House of Bathory(12)

Children chased flocks of geese about the cobblestones, only to run shrieking when a gander turned on them, hissing through his sharp yellow beak and flapping his powerful wings.

A mutton carcass roasted on an enormous spit, the fat sizzling and sparking the coals into flames. The fire licked the meat, spreading the rich aroma through the air. A blacksmith pounded on his anvil, the sound ringing over the courtyard. Bits of molten iron flew, glowing yellow-orange, leaving scorch marks on the worn stones of the courtyard.

Janos followed the guard to the stables. A team of ragged boys assembled in a line in front of the arched entry. Despite the cold, fat lazy flies buzzed from piles of warm manure and the stench of aged horse piss stung Janos’s nose.

“Welcome to your domain, horsemaster,” announced the guard captain, sweeping his arm wide.

Janos wrinkled his nose and his jaw clenched, muscles working taut under his skin.

“What conditions are these for Bathory horses!” he said, his voice rising in anger. He whirled around. “Who is responsible for this?”

One of the older boys came forward, his face smeared with dirt.

“I am, sir. My uncle was in charge until he took ill with the plague. He died a fortnight ago,” said the boy. He ran his dirty sleeve under his runny nose.

Janos trembled with fury, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side.

“Bring out the horses. At once!”

One after another, the horses of Čachtice Castle were brought out into the courtyard, which was paved in end-cut wooden blocks. There were twenty-seven horses in all, and every one showed evidence of neglect. There were boils on the backs of several, proud flesh festering over wounds, cracked hooves. Several were lame with blistered coronets from standing in old urine-soaked straw. Two bay mares were crippled with thrush. When Janos picked up their hooves, he saw the soggy flesh and smelled the stench of rot.

The last horse, three boys brought out together.

The white stallion reared, his front hooves flashing. His eyes were ringed in white and his piercing neigh was a threat that ricocheted around the castle walls. The boys held him by ropes trying to keep him on the ground.

He, like all the others, was thin despite the band of muscle that still clung to his powerful neck.

“These wretched horses are starving!” said Janos. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in one of the windows of the castle. But his attention returned quickly to the horses.

“We feed them, but the horses have no appetite,” said the head boy. Janos looked closer at the boy’s eyes. They were shining with fever.

“They nose aside the grass and choose to starve,” said the boy. Janos saw the beads of sweat on his face. His cheeks burned bright red, his eyes glassy.

“What is your name?”

“Aloyz, sir.”

“Aloyz, you are ill.”

“Yes, Master Janos,” he said, shuffling his rag-tied feet. “But do not send me away, I beg of you. I need to work for our family, else we will starve.”

Janos nodded. “Where is the hay?”

Aloyz beckoned him to a leaky wooden-shingled hayshed. The grass was wet and mottled with black, white cobwebs lacing the mildewed interior.

“The Countess is lucky she has any horses left!”

The head guard approached Janos. “The Countess said to give you this.”

In the Kovach’s hands was a braided leather horsewhip, glistening black in the sunlight. Janos wrinkled his brow.

“What is this? I shall not strike these miserable horses.”

Kovach looked over his shoulder toward the castle.

“Take it!” he said, shoving the whip into the horsemaster’s hands.

Janos let the whip drop into the mildewed hay. He glared scornfully at the head guard and turned to the stallion which still raged and reared, lathered now with sweat.

“Easy, boy,” said Janos, approaching him. The horse reared again, and the three boys pulled hard on their ropes.

“Stand back, Szilvasi! That horse is mad,” shouted Guard Kovach.

“Easy, boy, calm down, now, easy, easy,” said Janos. He looked down at the horse’s lightning-fast hooves, not meeting the animal’s eyes.

Janos stretched out a hand, slowly. The stallion snorted, but did not rear. He snorted again, bunching his long neck muscles in a tight arch, then he turned his muzzle toward Szilvasi’s outstretched hand.

Janos reached out and stroked the stallion’s neck.

The horse slowly released the knotted muscles and lowered his head, his nostrils flaring as he pulled in the scent of the man. He snorted and stamped his front foot, not fully convinced to trust a human.

“How long since this horse has been ridden?” Janos asked.

The boys looked at each other and then to the ground.