House of Bathory(10)

“Oh, no. Never.” She paused. “They warn me.”





Chapter 4

ČACHTICE VILLAGE, SLOVAKIA

NOVEMBER 28, 1610





The mud-splattered coach shuddered to a stop at the outskirts of the village of Čachtice. The crossroad led up the hill to the gray-and-ivory castle looming against the sky.

The carriage horses snorted in the cold, clouds of vapor rising into the frigid air. Their eyes were ringed in white as they pranced nervously, straining at their bits.

“Quiet now!” urged the driver. The brass lanterns on either side of the coach swung wildly, banging against the wood as the carriage lurched.

“Passenger Szilvasi, descend at once!” shouted the driver.

A flock of ravens exploded in flight from the castle walls. Their screaming call was answered by the ear-piercing whinny of the horses, rearing in unison, sharp hooves slicing the air.

“Get out!” shouted the driver, wrestling the reins.

Janos Szilvasi jumped down from the coach, throwing his sack into the snow beside the muddy road.

“Let me quiet them,” he shouted up to the driver, as he approached the horses.

“Get away!” said the driver. “They will strike you! Stay away from the mare—”

Janos made a soft whistling sound, staying to the right of the rearing horses. The mare could not see the ravens now. She looked nervously at the human being who approached, her nostrils flaring.

“Easy, now, easy, easy, easy,” Janos crooned in a singsong voice as if speaking to a child. And again came the strange whistle.

The mare reared again, her whinny echoing across the valley.

“Stay away!” shouted the driver.

Janos did not heed him. He steadily worked his way closer and closer to the horse’s shoulder. He slowly placed a hand on the mare’s neck, murmuring as he looked at her from the corner of his eye.

The skin on her neck quivered under his touch, rippling like a lake surface punctured by a barrage of stones. The harness slowed its jingling as the mare calmed. All the while Janos spoke to her, his breath small puffs of mist in the cold air.

The mare relaxed her tightly bunched neck, slowly lowering her ears closer to the man’s mouth.

“What are you saying to my horses?” asked the driver, his voice full of suspicion. “Are you casting a spell on them? Come away from the horses.”

“Let him, you fool!” shouted a thin passenger, craning his neck through the carriage window. “The horses will overturn the coach and kill the lot of us!”

Janos did not look away from the mare. He moved in front of her, risking a strike from her powerful foreleg—a blow that could easily break a man’s leg. He could feel the warm breath of the second horse, a bay gelding, trying to reach his hand with its muzzle. He ran a hand over the chest of the gelding. He moved to the right of the coach and faced the steep road.

“A horse sorcerer,” said a kerchiefed woman, looking out the window of the coach, She shoved her husband’s head out of her way so she could see better.

“Thank you, sir,” said the driver, blowing out his breath, as he felt the slack in the rein. “You have skill with horses.” He wiped his nose on his ragged sleeve. “The Countess should be pleased to have you.”

“I hope that is so,” replied Janos. Then he nodded to the horses. “Was it the ravens that startled them?”

The driver shook his head, and motioned for Janos to come near. He whispered, “They always sweat and rear when we pass by Čachtice Castle, night or day.”

Janos noticed the driver’s hand tremble in its fingerless glove. He could smell the slivovica, the fiery plum brandy, on the man’s breath. The driver drew a silver flask from his pocket, offering his passenger a draught.

“To steady your nerves for Čachtice Castle,” said the driver.

Janos shook his head.

The driver shrugged and took the drink himself, his body relaxing as the harsh alcohol slid down his throat.

“We must make Beckov before nightfall. I bid you well, Passenger Szilvasi.”

Janos backed away.

“Ya!” shouted the driver, slapping the reins lightly on the horses’ backs. The wheels of the coach churned up frozen mud, leaving Janos at the side of the road.

The remaining passengers in the coach stared wild-eyed at the man who had shared their journey across the Hungarian flatlands to this remote outpost on the flanks of the Little Carpathians.

The kerchiefed woman made the sign of the cross, whispering a silent prayer. She kissed her fingers and extended them in the frosty air, back toward young Master Szilvasi.

Janos watched the coach disappear down the road. He picked up his sack and gazed at the fortress castle rising from the rocky hill above the treetops. The ravens still cawed overhead, circling the fortress in erratic loops.