomans threatening the borders of Moldavia, he needed the Hungarian alliance. And the Wallachian one.

  “Have you told him which marriage you intend for him?” Stephen asked.

  “Of course.”

  “What did he say?” Stephen asked curiously.

  The king shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “I thought he’d be pleased.” Stephen couldn’t help his pique. He’d done Vlad a rather selfless favour promoting this marriage, considering he’d once coveted Ilona Szilágyi himself—even before her cousin Matthias had become King of Hungary. And in Stephen’s eyes, the existence of his own beautiful wife did not detract from this generosity.

  “The alliance is good, and he knows it,” Matthias said comfortably. “Let’s go and find her. A private, informal meeting will be kinder.”

  ****

  She moved among the bright spring flowers like a wraith, grey and dull against the carpets of yellow and orange and white spread out before her. Although her steps were quick and light, almost gliding, she made slow progress, stopping frequently to bend and examine the blooms in minute detail. As she crouched down, her grey veil, which was the only head covering she wore, fell forward over her face. One slender, elegant hand pushed it back absently, revealing a tired, almost emaciated face, the skin stretched taut across the high, broad bones of her cheeks and the narrow, almost pointed chin below. With a little more animation, she might have resembled a peasant child’s idea of a witch. As it was, she just looked worn-out, vague, and very badly dressed.

  Stephen blurted, “That is Ilona Szilágyi?”

  “You are shocked by my cousin’s appearance?” The king sounded amused. “You can’t have laid eyes on her in ten years!”

  “More,” said Prince Stephen. “The Ilona I remember was not afraid to speak her mind to anybody. This one looks terrified of her own shadow.”

  “All to the good,” said the king, just as the woman caught sight of the two men approaching along the path and rose to her feet.

  Suddenly uncertain, Stephen touched the king’s velvet-clad arm. “Are you sure about this?”

  The king lifted one interrogative eyebrow at him. The rest of his attention and the gracious smile beginning to form on his lips were for the woman in grey.

  “You would truly give your cousin to him?” Stephen felt obliged to check now that he’d seen her. “In all her…frailty?”

  “Well, damn it, man,” said the king through his smile, “what else is she good for? Cousin Ilona!” The grey lady extended one ungloved hand, and the king, who had clearly meant to embrace her, deftly clasped it between both of his instead while she dropped a faint bob of a courtesy. “Are you enjoying my gardens?”

  She mumbled something in return, drawing her hand free and casting a glance up at Stephen before returning her patient gaze to the king.

  “You do not recognise an old friend?” the king said jovially. “Prince Stephen of Moldavia.”

  Her eyes came back to him with curious reluctance. “What a surprise,” she said vaguely, “to find you here. Now.”

  Stephen blinked. Was that sarcasm in the calm, indifferent voice? Did she actually understand why he was here at Visegrád, on such obviously friendly terms with his one-time enemy, the king? The doubt kept him from noticing till later that it was the only greeting she gave him.

  Her eyes moved on to the newly planted trees at the far end of the walled garden. She said distantly, “What is it you want, Matthias?”

  Clearly unused to being so addressed these days, the King of Hungary frowned, as if searching for a suitable reply. His ageing cousin dragged her eyes back to him. “I want to go home,” she explained. “I don’t care to live in palaces anymore. Tell me what you brought me here for so that I can do it and leave. Please,” she added by way of an afterthought.

  King Matthias beamed at her. “I brought you here because I have found you a husband.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t want one.” She might have been refusing an apple or a sweetmeat.

  “Nonsense,” the king said robustly. “Every woman wants a husband, and you have been widowed, what, nine years? Ten?”

  “I have grown comfortable as I am. I don’t need your favour in this.” After a pause, her wandering eyes came back to his, and she added with some difficulty, like a forgotten rhyme or prayer, “Though I thank you for thinking of me.”

  “To be frank,” said the king, “I am thinking of myself too.”

  A hint of amusement flitted through her dark brown eyes, like an echo of the youthful beauty Stephen remembered. She was still only, what, thirty-six or thirty-seven years old? She didn’t need to look such a damned fright.

  She said, “Matthias, I am no prize—a mere cousin, widowed and ageing. Surely we have better relatives with whom to buy allegiance. Unless you wish to appease with a well-born prize of no value?”

  She must have seen the truth in her royal cousin’s face, for a breath of ghostly laughter escaped her pale lips. “Give him a castle instead,” she advised, reaching down for a yellow daffodil, whose head was drooping much like her own.

  “I’ll give him a castle—lots of castles—as well,” Matthias said with the first hint of impatience. “Don’t you want to know which bridegroom I have chosen for you?”

  “No.” Frowning over the impossibility of the task; she was trying and failing to stiffen the flower’s neck.

  “It’s an old friend of yours—the Prince of Wallachia.”

  As if she couldn’t help it, her gaze flew up to the king’s. But, straightening, she only said sardonically, “Which Prince of Wallachia?” Her eyes alighted on Stephen, some of their vagueness falling away like petals in a breeze. “You can’t be trying to buy Radu. He already has a wife. And Besarab…”

  Abruptly, she broke off. Her eyes fixed on a point beyond his head, and, turning, he saw that it was on the lowering building known as Saloman’s Tower. Some distance downhill from the main castle, almost on the bank of the Danube, only the top of the tower was visible
from where they stood. It was where the king imprisoned rebellious nobles and other high-ranking enemies. She knew he was here; she had always known.

  She said, “No.” The word came out no more than a strangled whisper. Backing away from them, she clutched at her veil with trembling fingers, tugging until it sat askew on her head. Beneath it, her hair was still burnished red-gold, though Stephen could glimpse traces of grey streaking through it. And suddenly she was speaking again, with an intensity she hadn’t looked capable of seconds before. “No, Matthias, not that. Please… ! Don’t put me back on that sleigh ride, not with him…!”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Matthias said coldly.

  A sneaking compassion entered Stephen’s guilty soul, drowning whatever brief suspicion had arisen about her pretending this ridiculous new character Perhaps these were not the amends he should be making to his cousin. He had been right when he first saw her—she wasn’t capable of dealing with Vlad now; time had not been kind to her. Nor fate, he acknowledged, remembering belatedly the awful execution of her father at Ottoman hands, then the sudden death of her mother and the suicide of her closest friend barely a year later—almost at the same time, surely, as she’d fled Wallachia before the invading Ottomans. No wonder she looked like a ghost of her own past.

  Matthias said sternly, “I need Wallachia on my side. It’s unstable. Neither Radu nor Besarab can be trusted, either to hold out against the Ottomans or to remain loyal to me. I need him back there. And his price is you.”

  “His price?” she exclaimed. “His? He doesn’t have one for freedom after twelve years! He doesn’t have a price for taking back his own country! Just send him there, and he’ll hold it at your back as he always did, as he always would if you hadn’t—”

  Breathless, she broke off, whirling away from them as if trying to hide the agitation she had already betrayed. Matthias and Stephen exchanged glances.