House of Bathory(43)
From the pulpit, the minister thundered, “The Countess feeds on our innocence, devouring our children, sisters, and even young mothers. How long will we wait in numbed silence as this witch snatches our loved daughters, tortures them, and ushers them to an early, unmarked grave?”
“You, sir, slander the name of Bathory!” answered the voice of the stranger at the back of the church.
All heads, young and old, twisted to see the nobleman.
“I speak the truth!” said Pastor Ponikenusz, his voice resonating. “And in the House of the Lord, the truth will be spoken in the name of Jesus Christ, Prince of Peace and Mercy!”
The wooden pulpit shook. Ponikenusz felt the power of a righteous God guiding his words.
The nobleman scowled. The thick-skinned peasants stared at the stone floor of the church rather than look so powerful a lord in the eye.
“I will speak to you after the service,” he growled, pinching his aquiline nose against the smell of wet wool, boiled cabbage, and sour beer in the cramped church. “He is a Bathory for sure,” hissed the cooper. “He will string up our good parson for blasphemy.”
“I know the man,” said a midwife, whistling through the gap in her remaining teeth. “He is the Count Thurzo, the Countess’s cousin.”
“The Palatine? Surely he has come to execute our pastor.”
But the minister stood even straighter, his chin lifting with conviction.
“God respects the word of truth, and protects those of faith!”
Count Thurzo waited by his carriage. His face wrinkled in disgust as he watched the peasant congregation pour out of the church door.
When the minister had finished bidding each worshipper a good afternoon, he walked over to the Count, looking sternly at the nobleman. “How dare you interrupt my sermon, sir!”
Count Thurzo’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “Your sermon? You fool! Your words could end your miserable life.”
“I speak the truth, with God as my witness.”
“You have chosen a powerful adversary,” said the Count, flicking his eyes to a cluster of ragged peasants who stood watching from the careful distance, and back again to the minister’s face. “Does that not occur to you?”
“I guide my flock and confront evil wherever it may be. I have no fear of men’s politics or gold. Do you come here to imprison me?”
“No, though if your allegations prove wrong, that will be the case. I will see to it personally.”
“I am not afraid of the dungeons,” said the minister. “God knows the truth and so shall the King.”
Count Thurzo straightened his posture and pressed his lips tightly together. “I come as an emissary of our King Matthias. He has sent me to hear your complaint against the Countess.”
The minister paused for a moment. “I believe you are her cousin. Does this not present a conflict for you?”
The Count’s gloved hand clenched. You wretched little church-worm, he thought. How dare you!
“We are related through marriage, on my wife’s side. I serve my Habsburg king faithfully.”
“Despite the Bathory name?”
The Count drew a quick breath, his face souring. What impudence! “Speak, sir. What evidence do you have against the Countess?”
The minister looked around the churchyard. Knots of his congregation stood nearby, their necks swiveling toward the Count and their minister.
“Perhaps you would like to take a walk in our cemetery, Count Thurzo,” suggested the minister. “We can talk with more privacy among the dead.”
Chapter 28
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 19, 2010
Grace studied the anemic jailers—with wild colored hair—who attended her day and night. Their heads drooped from their scrawny necks. They stared at her with feral eyes.
For days she pleaded for help. They remained silent, unblinking. Inhuman.
Their wolfish looks wore on her nerves. She turned on them finally, in a rage, tendons standing out on her thin neck.
“What is wrong with you? Have you no manners? Stop staring at me!”
The women exchanged looks and dropped their eyes to the carpet.
“Really. Pasty white faces and neon-colored hair hanging in your eyes. Go out in the fresh air, get some color into your cheeks. Eat some goose and dumplings. Drink a beer, for God’s sake.”
A shadow crept over their faces as the women exchanged looks. They did not meet their captive’s eyes.
Grace pursed her lips and settled back in her chair. She was accustomed to young men and women of precisely this age in her lectures at the university. Her lectures were filled with serious historical detail of the Holy Roman Empire, but she was not above scolding a student for slovenly appearance or a disrespectful attitude.