House of Bathory (13 page)

Chapter 30

H
OFBURG
P
ALACE,
V
IENNA
D
ECEMBER 20, 1610

W
inter seized Vienna on the eve of the solstice. Hard frosts choked the earth. Brittle leaves clung to branches coated in ice.

King Matthias II, ruler of Hungary, Austria, and Moravia complained first of the unseasonable cold and then the oppressive heat from the colossal ceramic furnace of the Hofburg Palace.

His peevish humor was aggravated by thwarted ambition. The summer had seen his army’s bloody advance on Prague. The Brother’s War, it was called, as Matthias’s forces marched toward the Hrad, to wrest power from his brother Emperor Rudolf II.

Matthias had won control of the lower kingdoms, leaving Rudolf with little more than Bohemia, a scrap of his former empire, a flimsy mantle of dignity to wrap around the once all-powerful ruler of the Holy Roman Empire.

Then Matthias had felt the surge of power, like young blood flowing in his veins. Now as he cast an eye beyond the frosted glass windows, the dead, frozen gardens and winter silence gnawed at his heart.

The tributes to the new king were not sufficient to finance his struggle against the Ottomans, who waged ever-encroaching war on the Hungarian and Austrian fronts. If they took Vienna, all of Christendom could fall to the infidels.

For years, Matthias had served as commander-in-chief of the Royal Habsburg Troops, serving his brother and his kingdom. Rudolf II had squandered the riches of the empire on alchemy, astrology, art, and costly curiosities, while the troops had survived with meager wages and scant rations. The soldiers looted whenever possible in victories against the Turks, but those victories were too few as the Habsburg armies saw their lands conquered by the enemy. The fall of Estergom, ancient seat of Hungary, still haunted Matthias. The old Hungarian capital had been lost under his watch, for he had not the troops to match the Ottomans.

Now, he held another petition from the Countess Bathory. She demanded repayment of a debt—a debt he could not begin to pay—that had financed years of war against the Infidels.

Matthias flung the letter to ground. A bowing servant scuttled by, plucking the velum missive from the carpeted floor. “As if I even possessed the gold to repay the Bathory bitch. She owns more land than I!”

“Yes,” said his trusted confessor Melchior Klesl, nodding. “And more castles.”

King Matthias scowled, looking out the window at his frozen kingdom. “Send in Count Thurzo.”

Melchior Klesl motioned to the sentries to admit the visitor.

Count Thurzo—who had been waiting for hours for an audience with the King—bowed deeply to Matthias.

“What news do you bring?”

Thurzo cast a glance around the room. “Might I ask for a private audience with Your Majesty?”

Matthias glanced to his confessor, who raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.

The King waved a hand. All but Melchior Klesl left the room, silently closing the door.

“Speak, Count.”

“The Countess Bathory is a murderess, my Lord. I have proof.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “The accounts of the parish priest are true?”

“True and more. The church cemetery is filled with the bodies of young women, all of whom have served the Countess. Their bodies were mangled and devoid of blood. I have seen them with my own eyes. They say the Countess bathes in their blood to preserve her youth.”

“What tidings are these? Is she a witch, Thurzo? I will have her burned!”

“Forgive me, my Lord. If she is a witch and burned at the stake, the Church will receive her lands,” said Thurzo, daring to raise his head and look steadily into the King’s eyes.

“He is right, Your Majesty,” said Klesl. “Heresy and witchcraft are the Church’s domain. It will seize all possessions.”

“I cannot let such a woman terrorize my kingdom! Have we not seen enough mayhem and death by the heathen Turks?” said Matthias. “We will bring the Countess to trial. Have you any witnesses?”

“With good time I believe I can procure all the witnesses we need. The pastor is willing to testify.”

“But punishment of her servants, even to the death—all this is within the limits of the law,” said Klesl. “We could not bring a noblewoman of Bathory’s standing to trial for abusing her own peasants. She has broken no law.”

“There is one servant girl who escaped from the Countess with her life,” said Thurzo. “She may be persuaded to testify. And she has information that is damning, even to a woman as powerful as Erzsebet Bathory.”

The bishop raised an eyebrow. “Who is this girl?”

“I met her in the village, a maiden whose hands were scorched for stealing food. The local healer brought her to me as Palatine. The girl exposed her wounded hands to me. They both begged me to stop the torture in
Č
achtice Castle. The healer said that there are no local girls who will work again in the castle, that the Countess is a monster.”

“Again, we cannot prosecute a noblewoman for what she does to her own servants,” said Bishop Klesl.

“Yes,” said the Count, “but this particular maiden was privy to conversations between the Countess and a witch named Darvulia. The Countess insisted the blood of peasants was not pure enough, that she was aging once more. She wanted to attract young maidens of impoverished nobility to lodge in
Č
achtice Castle, with the lure of teaching them the manners of upper nobility.”

The Count took a step closer to the King and lowered his voice. “If she dares to harm them in any way, Your Majesty could take action against her.”

The King moved to the edge of his chair in rapt attention. He sought the bishop’s eye.

Melchior Klesl nodded. “Yes. Such a crime could be prosecuted under law. If Bathory were convicted, all her property would be confiscated and revert to the Crown. And of course just rewards to the Palatine who brings proof of her crimes.”

Count Thurzo bent low to the King, obscuring his smile at Melchior’s words.

Chapter 31

S
OMEWHERE IN
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 20, 2010

T
he azure-haired girl poured Grace a cup of Earl Grey tea from a teapot of museum-quality porcelain. The historian’s eye studied the inverted trumpet-flower spout, the precision of the Isnik Turkish blue flowers on white background.

Soft-paste. Medici porcelain. White clay from Vincenza mixed with glass, copied from the Chinese porcelains, design borrowed from the Turkish invaders. The end of the sixteenth century.

Priceless.

This could be from Rudolf II’s collection at the Kunstkammer. At the very least it belonged to a house of highest nobility.

Grace closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She was kidnapped, subjected to blood-drinking madwomen, and then served tea from an art treasure. Who was this count, this madman who held her captive?

At least the blue-haired girl was the only person who now came close to her. The psychotic vampire women had been banished since their meltdown.

“Sugar?” the girl asked, her Slovak accent soft and lilting.

“No, just milk, please.”

How bizarre
, thought Grace,
that I should be shown such manners in the household of my captor, my husband’s murderer. Sugar indeed!

“Tell me your name,” said Grace, accepting the cup.

The girl glanced at the locked door.

“Draska.”

“Draska?” said Grace, remembering. A sob rose in her throat, but she checked it. It was the name her husband had called her in moments of tenderness.

“It means ‘loved one’ in Slovakian,” said the girl.

Grace fluttered her eyelids, blinking back tears.

“Yes, Draska,” said Grace, composing herself again. “How could you ever wind up serving the Count?”

“Excuse me. My English no good. Repeat please.”

“Why do you work for the Count?”

“My mother, she cook. She and grandmother cook for he family, family Bathory, many years.”

“
His
family,
his
is the possessive pronoun. Not
he
family. ”

Draska smiled brightly, thought better of it, and looked at the carpeted floor.

“You know I am a prisoner?” said Grace, stirring her tea.

Draska hesitated.

“Yes, you guest. Count needs you.”

Grace flung the silver spoon on the carpet.

“Damn it! I am not a guest! I was kidnapped.”

The girl’s eyes flashed open, startled. She bent down to pick up the teaspoon.

“No understand.”

Grace fought for control. Screaming would be too easy and too wrong.

“Why does the Count need me? Why does he want my daughter?”

“I no know.”

“I
don’t
know.”

Draska smiled at the correction. “Yes, I don’t know. Good teacher. You teach me English.”

“My daughter will be worried about me. Just like your mother would be worried about you.”

Draska ducked her head. “Yes,” she mumbled.

Grace saw the girl’s pity. She seized upon it. “Maybe if I could get word to my daughter somehow.”

“Send e-mail.”

Grace stared at the girl.

“I can’t e-mail. There is no internet on that computer.”

“Oh.”

Grace drank her tea, wondering what the girl knew and didn’t know.

“Do you have e-mail?”

Draska smiled. “I have e-mail. I have text message. I have cell phone. I Twitter.”

“You could e-mail my daughter and tell her I am alive and well. You don’t have to tell her your name.”

Draska shifted her weight on her feet and shook her head vehemently. “Count not like. Count knows everything.”

Of course
, thought Grace.
He is probably monitoring Betsy’s e-mail somehow. Maybe the techie nerd has tapped into her account
. Bathory then would read any communication that aroused suspicion, especially one sent from Slovakia.

“What if you were to send an e-mail to another friend, in another country?” Grace whispered, looking around the room for a hidden camera. “Do you have friends in other countries?”

Draska hesitated. “Here, good lady,” she said. “Help me correct my English on the computer.”

“Correct your English?” said Grace.

“See my homework in English. I have grammar questions. You correct, yes?”

Draska sat down at the computer, leaning her body close to the monitor. She opened a Word document and typed in:

M
Y COUSIN LIVE IN LONDON.

Grace began to smile, and then checked her emotion. She said, “The first person singular of ‘live’ is ‘lives.’ You must remember to add the ‘s’. Let me give you a few examples.”

She, too, moved close to the monitor, her back obscuring any hidden camera that might be focused on them. She set down her cup of tea.

G
OOD.
Y
OUR COUSIN SENDS A MESSAGE TO MY DAUGHTER.
I
T DOESN
’
T MENTION YOU OR ME.
A
BSOLUTELY NOTHING.
B
UT SHE WILL KNOW IT IS FROM ME.

“Now see. I have written three sentences with errors. Can you rewrite them correctly?” said Grace, pointing at the screen.

Draska nodded, taking her place at the computer.

C
OUNT KNOW EVERYTHING.
V
ERY DANGEROUS.

“Good, but not good enough. Look, you made a mistake here. I’ll correct it and we’ll try some negative third-person singular. Those are harder.”

W
RITE TO YOUR COUSIN.
U
SE A FRIEND
’
S COMPUTER AND AT THE END, INCLUDE MY MESSAGE.
T
ELL HER TO CUT AND PASTE AND SEND IT ON TO MY DAUGHTER.
I
T COMES FROM
.U
K INSTEAD OF
.S
K.
I
WILL GIVE YOU TWO LETTERS.
T
ELL YOUR COUSIN TO SEND THEM A FEW DAYS APART SO THERE IS NO SUSPICION.

“OK. Put the sentences in negative, third person singular.” Grace shifted position, always careful to block the computer screen.

M
UST THINK.
C
OUNT KNOWS EVERYTHING
!

Draska closed the document, no changes saved.

“Thank you for lesson. Good teacher. Finish tea?”

Grace looked at the interior of her empty cup. Ancient white porcelain. Kings, queens, or other nobility had pressed their lips to the same gold rim. She stared into the young woman’s eyes, searching for some sign of agreement, some reassurance.

“I bring you dinner at six o’clock, Madam. Thank you for English lesson.”

Draska gathered up the teacup, saucer, and ornate silver spoon, placing them on a tray. Grace listened to the bright clink of the porcelain as it rattled away toward the door. She couldn’t help but wince, thinking of such an objet d’art being treated as common crockery.

She heard the click of the lock as Draska left. Then the hollow click of heels down the hall.

Chapter 32

C
ARBONDALE,
C
OLORADO
D
ECEMBER 20, 2010

J
o
hn
made the plane reservations online to leave the next morning. He alerted the American Embassy he and Betsy were arriving and rented a car in Bratislava.

All the traits that had contributed to their divorce—his concrete, black-and-white approach to resolving conflicts, breaking down a situation to a mathematical problem—now comforted Betsy. When they were married, she had accused him of handling their relationship with cold calculation, never allowing things to flow naturally, no room for spontaneity or a last-minute hunch.

“Come on, Betsy! I always leave a margin of error,” he said one night, defending himself in the middle of an argument.

Margin of error. For Jo
hn
instinct, intuition—the element of humanity and surprise—boiled down to nothing but a margin for error. Betsy had wanted to smother him with a pillow.

Now, as she watched him print out their boarding passes, hotel reservation, and train schedules and then put their passports and her mother’s e-mails into a travel folder, she sighed with relief.

“Relax a little, Betsy,” he said, gentleness in his smile. “Get some sleep.”

“I will,” she said, gratitude washing over her. “Do you need anything in the guest bathroom?”

“I’m all set, Bets. Everything’s fine.”

“OK,” she said. She looked up at him and managed a smile. “And, Jo
hn
—thank you.”

“No problem.”

She brushed her teeth, her mind reviewing last minute details for the early departure. Toothbrush still in her mouth, she walked out into the den and checked her e-mail one more time.

“Always multitasking, Dr. Path,” Jo
hn
said, yawning. “Some things never change.”

But Betsy didn’t hear him. She stood frozen, staring at the e-mail she had just opened.

Dear Dr. Path,

The review board of
Psychology Today
is interested in your proposed article on the use of Carl Jung’s
The
Red Book
as a method of treatment with borderline schizophrenics. We find the work you have done in Jungian analysis quite pro vocative. (We cite specifically the interpretation of the jeweled mandala.
True, per your suggestion,
the second mandala of hard, flinty stone—the more Gothic representation—would seem to be more suitable as a stimulus presented to a delusional patient, especially one who has aggressive or even murderous tendencies.)

We are most impressed with your treatise vis-
à
-vis Jung’s illustration of a snake climbing toward heaven, as if it is scaling a wall to beseech the gods for help. A clue to the mental state of the patient? Returning to the father’s homeland?

Perhaps you might continue to send us updates on your work. We are leaning toward publication but must review your final results and conclusion. We want to make sure we understand one another (your third ear, as it were) and that your therapy is heading in the right direction.

We look forward to hearing from you soon. We encourage your work, though you should be aware that if we do not write consistently it is because we have been intercepted by publishing demands here at the magazine.

It was hard to get us all on board to compose this letter, though we admire your groundbreaking work!

Edmund S.K. Dangerfield, PhD

Jane Highwall, MD

Morris S.W. Castle, PhD

Betsy sat down at the computer, foaming toothpaste leaking from the corners of her mouth.

“Ohmgow—” she mouthed, spewing the keyboard with white pasty gobs.

Jo
hn
looked up. “What is it?”

Betsy ran to the sink to spit.

“Read this e-mail.”

Jo
hn
looked down at the screen and scanned it.

“Congratulations. But since when do you treat schizophrenic patients?”

“I don’t! My father did. That’s just it. And I haven’t written a treatise.”

“Huh?”

Betsy typed a search on Google.

“So what’s this all about? A hoax?”

“Look. None of those names are on the masthead of
Psychology Today
. Who are these people? Dangerfield, Castle, or Highwall. Someone is trying to give me information. In a way that wouldn’t alert a hacker! A hacker, Jo
hn
, who would be on the look out for communication from my mother. Jo
hn
, someone is hacking my e-mail, I know it!”

“Calm down, Betsy. You are not making a lot of sense.”

“My mother sent me
The Red Book
for my birthday. This message is code. Someone is trying to lead me to Mom!”