House of Bathory (16 page)

Chapter 41

Č
ACHTICE
C
ASTLE
D
ECEMBER 21, 1610

Z
uzana remembered the ledger.

She could still feel the young horsemaster’s firm grip on her shoulder. It made her skin tingle to remember the weight of his hand resting there.

You know we have to do it.

Word had come that two other young noblewomen would arrive within the next two fortnights. Already the handmaidens were busy, cleaning and preparing the guest rooms, snapping freshly laundered linens in the air and floating them down on the feather mattresses, beating the rugs, finding flasks for water and wine for the bedside tables.

Brona the cook prepared sweetmeats and wine cakes, worrying that her cooking must compare favorably to all other kitchens in the kingdom of Hungary.

Zuzana thought about the ledger. Would a new name soon be entered there? Would the Countess dare to write the name of the Countess Zichy of Ecsed in her curling handwriting, evidence of her murder?

Did the ledger still exist?

Since the appearance of the dark stranger, Countess Bathory no longer lingered in the dressing room, writing names, inclining her head only slightly as the quill scratched the vellum, the ink soaking into the thirsty page.

The scratching of the quill had made Zuzana shudder, and only once had she been able to steal a glance at the names listed there.

Perhaps the dark stranger had persuaded Erzsebet to be more cautious. The ledger was probably locked in one of her drawers or in a coffer.

You know we have to do it.

She heard Janos’s words again and knew he was right. She had to do what she could.

Long after the other maidens had drifted asleep, Zuzana crept from her straw pallet. As she entered the turret staircase with its cold rush of air, she shuffled her feet to scare away the rats in the darkness.

She opened the servant’s door to the dressing room slowly, avoiding a sudden draft that might be felt in the Countess’s bedroom. She stepped carefully, knowing her way so well she could avoid even the faintest creak from the floorboards.

But there was noise from the adjoining room. The bed creaked, and the Countess moaned and howled. Squeals of what could have been pain as easily as delight filled the air, the thrashing of limbs and stiff bedclothes brocaded in gold thread and pearls. The smacking wet sounds of lovemaking, sucking, panting, and groaning reached a crescendo.

Then there was silence.

Zuzana waited until she heard the hinges whine on the chamber door, and the shuffle and tap of footsteps as the Countess and her dark companion descended to the dungeon for the night games.

The moonlight shone at the edges of the heavy velvet curtain. Zuzana moved toward the writing desk near the west window. Surely this was the desk to which Vida had referred. Zuzana had never been in the bedchamber before.

Her finger grasped the drawer pull. It resisted stubbornly.

“It’s locked,” came a voice from the corner of the room.

Zuzana whirled around, gasping. From the shadows long white fingers extended toward her and grasped her shoulder.

“What are you doing in this room,
Nocny
?” It was the witch Darvulia. She peered closely at Zuzana’s face. “You are forbidden to cross the threshold of the Countess’s chamber.”

Zuzana began shaking uncontrollably.

“The ledger,” Darvulia said. “Of course. You fool. Don’t you think the Countess takes the precaution of locking up her valuables?”

Zuzana looked at the witch’s eyes.

“Please do not tell her I have entered the room, I beg of you!” said Zuzana, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Darvulia lit a candle, tipping the flame up near her face. Zuzana could see words forming on her lips as she composed a reply.

“Do you know the Countess shuns me?” said Darvulia. “She keeps company now with a man years younger than she.”

“I know nothing about the stranger, only gossip from the handmaidens. I have never seen him.”

“The others were toys to her,” said Darvulia, apparently not hearing Zuzana’s answer. “They meant nothing. But this one is different. To let such an evil man, so foul a man, into her bed.” She made a noise deep in her throat, a combination of disgust and despair.

Zuzana looked on, terrified.

“See that she is damned, handmaiden. See that she is damned!”

Darvulia, weeping, made her way to the alcove. Zuzana heard the turret door creak open and listened to the retreating steps of the witch descending the winding staircase.

Chapter 42

Č
ACHTICE
C
ASTLE
D
ECEMBER 22, 1610

T
he black-clad stranger disappeared the same night Darvulia vanished from
Č
achtice Castle. The witch was never seen again. Some said her heart was broken, and she wandered the forests mourning.

But others said The Dark One had murdered her so she would never share the Countess’s bed again.

Brona, the cook, muttered a prayer. Hers was a different belief. “See, Zuzana. The two evil ones have left. There must be a Taltos amongst us—”

“A Taltos?”

Brona pulled the girl closer, whispering. “Witches sense when a Taltos is near. The Ancient Ones drive away evil spirits. If they are strong enough.”

Zuzana stared at the wrinkled lips of the old cook, smelling the garlic and bacon grease in her gray-streaked hair. Another wild superstition, thought Zuzana. Vampires and Taltos in eternal battles, ghosts and witches floating through the air. To the Slovaks, every moment could be supernatural, the world filled with spirits and sorcerers.

Zuzana knew she was the last one to see Darvulia, in the Countess’s bedroom, and she knew well the reasons for Davulia’s leaving
Č
achtice Castle—the witch had been cast aside for another lover.

Zuzana did not say anything to Brona to dissuade her from her hope for a beneficent Taltos. Any helpful spirits were welcome. The true evil one was still right there, her bloodlust insatiable. The castle still smelled of blood and carnage, despite the strong perfumes the Countess wore and the frankincense she burned.

That evening, Countess Bathory, suddenly without either of her lovers and confidantes, was unapproachable. Her black mood terrified everyone in the castle.

“Your creams and potions do nothing for my complexion!” the Countess screamed at Zuzana. “Look at me! I am wrinkled and haggard as an old peasant.”

Zuzana folded her hands, as if in prayer, beseeching her mistress.

“Madam, you are beautiful. Look again in the mirror, I beg of you.”

“You ugly charlatan! Why did I ever show you mercy, you poxed curse!”

The Countess threw a silver hand-mirror at the girl, who dodged the flying weapon. It shattered with a tinkle of splintering glass.

“There is only one cure to restore my youth,” said the Countess, gathering her skirts as she rose from the vanity chair. “And it cannot come from a lowly peasant!”

The Countess swept out of the antechamber, her stiff gown swishing. She slammed the bedroom door, leaving Zuzana kneeling on the floor, picking up the slivers of glass.

Janos was summoned.

“The Countess commands your company at dinner,” said a tall manservant. “She expresses deep concern over her horses.”

Janos opened his eyes wide. “Her horses? Her horses have never been in better condition. It is true that a few still have traces of thrush, but they—”

The messenger curled his lip, as if tasting something sour. “You are expected to dine with the Countess this evening, two hours after sunset. Present yourself at the castle—the Countess says you are to use the principal entrance, not the servants’ doorway.”

He turned on his heel, not waiting for Janos’s reply.

Guard Kovach, who had been listening intently from the corner of the stable, puckered his lips in a low whistle.

“You are in trouble now, Horsemaster.”

“What do you mean?”

Kovach approached, motioning with his hand for Janos to incline his ear. “She has taken a liking to you.”

“What?” said Janos. “She asked to learn about the horses’ condition!”

“She does not care about her horses. The word is that the dark stranger has disappeared again. There is never any telling when he will return. She is mad with lust.”

“I heard she prefers young maidens to men,” said Janos, his back stiffening.

“The Countess is not particular, as long as her lover is beautiful. And young.”

Janos scowled. He looked over his shoulder and saw no one.

“I have no desire for the widow of Ferenc Nadasdy,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I was born into the Nadasdy household—I was honored to have served them at Sarvar Castle and fought alongside them on the Ottoman front. I have never been a Bathory servant.”

“Oh, no, Horsemaster. That is where you are wrong. You are a vassal to Countess Erzsebet Bathory for the rest of your life. How long that life lasts depends on the Countess’s whims.”

The Countess Zichy of Ecsed was also invited to dine with the Countess Bathory that evening

“I shall finally meet the Countess!” the young woman exclaimed as Zuzana brought the handwritten note.

“The Countess Bathory has been waiting for you to make a full recovery from your journey, madam. I have informed her you are now well enough to sup with her tonight.”

Countess Zichy’s face brightened, a smile bringing roses to her pale cheeks.

“I am also to inform you that the castle horsemaster will be joining the Countess for dinner this evening.”

The smile dropped from Countess Zichy’s face.

“The horsemaster? A servant?”

“Yes,” said Zuzana. “A talented horsemaster from Sarvar Castle. His father serves King Matthias, training the Royal Spanish Stallions at Hofburg Palace in Vienna.”

The young countess picked at her fingernails, frowning. “Still, he is hardly a noble. How can he possibly sit at the Countess’s table?”

Zuzana chose her words carefully. “Because Countess Bathory wills it so.”

Chapter 43

B
RATISLAVA,
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 22, 2010

T
he train from Vienna took an hour. As the minutes passed, the landscape became more mountainous, the colors more vivid, the rock raw and craggy. Betsy felt as if they were traveling back in time. When they got off the train, the sounds of Slovak being spoken around them brought back unsettling memories of her father’s death.

Jo
hn
and Betsy hailed a cab outside the station. The driver was listening intently to a soccer game on the radio. Then a voice broke in, giving what sounded like a newscast in a rapid-fire Slovak. The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Betsy heard him mumble under his breath. He rolled down his window and spat viciously on the road.

Betsy tried her rudimentary Slovak with the driver as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“
Co je to?
” she asked, pointing up on the hill.

He switched off the radio and looked at her, a bemused smile on his face. “
Vlavo? To je Bratislavsky Hrad
.”

“That’s Bratislava Castle,” Betsy translated for Jo
hn
. “My God, it’s beautiful.”

The castle on the hill overlooked the city, its walls rising steeply against the sky.

Jo
hn
gave a low whistle. “I wouldn’t want to tackle those battlements if I were a Mongol invader.”

The taxi driver sought Betsy’s eye in his rearview mirror.

“
Ste Americanka?
”

“
Ano
.” Yes, she was an American.

“Obama
dobre
,” he said, his smile spreading as he met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Obama good president. You welcome in my country.”

The taxi made its way through the warren of narrow cobblestone streets in the heart of Stare Mesto, the Old Town of Bratislava. The Hotel Arcadia was a thirteenth-century building, with arched hallways, a stained glass atrium, and a single olive tree in the lobby.

As Jo
hn
checked them in, Betsy sat exhausted and glassy-eyed in a tiny bar off the lobby staring at the TV, which was showing a news program. A beautiful blonde rapidly rattled strange syllables through sleek painted lips. A young couple on a couch looked up from their newspapers, riveted by her words.

On the screen was footage of a corpse—a young woman, thin and bruised. She lay with her neck at an impossible angle and the camera zoomed in on a blue wound on her neck.

They would never show anything that graphic on American TV
, Betsy thought.

The couple looked at each other, then at Betsy, and then back at the TV. The young man took his partner’s hand in his and squeezed it.

“
Rozumite Anglichsky?
” Betsy said. “Can you tell me what she is talking about?”

The woman gave her a terrified look. Then she pronounced a word with a strong Slovak accent.

“Vahm-peer-uh.”

“Vampire?”

The woman nodded three times.

“Monster. Assassin three woman. Other woman take away.”

“Take away?”

“Kidnap,” said an Englishman in an armchair, snapping his newspaper closed. “Here’s the story in English.”

He got up and gave Betsy the paper.

SINISTER CLUES TO ASSASSIN’S IDENTITY

Another woman was found dead early this morning on the outskirts of Bratislava. Ivona Dravikova was last seen at Nightclub Raucous Scandal, known for its late night scene, drunken stag parties for foreign tourists, and reported heavy drug use among its patrons.

Dravikova reportedly frequented the nightclub on a regular basis. Witnesses say she was chatting with a tall dark-haired man at about 1
A.M
.
She left the club at about 1:45, according to a source who declined to be identified.

Her neck was broken and she had bruises on her throat. A deep puncture wound was found on the left side of her throat.

This is the third such murder in the last four months in the Bratislava area. In addition, at least four other women have gone missing after frequenting one of the many bars in the locale.

“My God,” Betsy said, under her breath. “The killer must be insane.”

“With a fetish for drug addicts,” said the man who had given her the paper.

“Excuse me, but how do you know that?”

“I’m on assignment from Scotland Yard. I’m working on this case. Two British nationals are among the missing girls.” He extended his hand. “George Whitehall.”

Betsy shook his hand. She felt her fingers tremble in his firm grip. Jet lag, she thought.

“I’m Dr. Betsy Path,” she said. She nodded to the Slovak couple on the couch, including them in her introduction. “I’m a psychoanalyst in Colorado.”

“Then you know about insanity,” said Whitehall. “It seems most of these girls are Goth-Punk types, looking for exotic adventures and cheap fixes for their drug habits. And they seem to have found more than they bargained for.”

“He works with Scotland Yard,” said Betsy. “I think we should try to cooperate with him.”

“What do you mean?” Jo
hn
offered her a bottle of water from the minibar. “He’s looking for wayward girls, drug addicts who have disappeared. What does that have to do with your mother?”

Betsy sat down on the bed and opened the bottle. “Voda Dobra” the label read. The hotel probably charged a fortune for it, but she was desperately thirsty and had not checked the Internet yet to see if water in Slovakia was potable. She had been too young to worry about such things when she last visited the country.

“But he must have some connections here. Let’s face it—I’m not sure how we are going to go about finding a lost American when we don’t speak the language. I don’t even know where she was staying.”

Jo
hn
sighed. “Sure, why not? Talk to Sherlock Holmes down there, if he is still around. Ask him to lunch, if you want. I’m famished, aren’t you?”

Betsy stood up from the bed, making the springs squeak. She gave her ex a weary smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m going down,” she said. “To see if I can find him.”

“Then I’m coming, too,” said John.

The Slovak waitress set down three tall mugs of frothy-headed beer.

“
Dobre chut!
” she said, with a friendly jerk of her chin.

“
Dakiyiem,
” said Betsy, managing to smile. “She just wished us good health.”

“
Dakiyiem,
” called Jo
hn
, to the waitress’s retreating back.

“You say your mother disappeared a week ago?” asked Detective Whitehall. “Without a trace?”

“We don’t know where she was staying. Her last e-mail said she was going to Piestany from Bratislava to see the ruins of a castle that belonged to Countess Bathory.”

Detective Whitehall put his fork down, a big bite of roast pork and sauerkraut speared on its tines. He pressed the white napkin to his lips.

“Countess Bathory?”

“Yes, my mother was working on a book, a sort of historical treatise on the woman.”

“Quite a bloody subject.”

“Are you familiar with her?”

Whitehall stuffed the large forkful of food in his mouth. Betsy wondered if he had done it on purpose to delay his response. He swallowed and took a long draught of beer.

“Yes. I am familiar with the legend of Countess Bathory.”

“You say legend,” said Jo
hn
. “So the stories of killing hundreds of women aren’t true?”

“Oh, that part is true, all right. She was a murderer, and a vicious one at that. The number of victims may have been exaggerated—it seems that her legend was popularized by King Matthias and the Habsburg clan. The king wanted desperately to get his hands on her land and to smear the Bathory name.”

“Why?”

“The seventeenth-century Bathorys—especially the Countess’s nephew Gabor, King of Transylvania—detested the Habsburgs. The Habsburgs couldn’t defend the frontier against the Ottomans, so it was left in the hands of the Bathorys and other wealthy Hungarian lords to stop the invaders. The Hungarians were largely Protestant and saw no advantage in keeping the Habsburg alliance.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Bathorys,” said Jo
hn
, sipping his beer. “Is their history a hobby for you or is there a reason for your research?”

The detective straightened. He looked into Jo
hn
’s eyes, then at Betsy.

“There have been a number of murders reported both in Bratislava and in the Piestany area. One theory we have is that all this bloody business is tied somehow to the legend of Countess Bathory.”

“Why would that be?” asked Betsy.

“Ask any Slovak if he knows the legend of Countess Bathory. There is not a Slovak alive who cannot recount the tale. The horror has seeped into the unconscious mind of the entire country.”

Betsy regarded him, her lips parted.
Unconscious mind?

“There may be a nutcase out there who is sucking blood from the girls’ veins, mimicking the act of a vampire,” continued the detective. “Or perhaps simply letting the victims bleed to death by slitting the jugular vein. The girls are almost drained dry when their bodies are found.”

Betsy covered her mouth in shock.

A group of Czech tourists on holiday laughed at the table next to them. The incongruous sound made Betsy jump.