Matthias glanced to his confessor, who raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.
The King waved a hand. All but Melchior Klesl left the room, silently closing the door.
“Speak, Count.”
“The Countess Bathory is a murderess, my Lord. I have proof.”
The King narrowed his eyes. “The accounts of the parish priest are true?”
“True and more. The church cemetery is filled with the bodies of young women, all of whom have served the Countess. Their bodies were mangled and devoid of blood. I have seen them with my own eyes. They say the Countess bathes in their blood to preserve her youth.”
“What tidings are these? Is she a witch, Thurzo? I will have her burned!”
“Forgive me, my Lord. If she is a witch and burned at the stake, the Church will receive her lands,” said Thurzo, daring to raise his head and look steadily into the King’s eyes.
“He is right, Your Majesty,” said Klesl. “Heresy and witchcraft are the Church’s domain. It will seize all possessions.”
“I cannot let such a woman terrorize my kingdom! Have we not seen enough mayhem and death by the heathen Turks?” said Matthias. “We will bring the Countess to trial. Have you any witnesses?”
“With good time I believe I can procure all the witnesses we need. The pastor is willing to testify.”
“But punishment of her servants, even to the death—all this is within the limits of the law,” said Klesl. “We could not bring a noblewoman of Bathory’s standing to trial for abusing her own peasants. She has broken no law.”
“There is one servant girl who escaped from the Countess with her life,” said Thurzo. “She may be persuaded to testify. And she has information that is damning, even to a woman as powerful as Erzsebet Bathory.”
The bishop raised an eyebrow. “Who is this girl?”
“I met her in the village, a maiden whose hands were scorched for stealing food. The local healer brought her to me as Palatine. The girl exposed her wounded hands to me. They both begged me to stop the torture in Čachtice Castle. The healer said that there are no local girls who will work again in the castle, that the Countess is a monster.”
“Again, we cannot prosecute a noblewoman for what she does to her own servants,” said Bishop Klesl.
“Yes,” said the Count, “but this particular maiden was privy to conversations between the Countess and a witch named Darvulia. The Countess insisted the blood of peasants was not pure enough, that she was aging once more. She wanted to attract young maidens of impoverished nobility to lodge in Čachtice Castle, with the lure of teaching them the manners of upper nobility.”
The Count took a step closer to the King and lowered his voice. “If she dares to harm them in any way, Your Majesty could take action against her.”
The King moved to the edge of his chair in rapt attention. He sought the bishop’s eye.
Melchior Klesl nodded. “Yes. Such a crime could be prosecuted under law. If Bathory were convicted, all her property would be confiscated and revert to the Crown. And of course just rewards to the Palatine who brings proof of her crimes.”
Count Thurzo bent low to the King, obscuring his smile at Melchior’s words.
Chapter 31
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 20, 2010
The azure-haired girl poured Grace a cup of Earl Grey tea from a teapot of museum-quality porcelain. The historian’s eye studied the inverted trumpet-flower spout, the precision of the Isnik Turkish blue flowers on white background.
Soft-paste. Medici porcelain. White clay from Vincenza mixed with glass, copied from the Chinese porcelains, design borrowed from the Turkish invaders. The end of the sixteenth century.
Priceless.
This could be from Rudolf II’s collection at the Kunstkammer. At the very least it belonged to a house of highest nobility.
Grace closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She was kidnapped, subjected to blood-drinking madwomen, and then served tea from an art treasure. Who was this count, this madman who held her captive?
At least the blue-haired girl was the only person who now came close to her. The psychotic vampire women had been banished since their meltdown.
“Sugar?” the girl asked, her Slovak accent soft and lilting.
“No, just milk, please.”
How bizarre, thought Grace, that I should be shown such manners in the household of my captor, my husband’s murderer. Sugar indeed!
“Tell me your name,” said Grace, accepting the cup.
The girl glanced at the locked door.
“Draska.”
“Draska?” said Grace, remembering. A sob rose in her throat, but she checked it. It was the name her husband had called her in moments of tenderness.