House of Bathory(18)

Janos narrowed his eyes at the servant, clad in black velvet, the silver hooks of his fine cloak gleaming in the torchlight. The horsemaster dropped his eyes to scan his own clean white shirt.

“No, this will do,” he said, testily. “I am a horseman, not a castle servant.”

“Very good, sir. It is just that—”

“What?”

“The Countess is…fastidious.”

“I wish she were more fastidious with the care of her horses,” answered Janos. “And in welcoming a weary traveler from Sarvar Castle.”

The servant took a step back. His eyes were ringed in white, much as the horses’ had been.

“I beg you, sir!” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Do not criticize the Countess in my presence.” The servant looked about the empty courtyard, searching the shadows for spies.

“You are scared of your own shadow, man! Take me to the Countess,” said Janos, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand. “I am losing patience. And I am weary for my bed.”

The courtyard was treacherous, the water on the cobblestones already beginning to freeze. The servant worked his way around the edge of the yard, placing his feet carefully. Janos followed, the click of his riding boots sounding a steady beat on the stone.

The guards opened the massive door of the castle, hinges creaking despite regular coats of pork grease. A servant took Janos aside and patted him roughly, searching for weapons.

“There are enemies of the Bathorys,” he said as way of explanation.

The tapestry-hung halls were illuminated by wrought-iron candelabras. Ornately carved furniture—chairs, chests, and long tables—shone darkly with thick coats of beeswax. The walls—where not covered by tapestries—were hung with oil portraits of Nadasdy and Bathory ancestors, men in gleaming armor, their hands on bejeweled swords, ready to kill the Islamic invaders. One portrait showed the Countess’s husband, Ferenc Nadasdy, triumphantly seated atop a pile of slain Ottoman warriors, their blood coating his boots.

Ferenc had been dead for five years, killed by a wound received in battle—though in the taverns of Nadasdy, it was whispered that the mortal injury was inflicted by a disgruntled harlot whom he neglected to pay.

The air was rich with kitchen odors, wild boar roasting in the open hearth. Janos knew the savory smell, soured by the stink of singed hair where stray bristles had remained in the flesh. The bitter smell of burning hair was chased by the sweet aroma of autumn apples.

Outside an oaken door on the first floor flocked a half dozen young maidens in court finery. Their long silk skirts, laced velvet bodices, and finely beaded headpieces must have been fetched from Vienna, thought Janos, for there was certainly nothing as refined to be found in the wilds of Upper Hungary.

The ladies-in-waiting curtsied and lowered their heads as the horsemaster approached, though he could see them sneaking looks. He heard one stifle a gasp, and a muffled giggle.

“There is no need to bow, maidens,” said Janos in German. “I am a servant, just as you serve the Countess.”

The Slovak women giggled at his fine manners and Hungarian accent. A couple of bolder girls made eyes at him.

The manservant rapped gently on the door, and it opened a crack to expose the mouth and nose of a pretty—though painfully thin—servant girl. They exchanged murmured words and then the door was quietly opened. Janos was ushered into a vast chamber, illuminated by chandeliers with hundreds of flickering candles.

The room was square and sparse. At the far end sat a black-veiled woman.

“Approach, Master Szilvasi,” called the woman. Her starched lace collar stood straight out from her neck like a square banner, quivering slightly as she spoke.

Janos’s face twitched with impatience, but he wisely chose to compose himself before he reached her shrouded presence.

He stood a few feet from what appeared to be a throne—and bowed deeply. He stared at the Countess’s red-slippered feet, peeking out of the stiff folds of silver and gold brocade.

Janos wrinkled his nose. A strong smell of copper coins wafted through the air, metallic and acrid. His eye surreptitiously hunted for its source.

“Countess Bathory, it is an honor,” he said.

“Is it?” she said. “I have heard that you were impatient for your bed.”

Janos swallowed, marveling at how quickly gossip traveled in this castle. Then he collected his thoughts, thinking of the conditions in which he had found the horses.

“You heard correctly. Your—what would you call them, spies?—have served you well. Yes, Countess. I am tired after two days of hard travel and a grueling day in the stables.”

“Spies? You are impertinent, Pan Szilvasi! They are loyal servants who report the truth and warn me of ill conduct.”