House of Bathory(11)

“Do not let her catch you staring, Horse Sorcerer,” warned an old man, appearing from below the road on a path leading from the dark pine forest. He carried a load of brush and twigs strapped to his bony back. The stranger spoke broken German.

“I beg your pardon?”

“She will cast a spell on you, the evil witch,” the woodcutter said. He spat. “That Hungarian sorceress is the devil incarnate.”

Janos placed a wool-wrapped hand on the old one’s shoulder. “Pray tell me, sir, what do you know of the Countess?”

The old man grunted and shifted the load on his back. “How do I know you’re not a Hungarian spy, sent by the Bathorys?”

“You are right, I am Hungarian. Is it so obvious in my German?”

The old Slovak laughed.

Janos slid the sack off his shoulder and drew out a flask of wine.

“Here, Grandfather. It is the last I have, but I will share it with you. Will you speak to me of the Countess? I swear I will tell no one, by my family’s honor.”

The old man shifted his heavy load of wood. His dirty face was streaked with sweat despite the cold.

“My bones could do with a rest. Let me taste your wine.”

Janos could smell the tang of the old man’s body as he tipped the flask up toward the sky to drink. The woodcutter belched as he pulled the flask away from his lips. He smiled, watery eyed.

The old man was the first Slovak Janos had met who would dare speak of the Countess. He had tried to pry information from his traveling companions, but they only looked at him pop-eyed and silent. At the very mention of Bathory, the stout matron would cross her fingers to ward off the evil eye. She would not let her husband utter a word about the mysterious woman.

This old man was ready to talk.

“There are women—young girls—who go to serve her and never come back,” he whispered. His tongue poked out and touched around his lips, searching for any remaining wine. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Good girls, they were. When they were babes, I would pinch their cheeks and watch them play on the village square. Now they are gone,” he sighed. “I shall never dance at their weddings.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“Gone. Disappeared. But no one dares whisper a word—except for our village preacher, a good Lutheran, with God’s own pure fury in his soul. All the villagers are scared to speak, even the desperate mothers who cry themselves to sleep at night. The Countess makes up stories, tales that the girls have gone to serve at her other castles or at her house in Vienna.”

“How do you know they are not?”

“No one ever hears from them again.”





The sentries spotted Janos long before he reached the ramparts of the castle.

“Who goes there?” a guard shouted in German.

“Janos Szilvasi, horsemaster from Sarvar Castle of Nadasdy. I am here to serve Countess Bathory.”

The guards had been expecting Szilvasi for a fortnight. They let down the plank used for foot traffic.

“Master Szilvasi—welcome to Čachtice Castle,” said the head guard, straightening his hat over his gray hair. He was immaculately dressed: a red jacket skimming over his hips, a black wool hat, a sword at his side. His boots were of fine leather, with not a trace of manure or straw and no dark stains of horse sweat. Janos frowned at the gleaming footwear.

“My name is Erno Kovach,” continued the man. “I command the Countess’s castle guards.” He did not extend his hand. “You look too young to be a horsemaster.”

Janos saw the man studying him, gray eyes flicking from Janos’s worn boots to his well-traveled cap.

“When my father was sent to fight in the Ottoman wars and train our King Rudolf’s cavalry, I took over his position at Sarvar Castle. I am skilled enough, Guard Kovach,” Janos said, his tone of voice challenging the guard. “I was called away from my duties at Sarvar to serve the Countess by her mandate.”

Erno Kovach regarded the blond young man, the red blossom of youth still coloring his cheeks. He wondered if this boy truly had the command of horses his legendary father possessed, or whether the Countess had summoned him for his handsome countenance, and especially his youth.

“And your father now?”

“He trains the white Spanish stallions in Vienna for King Matthias.”

Kovach grunted. “Follow me, Szilvasi. I will accompany you to the stables. Jiri—send notice to the Countess that her horsemaster has arrived.”

“Yes, Captain.”

A cobweb of frost clung to the granite blocks of the castle wall. As they emerged from the archway into the busy courtyard, Janos’s eyes took in a whirl of activity. Flocks of chickens pecked the cobblestones for grubs. Butchers stripped entrails from hanging pigs and handed the buckets of guts to the sausage maker who selected the choice bits for his grinder, hurling the slop in the drainage ditch for the dogs and ravens to devour. Knives flashed as farmers trimmed huge heads of cabbage, sharp blades hacking away the tough outer leaves and stalks. The dairyman pulled his wares from a wooden cart, offering them to a stout cook who stood with her hands on her wide hips as he boasted of the quality of his product, pulling back the linen cloth so she could inspect the crocks of butter and wheels of fresh cheese.