Janos opened his eyes wide. “Her horses? Her horses have never been in better condition. It is true that a few still have traces of thrush, but they—”
The messenger curled his lip, as if tasting something sour. “You are expected to dine with the Countess this evening, two hours after sunset. Present yourself at the castle—the Countess says you are to use the principal entrance, not the servants’ doorway.”
He turned on his heel, not waiting for Janos’s reply.
Guard Kovach, who had been listening intently from the corner of the stable, puckered his lips in a low whistle.
“You are in trouble now, Horsemaster.”
“What do you mean?”
Kovach approached, motioning with his hand for Janos to incline his ear. “She has taken a liking to you.”
“What?” said Janos. “She asked to learn about the horses’ condition!”
“She does not care about her horses. The word is that the dark stranger has disappeared again. There is never any telling when he will return. She is mad with lust.”
“I heard she prefers young maidens to men,” said Janos, his back stiffening.
“The Countess is not particular, as long as her lover is beautiful. And young.”
Janos scowled. He looked over his shoulder and saw no one.
“I have no desire for the widow of Ferenc Nadasdy,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I was born into the Nadasdy household—I was honored to have served them at Sarvar Castle and fought alongside them on the Ottoman front. I have never been a Bathory servant.”
“Oh, no, Horsemaster. That is where you are wrong. You are a vassal to Countess Erzsebet Bathory for the rest of your life. How long that life lasts depends on the Countess’s whims.”
The Countess Zichy of Ecsed was also invited to dine with the Countess Bathory that evening
“I shall finally meet the Countess!” the young woman exclaimed as Zuzana brought the handwritten note.
“The Countess Bathory has been waiting for you to make a full recovery from your journey, madam. I have informed her you are now well enough to sup with her tonight.”
Countess Zichy’s face brightened, a smile bringing roses to her pale cheeks.
“I am also to inform you that the castle horsemaster will be joining the Countess for dinner this evening.”
The smile dropped from Countess Zichy’s face.
“The horsemaster? A servant?”
“Yes,” said Zuzana. “A talented horsemaster from Sarvar Castle. His father serves King Matthias, training the Royal Spanish Stallions at Hofburg Palace in Vienna.”
The young countess picked at her fingernails, frowning. “Still, he is hardly a noble. How can he possibly sit at the Countess’s table?”
Zuzana chose her words carefully. “Because Countess Bathory wills it so.”
Chapter 43
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 22, 2010
The train from Vienna took an hour. As the minutes passed, the landscape became more mountainous, the colors more vivid, the rock raw and craggy. Betsy felt as if they were traveling back in time. When they got off the train, the sounds of Slovak being spoken around them brought back unsettling memories of her father’s death.
John and Betsy hailed a cab outside the station. The driver was listening intently to a soccer game on the radio. Then a voice broke in, giving what sounded like a newscast in a rapid-fire Slovak. The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Betsy heard him mumble under his breath. He rolled down his window and spat viciously on the road.
Betsy tried her rudimentary Slovak with the driver as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Co je to?” she asked, pointing up on the hill.
He switched off the radio and looked at her, a bemused smile on his face. “Vlavo? To je Bratislavsky Hrad.”
“That’s Bratislava Castle,” Betsy translated for John. “My God, it’s beautiful.”
The castle on the hill overlooked the city, its walls rising steeply against the sky.
John gave a low whistle. “I wouldn’t want to tackle those battlements if I were a Mongol invader.”
The taxi driver sought Betsy’s eye in his rearview mirror.
“Ste Americanka?”
“Ano.” Yes, she was an American.
“Obama dobre,” he said, his smile spreading as he met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Obama good president. You welcome in my country.”
The taxi made its way through the warren of narrow cobblestone streets in the heart of Stare Mesto, the Old Town of Bratislava. The Hotel Arcadia was a thirteenth-century building, with arched hallways, a stained glass atrium, and a single olive tree in the lobby.
As John checked them in, Betsy sat exhausted and glassy-eyed in a tiny bar off the lobby staring at the TV, which was showing a news program. A beautiful blonde rapidly rattled strange syllables through sleek painted lips. A young couple on a couch looked up from their newspapers, riveted by her words.