“I’m sorry. I think my friend has been kidnapped. I think these are the car tracks.”
The man stared at John 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 John.
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?”
John 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 John. “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
HOFBURG PALACE
VIENNA
DECEMBER 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 Čachtice 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
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS
SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
Pan 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.