House of Bathory(45)

“Dobre den,” he said, his voice courteous.

“Forgive him, he doesn’t speak a word of English,” said the Count. “I find that useful.” He smiled and went on, “Before you were exposed to such a despicable display by my servant girls, I was planning to give you a surprise.”

He nodded to Almos, who flicked on the computer. It hummed to life, blinking blue shadows across the boy’s face.

“Naturally you will not be able to use the internet—Almos is disabling it now—but you will see that I have downloaded many educational programs. History, psychology, physics. Courses and lectures I have selected from various institutions. I thought they might keep you engaged while you are here with us.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered, still shaking. How do you feign gratitude to a madman?

“And please, help yourself to the books in my library here. You may find some interesting reading while we wait.”

“Wait for what?” she asked.

The Count didn’t answer, staring straight ahead.





Chapter 29

ČACHTICE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD

DECEMBER 19, 1610





The rattling of the wagon drew the gravedigger’s attention.

“Here comes another,” he called down to the man below, who heaved another shovel of earth up to the surface.

“Ne, Havel! Cannot be,” the man in the open grave shouted back. “We have not finished this one.”

The gravedigger above shook his shaggy head, scratching his neck. “ ’Tis truth,” he insisted. “They’ve come to dump another.”

He set down his shovel and wiped the dirty sweat from his face. Despite the cold air, his body was warm from the hard work of digging in the freezing ground.

Ales scowled up from below. “Does the carriage bear the emblem of the Countess?”

The first gravedigger squinted. “The damned teeth of the wolf.” He spat viciously, his spittle soaking into the freshly turned soil.

Havel watched as the driver stopped and waited for the footman to fetch the pastor.

“Will you look at that?” he said, leaning against his shovel, watching, open-mouthed. Pastor Jakub Ponikenusz strode from the church, followed by another man, clearly a noble. The pastor stopped, arms folded, legs set wide, immoveable, and shook his head vehemently as the footman gestured toward the spiked iron gate of the cemetery. Standing beside him the gentleman listened, staring at the wagon’s load.

“The pastor is not letting them in!” said the gravedigger, throwing down his shovel. “He stands against the Countess!”

“You take me for a fool,” said the man in the hole. “Help me out!”

Havel reached down into the newly dug grave and hauled up his muddy-faced partner. “Look for yourself!” he said.

The driver had descended now and together with the footman gestured insistently at their covered load. The two gravediggers edged closer, so they could hear.

“No more of her evil shall find its way into sanctified land of the Church!” the pastor declared.

The driver protested. “But the girls are innocent! Surely they should have the blessings and comfort of the Church! They were baptized in the Church by Reverend Berthoni himself, God bless his soul.”

“Yes, and it was Andras Berthoni who warned me of the Countess before his death! His letters are filled with damning evidence against that monster.”

The driver and footman hung their heads.

“Come, Lord Thurzo,” said the pastor. “See what innocent souls our Countess sends us day after day!”

The nobleman approached the wagon, his gait stiff and reluctant. Ponikenusz threw back the coarse blanket with a violent tug.

“Behold!” he said.

Thurzo gasped and raised a gloved hand to his face as he looked into the wagon.

A young woman lay on the bare boards of the wagon. Her face was contorted in agony, dark blood stains soiling her dress. There were small puncture wounds on her neck.

“What is this?” murmured Count Thurzo. The dried leaves crunched under his boot heel as he turned away from the sight.

“The Countess reports a rabid dog attacked her,” said the driver. He, too, glanced away from the girl, his right hand making the sign of the cross.

Thurzo looked again at the girl’s body. Then he stared at the pastor, saying nothing.

“I will bless those unfortunate girls, with all power instilled in me by the Church,” Ponikenusz said, his voice softening. “Wherever their bodies are buried, God has already taken their innocent souls to his bosom.”

The gravediggers looked at each other in disbelief.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” the pastor began, bowing his head.