“Quite a bloody subject.”
“Are you familiar with her?”
Whitehall stuffed the large forkful of food in his mouth. Betsy wondered if he had done it on purpose to delay his response. He swallowed and took a long draught of beer.
“Yes. I am familiar with the legend of Countess Bathory.”
“You say legend,” said John. “So the stories of killing hundreds of women aren’t true?”
“Oh, that part is true, all right. She was a murderer, and a vicious one at that. The number of victims may have been exaggerated—it seems that her legend was popularized by King Matthias and the Habsburg clan. The king wanted desperately to get his hands on her land and to smear the Bathory name.”
“Why?”
“The seventeenth-century Bathorys—especially the Countess’s nephew Gabor, King of Transylvania—detested the Habsburgs. The Habsburgs couldn’t defend the frontier against the Ottomans, so it was left in the hands of the Bathorys and other wealthy Hungarian lords to stop the invaders. The Hungarians were largely Protestant and saw no advantage in keeping the Habsburg alliance.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Bathorys,” said John, sipping his beer. “Is their history a hobby for you or is there a reason for your research?”
The detective straightened. He looked into John’s eyes, then at Betsy.
“There have been a number of murders reported both in Bratislava and in the Piestany area. One theory we have is that all this bloody business is tied somehow to the legend of Countess Bathory.”
“Why would that be?” asked Betsy.
“Ask any Slovak if he knows the legend of Countess Bathory. There is not a Slovak alive who cannot recount the tale. The horror has seeped into the unconscious mind of the entire country.”
Betsy regarded him, her lips parted. Unconscious mind?
“There may be a nutcase out there who is sucking blood from the girls’ veins, mimicking the act of a vampire,” continued the detective. “Or perhaps simply letting the victims bleed to death by slitting the jugular vein. The girls are almost drained dry when their bodies are found.”
Betsy covered her mouth in shock.
A group of Czech tourists on holiday laughed at the table next to them. The incongruous sound made Betsy jump.
Chapter 44
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 23, 1610
The dwarf Fizko escorted Janos to the castle. The horsemaster studied his fishlike eyes, the flecks of spit that collected in the corners of his mouth. An idiot, he thought.
A sudden stench stopped Janos in his tracks as the walked by the castle garden.
“My God! What is that?”
Fizko stared blankly at Janos.
“The stink…it smells of dead animal!”
“Oh,” said Fizko, wagging his big head. “That is the rotting carcass of a horse. It is buried in the garden to fertilize the vegetables.”
Janos stopped.
“What are you talking about? The horses are under my care, no horse has died in these weeks!”
“Countess Bathory said it is a horse,” Fizko said, stubbornly. “That is what it is. Come along, you will be late. She will beat me.”
A wooden door studded with iron knobs the size of a man’s fist opened as they approached. Janos was ushered into a hall ablaze with scores of torches and hundreds of candles, flickering in crystal chandeliers.
Countess Bathory stood before him, her hair pulled back by a pearl-studded headdress. Her white linen sleeves puffed around her arms, her bodice was encrusted with gold embroidery. She wore a white silk apron—indicating her status as Hungarian nobility—over a crimson velvet dress.
“Please, come in, Pan Szilvasi,” she said. “I am eager for you to meet my houseguest and apprentice, the Countess Zichy of Ecsed.”
Janos bowed deeply. He was stunned once again by the Countess’s white marble complexion and piercing amber eyes. Erzsebet’s lips were stained red with berry juice, her dark auburn hair glossed with ambergris oil. The roots of her eyelashes were darkened with Turkish kohl.
She looked decades younger than Janos knew her to be.
The Countess offered her arm for Janos to escort her. He took her arm tentatively, knowing this was usually an honor reserved for noblemen.
He had a secret he was anxious to share with her, but he knew he had to wait. The right moment would come.
As they walked, Janos heard the stiff rustle of the Countess’s garments. A heavy floral scent rose from the fabric of her skirt. He noticed the delicacy of her wrist, tiny boned like the skeleton of a bird.
Countess Zichy of Ecsed was waiting in the anteroom of the dining room. She was dressed in a white apron over a Venetian silk dress.