House of Bathory (15 page)

Chapter 37

M
EADOW BY THE
R
IVER
V
AH
B
ELOW
Č
ACHTICE
C
ASTLE
D
ECEMBER 21, 1610

Z
uzana ducked her head, her chin tucked against her starched linen collar. The wind was bitter, and the fabric chafed against her skin.

“You know we have to do it,” said Janos, his hand clasped on her shoulder. “You have to help me. We cannot let her continue.”

She felt the weight of his rough hand, a hand that could work miracles with a horse. His skin was chapped and calloused, but warmth and strength emanated from his fingers.

“The Countess once aided women in the village. It was she who opened the home for the sick and injured widows of soldiers, fighting on the Ottoman front. Her good works were known throughout Hungary.”

“Since the death of her husband, she is not that woman anymore,” said Janos. “Wake from your dream! The Countess preys on women. She takes her pleasure in their agony.”

“Will Vida recover?” Zuzana whispered, not daring to look up.

“I took her to a healing woman in the village,” he said. “She gathered Vida into her care, treating her wounds with red oil. It was she who told me about the women’s suffering, about the curse of Countess Bathory. And the pastor of the church came to bless Vida. He told me of the dozens of girls buried in the churchyard. He is prepared to stand in testimony against the Countess.”

Janos spat bitterly on the ground. Zuzana watched his spittle melt into the muddy, pocked snow. She could feel his gaze on her. She knew he was judging her. How could she work for a murderess?

Zuzana had asked herself the same question. How could she have remained at
Č
achtice Castle, with the suspicions she had? At first she had felt blessed to have been taken in by the Countess, despite her deformity. Countess Bathory had showed her charity. Zuzana was honored to be chosen as handmaiden to Ferenc Nadasdy’s wife.

But now Zuzana realized—she owed nothing more to a murderess.

“The girls who tried to flee,” she whispered. “They—never made it to safety. They are dragged bound and gagged to the dungeon. I never see them again.”

Janos closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, a steely glare blazed.

“We need proof. My father, Master of the Horse, has the King’s ear.”

Zuzana shook her head. “Not even the King can bring a Bathory to trial. As a noblewoman, she can punish her servants as she chooses.”

Standing alongside his horse, Janos tightened his fist on the reins. The stallion sensed the tension. He sidestepped, snorting.

Zuzana stopped. The silence drew out and then, in spite of herself, she told him something she didn’t want to say. She knew that there would be no turning back once she said it.

“Janos, I…” She forced herself to go on. “I overheard a conversation between the Countess and the dark stranger, through the door of the alcove.”

“What dark stranger?”

“A tall man who visits her, always at night. All the servants fear him and he never shows his face. She was saying that the blood of Slovak peasants has not the purity to perfect her complexion. Three noblewomen from impoverished families are to arrive in the next few months, one is already on her way. They have been invited to learn the manners of high nobility from the Countess herself.”

Janos stared at Zuzana, his jaw slack. “Would she dare to kill nobility?”

“She is mad, Janos!” she shouted, now able to say it at last. The wind snatched her voice. “Do you not understand?”

Janos pulled her close, looking over his shoulder. His warm breath whispered in her ear. “If she harms a member of a titled family, the King could proceed against her.”

Zuzana drew back, her spine rigid.

“The first young countess will arrive any day. The Countess Zichy of Ecsed. She is of ancient noble blood from the Countess’s homeland, but her family is impoverished. The Countess chose Vida to be her handmaiden.”

Janos nodded grimly. A gust coming off the river lifted his sandy hair.

“Vida will be avenged. They will all be avenged, I swear before God.”

Chapter 38

A
SPEN,
C
OLORADO
T
HE
S
OLSTICE
D
ECEMBER 21, 2010

I
t snowed hard on the solstice. The wind roared up the valley, ripping the remaining leaves from the aspen trees, leaving groves of white skeletons behind.

Main Street was a blur of swirling white. Peering through the windshield of his car, Kyle crept along, looking out for drunken tourists. He slalomed around a staggering man with his skis over his shoulder, clearly a casualty of too much
après ski
activity, screaming at his pretty, much younger woman companion mincing behind him in furry snowboots.

At the stoplight on Cemetery Lane there was an accident involving three cars. Nothing more than damaged sheet metal—and maybe a couple of DUIs in the offing. Kyle maneuvered slowly around the mess.

“Park here,” said Daisy, a block before the cemetery. “Pull way off the road.”

“Why here?”

“The cops will get suspicious if we park too close.”

“It looks like they have their hands full with traffic accidents. I doubt they can spare anyone to go looking for kids in the dark.”

“Come on. Just do it.”

They parked and Daisy showed him a break in the wrought-iron fence.

“Wow!” he said shining his flashlight on the tall cottonwoods.

Daisy smiled at him in the darkness.

“Normally there would be dozens of Goths here for the solstice. I guess the snowstorm is keeping everyone home.”

They wandered through the quiet of the falling snow. It was snowing more gently under the tangle of branches.

Daisy knelt by a gravestone, brushing off the snow so that Kyle could read the inscription.

“ ‘Dena May Moyers, born 1882, died 1884.’ God, how sad,” Kyle whispered.

Daisy withdrew a carnation from under her coat. The plastic floral sleeve crackled, breaking the stillness.

“May you rest in peace,” she said quietly.

Kyle shone the flashlight at her for a second. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Hey. Are you OK?”

“So many children. So many died. Defenseless.”

“What do you mean, defenseless?”

The sound of scraping startled them. They heard voices.

“Shh!” said Daisy.

Kyle knelt behind the tombstone.

“Shut off your flashlight.”

In the snowfall, it was difficult to see. But they could hear picks and shovels clang against the frozen ground.

“Someone’s digging,” said Kyle.

“A grave robber!” whispered Daisy.

They crept closer, shuffling along the snowy path in a crouch.

They hid behind an enormous cottonwood just close enough to see three men. Two digging and one standing in a black coat and black hat, watching.

He uttered an order in a foreign language.

Daisy saw exactly the spot they were digging. She had knelt at the tombstone only days before, reading the inscription.

The men grunted. One of them cursed as he tried to dig the frozen ground. The pick handle ricocheted out of his hand.

“I know that grave!” whispered Daisy. “That’s Betsy’s father.”

Chapter 39

S
OMEWHERE IN
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 21, 2010

G
race stared out the window as the rain blew hard against the warped panes. She adjusted her glasses on her nose, focusing on the black wrought-iron gate and stone guard station in the distance.

A shiny black Mercedes pulled up to the gate. After a quick discussion, the gate swung open and the car moved onto the gravel driveway. Instead of approaching the front entrance of the castle, the car stopped just below her window.

Two men dragged out a thin, pale-faced girl with scraggly blond hair. She was limp but conscious, looking over her shoulder at the surroundings but apparently unable to walk on her own.

They disappeared from view, most likely through a door and into the castle.

Grace heard footsteps in the hall and quickly sat down in an armchair near the window. She grabbed a book and opened it to a random page.

A clinking of crockery preceded the sound of the key unlocking the door.

Draska
, thought Grace.
Maybe she’ll let me know she sent the e-mail. Betsy will know something is wrong and—

But it was a tall male servant who entered, carrying a breakfast tray laden with a variety of breads, a teapot, gold-topped jars of jams and jellies, and a container of yogurt. His skin was sallow. He wore no makeup, unlike the women who had watched her the first day, but he had the same starved expression.

“Where is Draska?” asked Grace.

The servant shrugged. “Not come.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t come? Where is she?”

“Not know. I bring food.”

His eyes studied her with the same gleam and hunger as the women’s.

“So are you a psychopath too? Another inbred Bathory nutcase?”

“Not understand,” he said, his lip pulling up in a sneer.

“Forget it,” Grace said. “Go—you are finished. Go away!”

He bobbed his head sullenly and retreated out the door, locking it behind him.

Grace left her breakfast untouched, tiny beads of moisture glistening on the butter, a thick skin forming on the little pitcher of hot milk. She walked wearily to the window, streaked with rivulets of water. Wind and rain lashed at the tiny clumps of grass growing stubbornly in the high stone wall that encircled the castle.

“Draska,” she whispered. “Please don’t disappear.”

Chapter 40

Č
ACHTICE
C
ASTLE
D
ECEMBER 21, 1610

T
he seventeen-year-old Countess Zichy of Ecsed was not well. Her head drooped out of the curtains of the coach. The carriage rattled into the courtyard, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones.

Pulling aside the edge of the velvet curtain, Countess Bathory, still groggy from the sleeping potion, peered down from the drawing room of the castle. She watched the tired girl as the footman helped her from the coach.

“She is pale,” said the Countess, her perfect complexion creasing in a frown. “Bloodless and thin. This will not do.” She turned from the window. “Fetch Zuzana,” she snapped at Hedvika. The servant returned almost immediately, accompanied by the pox-faced girl.

“The Countess Zichy of Ecsed is of noble blood,” pronounced the Countess, lifting her chin. “The Zichy family has crossed with the Bathory lineage more than once.”

Zuzana nodded.

“She will not tolerate the clumsy attentions of these Slovakian cows.”

Hedvika blanched but said nothing.

“Go, Zuzana. Show her the Hungarian care she deserves as nobility. See that she dines properly and have the servants draw a hot bath for her. Tuck lavender sachets into her sheets and serve her mulled wine. Warm her bed with a pan of hot coals so she does not sicken.”

Zuzana curtsied, but as she bowed her head, her eyes were open in amazement. She studied the brocade of the Countess’s dress, her head lingering low.

Would she sacrifice one of her own relatives?

Hedvika brought Zuzana to the chamber door. The big-hipped Slovak maid beamed in satisfaction when the Countess of Zichy muffled a scream, seeing Zuzana’s pocked face.

“Your face!”

“Do not be frightened of my appearance,” Zuzana said in Hungarian. “You will soon be used to it. I shall care for you as no one else in this castle can. I serve my mistress the Countess faithfully and have for years.”

“Thank God there is a civilized tongue spoken in this savage wilderness!” the young Countess answered with relief. “These savage Slovaks all bark at me in unintelligible German.”

“I was raised in Sarvar Castle. I am here to serve you, madam. I am the Countess’s personal handmaiden.”

Hedvika’s lips pulled down, a bitter taste in her mouth. She could not understand Hungarian but she sensed the visitor’s acceptance of the ugly handmaiden.

“Oh, Countess Bathory is so good, so generous!” said Countess Zichy, clasping her hands. “Her own personal servant!”

The handmaiden bowed her head, saying nothing.

Zuzana prepared Countess Zichy a bath scented with rosemary. She sent the girl’s dress and underclothes to the laundress. The Slovak maids brought the soaps, perfumes, and unguents that Zuzana used for Countess Bathory’s own toilette. Zuzana could smell the traveling sickness on the noblewoman’s body and clothes.

“Is she as beautiful as they say?” asked Countess Zichy. She was dressed in a robe for bathing—white linen that enhanced the pallor of her skin.

She looked to Zuzana like a white lamb for the sacrifice.

Zuzana steered the conversation away. “Drink some wine. It is good for your blood, Countess.”

The girl’s nostrils pinched in agitation. “Answer my question, servant.”

“Yes, madam. The Countess Bathory is the fairest beauty in the Kingdom of Hungary. I have traveled with her to Vienna and compared her to the finest ladies of the court. There is no one more beautiful.”

The Countess drew a deep breath. She took a sip of the wine, a wan smile warming her face.

“Her beauty must be matched with her goodness and generosity to allow me to learn the social graces of a Bathory.”

Zuzana nodded and swallowed. “As you say, Countess.”

“I could not believe my good fortune when my mother received the letter with the Bathory seal. An invitation to visit the illustrious Countess Erzsebet! My mother and father would move heaven and earth to give me such an opportunity. And—”

“I beg of you, Your Countess. The water will cool. Please, come.”

“I do not want to catch a chill,” said the girl, looking frightened now. “These Slovakian climes are cold, barbaric. The coach driver said there are hundreds of hungry wolves in the woods.”

“Yes. You will hear them at night, howling.”

The young Countess opened her eyes wide. She allowed Zuzana to lead her to the brass bath.

The messenger from Vienna arrived, his face and clothes splattered with mud. He had ridden nonstop from Hofburg Palace carrying a letter in his leather pouch. “Messenger from the King!” he shouted in response to the sentry’s challenge.

Guard Kovach recognized the horse and rider as he looked down from the castle’s battlements.

“Let him enter,” he bellowed.

The rider dismounted, rubbing his aching back.

“Sentry Damek,” said Kovach, “fetch the royal messenger a draught from the well. Order food be prepared in the barracks.”

The messenger bowed in gratitude to the head guard. He took the wooden cup from the sentry and drank deeply.

“Come, I will accompany you to deliver the correspondence to the Countess,” said Kovach.

The rider wiped his mouth, leaving a dark smear of grit and mud on his jacket sleeve.

“The letter I carry is not destined for the Countess.”

Kovach wrinkled his brow.

The messenger continued. “Will you take me to Horsemaster Szilvasi, if you please?”