The pond ice had left deep gouges in Janos’s hands where he had fought the frozen water to free Zuzana’s body. He wore rags wrapped around his fingers.
“Your friend Zuzana provided us entry,” said Thurzo. He hesitated as he noticed the torment in the young man’s eyes. “She was a brave woman.”
Janos reached in his tunic, fumbling. He withdrew the vellum ledger, shaking the bits of straw free from the pages.
The young horsemaster stared directly at the noblemen before him. “I have read these pages. There are six hundred twelve names. Girls the Countess murdered. She gives descriptions of each. And whether they provided her good sport.”
Miklos Zrynyi gasped. “Six hundred twelve?”
“Did you not suspect, Count Zrynyi?” said Janos, narrowing his eyes at the Countess’s son-in-law. “How could you be so blind for so many years? How could you tolerate the stench—”
“Enough, Szilvasi,” snapped Count Thurzo. He stretched out his hand to receive the ledger. “Your evidence and written testimony will be used in court. I plan to assemble the judges immediately in Bytca.”
“Bytca?” said Janos. “Your castle? Will she not be tried by the Pressburg courts? Or in Vienna by the crown?”
Thurzo stroked his beard. “No. I want to have the Countess tried immediately. The courts will not reconvene until after Epiphany.”
“But—”
“Horsemaster, you have been useful. Now I must ask you to leave.”
Janos stared into Thurzo’s dark eyes. He saw a flash of anger.
“Guards, please escort the horsemaster to the stables. He may select any horse he chooses to ride. Then see him through the gates of Čachtice.”
Janos set his jaw, facing Count Thurzo. “You will see that justice is served. Zuzana gave her life—”
“Take him away!” shouted Thurzo.
Janos threw off the hands of the guard who tried to seize him by the arm. He walked out the doorway, never looking back at the Count.
“Six hundred and twelve victims?” whispered Count Zrynyi. “If this ledger ever gets in the King’s hands, he will certainly seize all the Countess’s lands! He will make all Bathorys pay for her sins, leaving us paupers!”
“The ledger will never reach the King,” muttered Count Thurzo. He turned the ring on his finger, round and round, thinking.
“The horsemaster knows that,” he said at last. “Good sirs, there is such a thing as too much evidence.”
Thurzo gave a stern look to the scribe, who nodded. He set his quill down.
Count Thurzo opened a leather pouch. He slid the ledger in among other documents.
“This ledger belongs to the Bathory family. It shall remain as part of our records, not for the eyes of judges or kings.”
Chapter 123
THE BORDERLANDS: TRANSYLVANIA
JANUARY 1, 1611
Gabor Bathory rode out, his eye searching for coaches approaching from Royal Hungary. He pulled back the black hood on his cloak, his Bathory ring glinting gold in the setting sun.
Her advance scout had ridden hard day and night to bring word that the Countess would take refuge in his castle, swearing her loyalty to him in his quest.
“Did she receive any tidings that warned of her arrest?” asked the Prince of Transylvania. “Why did she choose to leave Čachtice now, on the cusp of the New Year?”
The scout shivered, knowing full well that the spirits ruled the midnight skies as one year gave birth to the next.
“No, she had no evidence,” replied the scout, wiping salty sweat from his eyes. “She had a premonition, a dream that the end was near. The howling of cats.”
Gabor’s face went rigid. He wasted no time in assembling his troops. With his cousin’s vast wealth and the prominent names of Nadasdy and Bathory, he would take Poland.
Then Vienna.
But he needed his Cousin Erzsebet’s power—her wealth, lands, and strategic castles.
Hours passed. His scouts were sent far ahead to escort the Countess’s entourage. Gabor’s ear anticipated the cursing of drivers, the clatter of hoofbeats, the clanging of pots and pans.
There was only silence. Then the howls of wolves, echoing across the dark woods. A low fog rolled up from the south, clinging to the mountainside.
Gabor’s amber eyes scanned the horizon. Skeletal branches of birch trees etched against the backdrop of snow, stretching for miles.
If she did not appear, he would send the girl away. A bastard daughter of the Countess would no longer be an asset.
A gust of wind roared in from the southwest, blowing ice and snow in ghostly forms, chasing each other across the valley below.
He turned his horse back toward the mountains of Transylvania, a black hooded figure disappearing into the mists.