House of Bathory(74)
“A brass coffin cast in the form of a woman. Filled with spikes. The Countess orders a servant girl to polish it. One of her witches opens it and then the others slam it shut with the girl inside, impaled. The ugly ones, Ilona Joo, Dorka, and the dwarf bring pans to collect the blood for the Countess’s bath.”
“Her bath?”
“It is the blood of virgins that keeps her skin so white and youthful. The dark stranger has encouraged her to—”
“Daneka!” shouted the innkeeper.
“I must go,” she whispered.
Janos pressed his lips to the rough rim of the crockery jar. The wine was heavy and sweet, warming his throat and belly.
Other customers nodded to him, and he watched the diners tear into their portions of goose. They mopped up the yellow fat with chunks of coarse bread, and laughed into their jars of wine. Their laughter clashed with the image the tavern girl had just burned into his mind.
“Janos Szilvasi?” said a quiet voice.
Janos turned to see a young squire, dressed in the livery of a courtier. He wore a puffed cap of satin and leggings of thick black wool. His jacket was slashed with pleats, winking white silk against charcoal gray.
“Is your horse stabled near?” the squire said.
Janos nodded and looked for the servant girl. Instead, her uncle approached, his voice gruff. He asked for payment thrice as much as Janos expected.
As the tavern owner eyed the coin in his hand, he jerked his head for Janos to approach him.
“Forget you ever saw my niece,” he warned, his eyes sliding to the courtier. “And pay no heed to whatever she may have said to you.”
Chapter 60
PIESTANY, ROYAL HUNGARY
DECEMBER 24, 1610
The Palatine’s castle near Piestany was not a fortress like Čachtice Castle—or like Gyorgy Thurzo’s principal home, Orasky Hrad, which lay farther north along the Orava River, rising high out of a limestone cliff, its gray stone walls impenetrable. This much smaller residence in Piestany stood on a hillock, outside the town, encircled by great oak and ash trees. It was ringed with only one defensive wall, the crested banners of the Thurzo family flapping above the stone turret. The rooms within smelled of well-oiled wood and wealth. Rich dark silks and satins adorned long-nosed Thurzo ancestors staring down from portraits in gilded frames.
Count Thurzo sat in a chair, his fingertips tapping at the nail heads in the leather upholstery. When he heard the clop of horseshoes in the courtyard below, he rose and approached the window.
He is young, he thought, looking down at Janos. Too young, perhaps. He smiled. Or maybe just young enough.
Thurzo’s eyes studied the white stallion Janos rode. Perfect confirmation—a warhorse. Strong muscles rippled under the gleaming coat. The stable boys led it off to the paddocks at a trot, struggling to control the steed.
A knock on the door.
“With permission,” said a voice.
“Enter.”
The courtier bowed deeply. “Janos Szilvasi,” he announced.
“Count Thurzo,” said Janos, walking into the room. He inclined his head stiffly but made no move to bow.
“You look like your grandfather,” said the Count. “Do you know that he trained three of my personal mounts at the Battle of Esztergom?”
“Yes,” said Janos. “I believe there were two mares and a stallion. The stallion was called Avenger, the mares…”
“Empress and Ottoman Challenge,” said Count Thurzo, completing his sentence. “How do you know?”
“I rode all three, early in their training.”
Thurzo pressed his lips in surprise, his chin rising.
“I am surprised a boy so young—what were you at the time?”
“Six, my Lord.”
“Six years old? Allowed to ride such spirited horses, meant for—”
“Noblemen?”
Thurzo narrowed his eyes. “I was going to say ‘battle.’ Your grandfather obviously had great faith in your riding skills.”
“He did.”
“Hmm…well.” The Count motioned for Janos to take a seat. “You may know that there have been reports of cruelty—ne, torture and murder within the walls of the castle.”
Janos nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes, you say. You have heard such stories? And do you have reason to believe them?”
Janos looked directly into the Count’s eyes, rather than speak to the floor as an inferior should.
“The maidens whisper of cruelty, of disappearances. I have witnessed the wounds and suffering of a poor girl, her hands scorched with hot coins for having reached for food in the Countess’s pantry.”
“Ah, but that’s punishment for stealing. Hardly the murder and mayhem that I describe.”