House of Bathory (30 page)

She took her right hand off the door and dialed.

The car door wrenched open. Strong arms grabbed her. A bony hand clamped over her mouth as she was dragged out of the car.

Her cell phone clattered to the floor.

“Daisy?” said her sister’s voice. “I’m in Warsaw. My plane—”

Daisy looked up and saw two white-faced men in black, one with a syringe. He plunged the hypodermic needle into her arm.

“Daisy, can you hear me?”

Chapter 87

H
IGH
T
ATRA
M
OUNTAINS
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 28, 2010

T
he late afternoon wind kicked up snowy gusts as Betsy and Jo
hn
made their way back to the car. Whirlwinds of white obscured their vision, ice crystals stung their eyes.

Cresting the hill, Betsy saw the silver gleam of window glass. She halted in midstride, squinting.

“Look!” she said, pointing, and she ran down the icy slope, sliding with each step.

“Daisy! Daisy!”

The door of the car was wide open. The snow was trampled flat.

“Daisy? Daisy!” The pitch of her voice matched the shriek of the wind.

“He’s kidnapped her, Jo
hn
!”

Jo
hn
looked at the tangle of footprints, the skid of boot heels. He ran, following the trail in the snow. About thirty yards away, he saw the wheel marks of a vehicle where it had been parked, and then turned around again. The tire tracks led back toward the castle gate.

“What are you looking at?” said a voice, through the wind. The English was accented in Slovak.

Jo
hn
turned around and saw an old man walking a dog, who sniffed the snow.

“Did you see a car come this way?” he asked.

“You did not answer my question. Why do I answer yours?” said the man, whistling for his dog. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as the wind blew.

“I’m sorry. I think my friend has been kidnapped. I think these are the car tracks.”

The man stared at Jo
hn
with faded blue eyes. “She has come back to haunt us all,” he said. “You cannot kill the devil.”

“What?”

“Do you have car? I will take you to someone who maybe can help you.”

“My name is Bartos Jelen,” said the man, sliding across the backseat, pulling the dog in after him. The smell of wet dog filled the car.

“There is evil in that castle,” he said. “All of us in village have felt it for years. Some post warnings around fence, but the police pull down.”

“We saw one. A scene of torture. In the snow—”

“Yes. There were dozens posted, but the police destroy them. They missed that one.”

“It’s pretty brutal—”

“Istvan Csok painted realistic portrait. Original is at National Gallery in Budapest.”

“What do you know about the castle?” said Jo
hn
.

The elderly man pulled off his cap. His gray hair stood up in all directions.

“I know nothing. I feel,” he said, thumping his chest with his fist. “I have stared into eyes of the Count. Light does not return. He is Bathory—what more do I need to know?”

Jo
hn
looked quickly at Betsy in the passenger seat. Her face was pinched in anguish.

“Forgive us, I know you want to help. But we need to go to the police, Mr. Jelen,” said Jo
hn
. “Our friend may be in danger.”

“Ah! You think I am addled old man,” he said, nodding his grizzled head. “Listen to me. Police here will do you no good. He pays them to turn blind eye.”

“I’ll call our ambassador. They’ll have no choice but—”

“Ambassador! How long will that take? Your friend is dead by then. No, I take you to a woman who will help you. She knows the castle. She too is an enemy of the Count.”

Chapter 88

H
OFBURG
P
ALACE
V
IENNA
D
ECEMBER 28, 1610

I
do not trust Thurzo,” said the King, inspecting a map on curling parchment. The winter light illuminated the inked borders of Habsburg Hungary and the ever-encroaching Ottoman territories.

Bishop Melchior Klesl stood at attention, listening.

King Matthias slammed his hand down on the map in disgust.

“Will he really arrest his own cousin?”

His voice echoed off the white plaster walls of the vast palace room. Melchior Klesl imagined the crystal chandeliers chiming in a frenzy, to the point of shattering, at the rising thunder of the Monarch’s voice.

This King is happiest in a military tent, camping near his soldiers
, thought Klesl.
He is not suited to life in a palace.

Melchior Klesl bowed. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I fear your instincts are correct.”

“They share the same blood, Thurzo and the Countess. The same miserable Bathory blood!” spat the King. “Would that I could blot it from my kingdom, every drop!”

The Bishop of Vienna closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts.

“If you will permit me to speak, Your Majesty. I have the same concerns about Gyorgy Thurzo.”

“Well? Speak!”

Melchior Klesl looked down at the King’s fine leather riding boots, gleaming even in the dim light of winter. The King would ride his white Andalusian mare around the Hofburg gardens and through the streets of Vienna within the hour, despite the cold weather.

Klesl doubted it would improve his dark mood.

“As you say, Your Majesty, Thurzo hesitates. He may not have enough evidence. But there may be something else keeping him from arresting Countess Bathory.”

Matthias frowned. His index fingers massaged his temples, where his head throbbed.

“If I may,” said Melchior Klesl, “I believe Thurzo fears Gabor Bathory, especially now that he has the support of the Ottoman Sultan. Gyorgy Thurzo plays both sides: the Habsburg Crown and the Bathory family.”

“The rogue! If Thurzo does not arrest her soon, I will ride to
Č
achtice and do it myself!”

Outside the Hofburg palace, there was a clanging of bells. The sweet voices of Christmas carolers filled the air, as the Viennese celebrated the Christmas season leading up to the Epiphany.

Melchior Klesl raised his chin, listening. “Even if Thurzo arrests the Countess immediately, it will be weeks before the Hungarian judges in Pressburg will hear her testimony. They will not reconvene until the second week of January.”

“Precisely why he has stalled arresting her,” growled the King. “A New Year’s present to the entire Bathory family!”

Chapter 89

H
IGH
T
ATRA
M
OUNTAINS
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 28, 2010

P
an
Jelen leaned forward from the back seat, pointing to a brightly painted house at the edge of the village. The dog wagged his tail, pressing up between the front seats, trying to see ahead.

“This is my house,” said Jelen. “My house guest is the woman who can help you.”

“Mr. Jelen, we really have—” Jo
hn
began.

“No,” said Betsy, touching his arm. “Let’s see who he is talking about.”

“But—”

“We won’t spend but five minutes,” she whispered.

A big woman with graying hair stood at the door. She was dressed in a heavy overcoat and about to put a knit hat on her head.

She said something in Slovak to Jelen, ignoring the guests.

“May I present Mathilde Kuchar,” said Jelen, unhooking the leash from the dog’s collar. “She is the cook up at the castle. She escaped through an underground passage below the kitchen floor, fleeing Count Bathory.”

Mathilde nodded, but did not extend her hand. She spoke again in Slovak, her face creasing in agitation.

Betsy listened. She turned to Jo
hn
, translating. “She says she had to leave. Her life was in danger.”

Mathilde and Jelen stopped talking, staring at her. Mathilde’s black eyes studied Betsy, a flash of interest crossing the cook’s face.

Mathilde nodded, a curt movement of her chin.

“You speak Slovak,” Jelen said. “So few do.”

“Only a little. Just a few words, simple conversation.”

Jelen spoke rapidly to Mathilde now, so fast that Betsy could not follow. But even Jo
hn
could make out the word “Bathory.”

Mathilde’s face crumpled as if she were going to cry. But then she drew up, a hard determination smoothing her skin. She took Betsy’s hand in hers.

“Come,” she said. She flicked her eyes at Jo
hn
. “But not him. Only you.”

“What?” said Betsy, looking at Jo
hn
.

“You can’t just go off with a woman you can barely communicate with,” said Jo
hn
. “You don’t know her at all!”

“Her family has lived in the castle for generations. She knows a way underground into the dungeon.”

“So what? How do you know you can trust her? What if the Count sees you?”

“I don’t know why, but I trust her. She told me there is a warren of underground tunnels the Bathorys used as escape routes. Every castle in the region had them—”

“Then I want to go, too.”

“She won’t take you. I tried, she just won’t.”

“What—because I don’t speak Slovak?”

“She said she saw something in my face, something she recognized. But for whatever reason, she’s not letting you come with us.”

“Betsy—do you know how dangerous this is? What if the tunnel caves in? What if you get lost?”

“What if my mother is murdered while I am sitting on my hands? Do you think I could live with that?”

“Betsy—”

“What do we do? Wait until the American Embassy gets off their bureaucratic asses and starts investigating? You think that is really going to happen? Mom will be dead, if she isn’t already—”

Betsy’s face pinched up, red. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her knuckle. She would not permit them, not now.

“Come on, Betsy,” said Jo
hn
, pulling her to his shoulder. “I’m just trying to reason with you. What if something happens to you?”

“I promise—I promise I won’t act on impulse. I promise you! But I’ll go crazy and never forgive myself if I don’t try.

“And Daisy,” she said, covering her swelling eyes. “She thought she was protecting me, the little idiot. I’ve got to find her, Jo
hn
. I have to!”

Jo
hn
took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh.

“OK, Betsy. OK.”

Betsy followed Mathilde through the labyrinth of pitch-black tunnels. Motes of dust swirled in the glow of her headlamp.

“How do you know your way through here?” she whispered, speaking Slovak.

The older woman looked over her shoulder. “Old secret. My family work for Bathory many generations. I play here, child with brothers. They…find caves.”

“But—” said Betsy, stopping to into a side tunnel.

The big woman seized Betsy’s arm.

“Not go that way!” she hissed. “You fall.”

“What?”

“Water. Ice cave. Danger. Very danger.”

She gripped Betsy’s wrist, pulling her ahead. They stopped in front of a sagging wooden door, rotted with age. In the close quarters, Betsy could smell cooking grease mixed with sweat emanating from the cook’s scalp.

“There—tunnel go up, dungeon. My daughter, Draska, there, I think. Your friend?”

Betsy drew a breath. “Daisy.”

Mathilde nodded, biting her lips. Her hand rested on the splintered door.

“If Count Bathory sees us,” said Betsy, “he will kill your daughter and my friend. And both of us.”

“So,” said the cook, her slanted eyes glinting in the light. “He must not see. You go through caves, then door to dungeon. Come. I show.”

Before they went through the rotting door, the cook motioned for Betsy to turn off her headlamp.

“But we can’t see anything,” Betsy whispered.

The cold, dank space was not simply dark, but as if any trace of light had been sucked out, leaving a textured inkiness.

“You do not need to see,” said the cook. “Later, you turn on again. Not now. We feel. We hear.”

Betsy nodded. It seemed she had heard these words before.

“This old escape way from castle. Bathory, many enemy.”

The cook kept looking over her shoulder in the direction of the rotted door. The darkness wrapped itself around Betsy, and she shuddered.

“I take you more ahead now. But then, you see. Tunnel fall down long, long years ago. Rocks very close. I could go when little girl. Not now. I escape through kitchen tunnel. Bigger, but they guard now.”

The darkness grew even tighter. And colder.

“But you can go. Possible, I think.”

Possible
, thought Betsy.
All I have is “possible.”

“We push door, slow. Door make noise. We put mouth water there. Very, very old.”

Betsy could hear the big woman gather the juices from the back of her mouth, spitting copiously where she felt the hinge under her fingers.