House of Bathory(53)

The stranger laughed. “You think your curses could affect me? You cannot guess of my power.”

Darvulia retreated, silenced. Since the appearance of the man in the black cape, she had been chased from the Countess’s bed.

“No better than a chambermaid,” she thought. “I sleep in a pallet instead of my head resting on a goose down pillow, sharing Erzsebet’s sweet breath as she dreams. Now her breath smells of blood.”

The stranger had taken her place. When the witch approached the bed to perform the morning incantations, she could smell his sweat and semen—the fetid stink of a man—on the linen sheets. Linens that had only known the scent of women since the death of Ferenc Nadasdy. Lavender and rosemary, and the aroma of the Slovakian winds.

“Who is this man?” she wondered for the hundredth time. “And how does he wield such power over our Countess?”

From the moment of his arrival, the stranger was greeted as a god. The Countess ran to his arms and wept the first night he appeared in the great hall. Darvulia noticed that his dark eyes remained dry, his face smiling in satisfaction at the Countess’s emotional outburst. A cruel pull—a twist—of his crimson lips betrayed triumph more than contentment.

“Who is he?” Darvulia whispered to Ilona Joo.

“I know him not,” she said. “But there is something familiar. I have only seen glimpses of his face. He chastened me when he caught me staring.”

Could he be her lover? Why does he pull his cloak tight, obscuring his countenance?”

“I don’t know. His looks are more Transylvanian than Slovak.”

Darvulia drew in her breath. She could not understand the Hungarian the two spoke. It had no semblance to Polish or Russian or dialects of Bohemia and Moravia. It occurred to Darvulia that the only ones who might understand them were Zuzana and the Hungarian horsemaster.

Ilona Joo whispered to Darvulia. “He wears the crest of the Bathory on his ring. The Countess must have made him a gift.”

Darvulia had not noticed. Her eyes were too weak to see such a detail. Soon they would turn white as milk, rendering her blind.

Who was this stranger who made Erzsebet weep with joy? What power did he possess?





Chapter 37

MEADOW BY THE RIVER VAH

BELOW ČACHTICE CASTLE

DECEMBER 21, 1610





Zuzana ducked her head, her chin tucked against her starched linen collar. The wind was bitter, and the fabric chafed against her skin.

“You know we have to do it,” said Janos, his hand clasped on her shoulder. “You have to help me. We cannot let her continue.”

She felt the weight of his rough hand, a hand that could work miracles with a horse. His skin was chapped and calloused, but warmth and strength emanated from his fingers.

“The Countess once aided women in the village. It was she who opened the home for the sick and injured widows of soldiers, fighting on the Ottoman front. Her good works were known throughout Hungary.”

“Since the death of her husband, she is not that woman anymore,” said Janos. “Wake from your dream! The Countess preys on women. She takes her pleasure in their agony.”

“Will Vida recover?” Zuzana whispered, not daring to look up.

“I took her to a healing woman in the village,” he said. “She gathered Vida into her care, treating her wounds with red oil. It was she who told me about the women’s suffering, about the curse of Countess Bathory. And the pastor of the church came to bless Vida. He told me of the dozens of girls buried in the churchyard. He is prepared to stand in testimony against the Countess.”

Janos spat bitterly on the ground. Zuzana watched his spittle melt into the muddy, pocked snow. She could feel his gaze on her. She knew he was judging her. How could she work for a murderess?

Zuzana had asked herself the same question. How could she have remained at Čachtice Castle, with the suspicions she had? At first she had felt blessed to have been taken in by the Countess, despite her deformity. Countess Bathory had showed her charity. Zuzana was honored to be chosen as handmaiden to Ferenc Nadasdy’s wife.

But now Zuzana realized—she owed nothing more to a murderess.

“The girls who tried to flee,” she whispered. “They—never made it to safety. They are dragged bound and gagged to the dungeon. I never see them again.”

Janos closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, a steely glare blazed.

“We need proof. My father, Master of the Horse, has the King’s ear.”

Zuzana shook her head. “Not even the King can bring a Bathory to trial. As a noblewoman, she can punish her servants as she chooses.”

Standing alongside his horse, Janos tightened his fist on the reins. The stallion sensed the tension. He sidestepped, snorting.