House of Bathory(92)
VIENNA
DECEMBER 27, 1610
Pastor Ponikenusz hated to travel by horseback, but the message from Zuzana was so dire he had no choice. He had to ride to Vienna. The clergyman of a poor parish could not afford to travel in a coach, wasting the precious thalers of his congregation.
He had borrowed a horse from the livery in Piestany and followed a coach bound for Vienna. The rain and sleet froze on his woolen cape. He shivered, dressed in woolen garments that his congregation had donated over the years, including scratchy leggings that, while warm, bit into his skin as his legs rubbed against the leather of the saddle.
The horse followed the coach, never veering—it was hardly necessary to touch the reins. Ponikenusz’s manhood was shaken and pinched beyond Ottoman torture by the time the sun rose over the city of Vienna.
The pastor nearly fell off his horse at the castle gates.
“Count Thurzo has commanded me to present myself before the King.”
The guards laughed at the bedraggled clergyman. “At least Catholic priests arrive by coach!”
The guards admitted the poor man to the castle. The footman insisted he bathe and don clean clothes before admitting him to court.
Ponikenusz sighed his gratitude as a bath was drawn for him. But he did not linger a second longer than he had to, for time was essential, a matter of life and death.
“I have come to warn Your Majesty that the Countess Bathory continues her cruel murders and torture.”
“Why is it that you come instead of Janos Szilvasi? I was told by Count Thurzo he would make the next report.”
“Szilvasi is taken ill. I do not know that he has survived the night. The Countess’s handmaiden nurses him within the castle.”
The King sat up straight.
“My horsemaster’s son is within her castle walls? Ill and vulnerable?”
“He and the Countess Zichy,” said Ponikenusz. “But indeed, all the other common maidens who have disapp—”
“Countess Zichy? How fares she?” said the King, his face creased with concern.
“The handmaiden Zuzana says she has disappeared. She went to Countess Zichy’s chamber to prepare her toilette, and the young noblewoman was missing.”
“Send word to Palatine Thurzo immediately!” roared the King.
“Your Majesty, Palatine Thurzo gathers his witnesses as we speak. I sent word to him, and with your permission, he will arrest her at once.”
“By God’s grace at last!” shouted the King. He stabbed his finger at Ponikenusz.
“You, clergyman—ride back this night to Čachtice. You shall be witness to Countess Bathory’s arrest!”
Chapter 78
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 27, 2010
Draska feigned sleep as the fuchsia-haired Ona approached, carrying a silver pitcher and a crystal goblet.
“Draska,” she whispered. “Draska. Prosim! Wake up!”
Draska opened her eyes. Ona’s eyes glowed in the dim light.
“Why am I here?”
“You will become one of us.”
“What do you mean?” Draska pulled herself up to her knees, her hands on the bars of her cell. “Let me out of here!”
“You don’t understand—you are shown great mercy. You betrayed the Count. He knows of your treachery, Draska.”
“What—”
Ona set the goblet and pitcher on the stone floor. She reached through the bars and grasped the prisoner’s arm.
Draska trembled at her touch.
“You will become one of us.”
Ona motioned her chin toward the pitcher and goblet. She released Draska’s arm, reached down, and lifted the goblet.
“This is your salvation, Draska,” she said.
Draska reached through the bars and grabbed the glass. Perhaps she could use it as a weapon.
“Does my mother ask where I am?” she asked.
“We told her you went to visit your cousin in London. The traitor with whom you betrayed the master.”
Draska’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at the silver pitcher as Ona lifted it. It was engraved with a filigreed “EB” in raised roses and thorns.
Ona tilted the pitcher side to side, cocking her ear at the slosh of liquid. Her eyes shone, black and luminous.
“What is it?” asked Draska.
“You will see. You will learn to crave it.”
A shiver of apprehension slid up Draska’s spine.
“God curse you! What is it?”
Ona poured the liquid, thick and red, into the goblet in Draska’s outstretched hand. The tang of alcohol stung her nose. A heady, rich red wine.
Draska pulled the glass back through the bars.
She sniffed, detecting another odor.
It smelled metallic.
“Drink,” urged Ona.
“What is this?” She tilted the glass, examining the wine. Darker threads swirled through the liquid. The torchlight flickered in the depths of the cut glass.