House of Bathory(104)

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

“Mr. Jelen, we really have—” John 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 John, 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 John 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 John. “But not him. Only you.”

“What?” said Betsy, looking at John.

“You can’t just go off with a woman you can barely communicate with,” said John. “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 John, 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, John. I have to!”

John 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.