The remaining passengers in the coach stared wild-eyed at the man who had shared their journey across the Hungarian flatlands to this remote outpost on the flanks of the Little Carpathians.
The kerchiefed woman made the sign of the cross, whispering a silent prayer. She kissed her fingers and extended them in the frosty air, back toward young Master Szilvasi.
Janos watched the coach disappear down the road. He picked up his sack and gazed at the fortress castle rising from the rocky hill above the treetops. The ravens still cawed overhead, circling the fortress in erratic loops.
“Do not let her catch you staring, Horse Sorcerer,” warned an old man, appearing from below the road on a path leading from the dark pine forest. He carried a load of brush and twigs strapped to his bony back. The stranger spoke broken German.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She will cast a spell on you, the evil witch,” the woodcutter said. He spat. “That Hungarian sorceress is the devil incarnate.”
Janos placed a wool-wrapped hand on the old one’s shoulder. “Pray tell me, sir, what do you know of the Countess?”
The old man grunted and shifted the load on his back. “How do I know you’re not a Hungarian spy, sent by the Bathorys?”
“You are right, I am Hungarian. Is it so obvious in my German?”
The old Slovak laughed.
Janos slid the sack off his shoulder and drew out a flask of wine.
“Here, Grandfather. It is the last I have, but I will share it with you. Will you speak to me of the Countess? I swear I will tell no one, by my family’s honor.”
The old man shifted his heavy load of wood. His dirty face was streaked with sweat despite the cold.
“My bones could do with a rest. Let me taste your wine.”
Janos could smell the tang of the old man’s body as he tipped the flask up toward the sky to drink. The woodcutter belched as he pulled the flask away from his lips. He smiled, watery eyed.
The old man was the first Slovak Janos had met who would dare speak of the Countess. He had tried to pry information from his traveling companions, but they only looked at him pop-eyed and silent. At the very mention of Bathory, the stout matron would cross her fingers to ward off the evil eye. She would not let her husband utter a word about the mysterious woman.
This old man was ready to talk.
“There are women—young girls—who go to serve her and never come back,” he whispered. His tongue poked out and touched around his lips, searching for any remaining wine. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Good girls, they were. When they were babes, I would pinch their cheeks and watch them play on the village square. Now they are gone,” he sighed. “I shall never dance at their weddings.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Gone. Disappeared. But no one dares whisper a word—except for our village preacher, a good Lutheran, with God’s own pure fury in his soul. All the villagers are scared to speak, even the desperate mothers who cry themselves to sleep at night. The Countess makes up stories, tales that the girls have gone to serve at her other castles or at her house in Vienna.”
“How do you know they are not?”
“No one ever hears from them again.”
The sentries spotted Janos long before he reached the ramparts of the castle.
“Who goes there?” a guard shouted in German.
“Janos Szilvasi, horsemaster from Sarvar Castle of Nadasdy. I am here to serve Countess Bathory.”
The guards had been expecting Szilvasi for a fortnight. They let down the plank used for foot traffic.
“Master Szilvasi—welcome to Čachtice Castle,” said the head guard, straightening his hat over his gray hair. He was immaculately dressed: a red jacket skimming over his hips, a black wool hat, a sword at his side. His boots were of fine leather, with not a trace of manure or straw and no dark stains of horse sweat. Janos frowned at the gleaming footwear.
“My name is Erno Kovach,” continued the man. “I command the Countess’s castle guards.” He did not extend his hand. “You look too young to be a horsemaster.”
Janos saw the man studying him, gray eyes flicking from Janos’s worn boots to his well-traveled cap.
“When my father was sent to fight in the Ottoman wars and train our King Rudolf’s cavalry, I took over his position at Sarvar Castle. I am skilled enough, Guard Kovach,” Janos said, his tone of voice challenging the guard. “I was called away from my duties at Sarvar to serve the Countess by her mandate.”
Erno Kovach regarded the blond young man, the red blossom of youth still coloring his cheeks. He wondered if this boy truly had the command of horses his legendary father possessed, or whether the Countess had summoned him for his handsome countenance, and especially his youth.
“And your father now?”
“He trains the white Spanish stallions in Vienna for King Matthias.”
Kovach grunted. “Follow me, Szilvasi. I will accompany you to the stables. Jiri—send notice to the Countess that her horsemaster has arrived.”
“Yes, Captain.”
A cobweb of frost clung to the granite blocks of the castle wall. As they emerged from the archway into the busy courtyard, Janos’s eyes took in a whirl of activity. Flocks of chickens pecked the cobblestones for grubs. Butchers stripped entrails from hanging pigs and handed the buckets of guts to the sausage maker who selected the choice bits for his grinder, hurling the slop in the drainage ditch for the dogs and ravens to devour. Knives flashed as farmers trimmed huge heads of cabbage, sharp blades hacking away the tough outer leaves and stalks. The dairyman pulled his wares from a wooden cart, offering them to a stout cook who stood with her hands on her wide hips as he boasted of the quality of his product, pulling back the linen cloth so she could inspect the crocks of butter and wheels of fresh cheese.
Children chased flocks of geese about the cobblestones, only to run shrieking when a gander turned on them, hissing through his sharp yellow beak and flapping his powerful wings.
A mutton carcass roasted on an enormous spit, the fat sizzling and sparking the coals into flames. The fire licked the meat, spreading the rich aroma through the air. A blacksmith pounded on his anvil, the sound ringing over the courtyard. Bits of molten iron flew, glowing yellow-orange, leaving scorch marks on the worn stones of the courtyard.
Janos followed the guard to the stables. A team of ragged boys assembled in a line in front of the arched entry. Despite the cold, fat lazy flies buzzed from piles of warm manure and the stench of aged horse piss stung Janos’s nose.
“Welcome to your domain, horsemaster,” announced the guard captain, sweeping his arm wide.
Janos wrinkled his nose and his jaw clenched, muscles working taut under his skin.
“What conditions are these for Bathory horses!” he said, his voice rising in anger. He whirled around. “Who is responsible for this?”
One of the older boys came forward, his face smeared with dirt.
“I am, sir. My uncle was in charge until he took ill with the plague. He died a fortnight ago,” said the boy. He ran his dirty sleeve under his runny nose.
Janos trembled with fury, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side.
“Bring out the horses. At once!”
One after another, the horses of Čachtice Castle were brought out into the courtyard, which was paved in end-cut wooden blocks. There were twenty-seven horses in all, and every one showed evidence of neglect. There were boils on the backs of several, proud flesh festering over wounds, cracked hooves. Several were lame with blistered coronets from standing in old urine-soaked straw. Two bay mares were crippled with thrush. When Janos picked up their hooves, he saw the soggy flesh and smelled the stench of rot.
The last horse, three boys brought out together.
The white stallion reared, his front hooves flashing. His eyes were ringed in white and his piercing neigh was a threat that ricocheted around the castle walls. The boys held him by ropes tr
ying to keep him on the ground.
He, like all the others, was thin despite the band of muscle that still clung to his powerful neck.
“These wretched horses are starving!” said Janos. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in one of the windows of the castle. But his attention returned quickly to the horses.
“We feed them, but the horses have no appetite,” said the head boy. Janos looked closer at the boy’s eyes. They were shining with fever.
“They nose aside the grass and choose to starve,” said the boy. Janos saw the beads of sweat on his face. His cheeks burned bright red, his eyes glassy.
“What is your name?”
“Aloyz, sir.”
“Aloyz, you are ill.”
“Yes, Master Janos,” he said, shuffling his rag-tied feet. “But do not send me away, I beg of you. I need to work for our family, else we will starve.”
Janos nodded. “Where is the hay?”
Aloyz beckoned him to a leaky wooden-shingled hayshed. The grass was wet and mottled with black, white cobwebs lacing the mildewed interior.
“The Countess is lucky she has any horses left!”
The head guard approached Janos. “The Countess said to give you this.”
In the Kovach’s hands was a braided leather horsewhip, glistening black in the sunlight. Janos wrinkled his brow.
“What is this? I shall not strike these miserable horses.”
Kovach looked over his shoulder toward the castle.
“Take it!” he said, shoving the whip into the horsemaster’s hands.
Janos let the whip drop into the mildewed hay. He glared scornfully at the head guard and turned to the stallion which still raged and reared, lathered now with sweat.
“Easy, boy,” said Janos, approaching him. The horse reared again, and the three boys pulled hard on their ropes.
“Stand back, Szilvasi! That horse is mad,” shouted Guard Kovach.
“Easy, boy, calm down, now, easy, easy,” said Janos. He looked down at the horse’s lightning-fast hooves, not meeting the animal’s eyes.
Janos stretched out a hand, slowly. The stallion snorted, but did not rear. He snorted again, bunching his long neck muscles in a tight arch, then he turned his muzzle toward Szilvasi’s outstretched hand.
Janos reached out and stroked the stallion’s neck.
The horse slowly released the knotted muscles and lowered his head, his nostrils flaring as he pulled in the scent of the man. He snorted and stamped his front foot, not fully convinced to trust a human.
“How long since this horse has been ridden?” Janos asked.
The boys looked at each other and then to the ground.
“No one rides him, sir,” said the leader. “He cannot be handled. He was bred as Count Nadasdy’s mount, but the noble gentleman died before the dam foaled.”
Janos slowly worked his hand up the horse’s neck, toward his head. The horse lifted his head slightly, his skin quivering spasmodically as if covered with flies. The beast’s nostrils flared, showing red, and his eyes remained ringed in white.
But he allowed Szilvasi to touch his broad chest.
Szilvasi turned toward the guard. “Please tell the Countess that the horsewhip will not be necessary,” said Janos, his hand moving toward the horse’s withers.
Keeping a wary eye on the stallion, the guard approached Janos and whispered in his ear. “The whip is not for the horses. It is to be used on the stable boys.”
Janos dropped his hand from the horse’s withers and the stallion jumped back, dragging the boys with him.
Janos looked the guard in the eye. Then he turned toward the window where he had seen movement a few minutes before. He stared at the castle and lifted his chin in the cold air.
“Send back the whip to the Countess,” Janos said, his words steady and calm. “Tell her I shall have no need of it for boy or beast.”
Chapter 5
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
NOVEMBER 28, 2010
And you might want to be a little more professional about your office,” Jane had said again, picking Daisy up from yesterday’s session.
“Get yourself a good maid. Maybe one of those Mexican women next door? Pick up all the clutter. When was the last time you dusted?”
Betsy sighed.
Jane was right. I am the world’s worst housekeeper.
Betsy cast her eye about the little Victorian house, hands on her hips. The small of her back ached just thinking about cleaning up.
Periodicals—Quadrant, Jung Journal, The Journal of Analytical Psychology—lay scattered across every horizontal space in the house. Towers of Jungian textbooks teetered, their balance precarious, especially when Ringo wagged his tail.
Betsy spent a day organizing, occasionally looking out at the fat snowflakes that fell outside her window, obscuring the view of Mount Sopris. A heavy dump, she thought. Big wet packing snow, perfect for an early base on the ski mountains.
The bookshelves were already jammed tight. She could at least split the book towers and stow half of them behind the couch where they weren’t so obvious. Betsy dusted the fronts of the leather-bound books on the shelves, not daring to pull them out—she might not be able to wedge them back in again.
She cleaned out the old mahogany bar, one of her father’s favorite possessions. She wiped down the bottles of slivovica, the potent plum brandy her father always served his guests.
And she remembered the first Christmas after her father died. That awful holiday her mother spent with her, getting totally smashed on Slovakian plum brandy.
It had been snowing hard on Christmas Eve. Snow crystals rattled against the windows, the harbinger of an approaching blizzard, the kind that kids prayed for—the schools closed for a snow day.
Grace had arrived the day before. Her face was haggard, carved to the bone with grief. When they hugged, Betsy felt her mother’s ribs sharp against her arms.
“Take a semester off, Mom,” she said. “Come home and take care of yourself. Let me take care of you—”
Grace had pulled back, rigid, lifting her chin.
“I am fine, Betsy. Work is the best therapy for me.”
Grace poured herself a glass of slivovica. She stood glaring at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. “Your father always loved Christmas,” she said.
“Mom, sit down. Let’s talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” muttered Grace. She knocked back a gulp of the brandy, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down her throat.
Oh, shit! Betsy thought. Here it comes.
Betsy knew the look on her mother’s face—a harbinger of a coming storm. Grace’s eyes squinted belligerently as she peered over her glasses, studying Betsy as if she were a curious antiquity in a museum.
“You are too much like your father,” her mother said finally, slurring her words. She slumped back against the wing chair.
Grace had never been fond of slivovica. She took another gulp.
“What do you mean, too much like Dad?” said Betsy.
“Why did you go into psychotherapy? Such a sloppy field. No boundaries, not a proper science. And why did you divorce that great guy you had?”
“Mom! You were livid when you found out we had gotten married. Don’t you remember?” Maybe she’d been right, but Betsy wasn’t going to mention that now.
“John Stonework would have shaped you into something, given you some limits, a clear focus. Not living in this backwater little town—”
“I love Carbondale. Mom, I was brought up here!”
“Over my objections. I would have raised you in Chicago. Given you more polish, more ambition. It was your father’s doing, keeping you here.”
“Well, it’s not like you stuck around much after I was in middle school.”
“I told Ceslav I would go back to the university teaching after you were old enough. He led me to believe he’d do the same.”
“It would have been nice if you’d been around more, n
ot just weekends and summers.”
Why was she doing this? Why have a fight now? Her mother needed her help. But Betsy couldn’t stop. “You could have been there to answer some questions, help me through—”
“Why? Adolescence is a ridiculous time in a person’s life. All we would do is fight. That’s what mothers and daughters do at that age.”
“You weren’t here enough to—”
“Your father mollycoddled you. Damped down the fire in you.”
Betsy swallowed hard. “What? What do you mean, ‘damped down the fire’?”
“Low expectations,” her mother mumbled, staring through the crystal-clear liquid in her glass. “You turned out to be too meek for my taste.”
Betsy knew it was the slivovica talking, but she felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.
“But that John,” said Grace. “If you had stayed with him you would be at MIT.”
“MIT doesn’t have a graduate psychotherapy program, Mother.”
“Teaching at Boston University then,” said Grace, stretching her arm out for the slivovica bottle. She sloshed the liquor into her glass. Sticky liquid spilled over the rim, onto the hooked rug.
“Mom. That’s over fifty percent alcohol—”
“Maybe Harvard. You are smart enough. It’s not smarts you’re lacking.”
“I never wanted to teach at a university—”
“Doing empirical research. Publishing! Making a name for yourself.”
“I help people, Mom. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Like your father. Humpf!” Grace said. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She made clicking sounds. Like a dolphin, Betsy couldn’t help thinking.
“Helping people!” Grace repeated, her tongue finally unsticking. “Like they were little broken toys that he could fix. Glue them here, glue them there. He never wanted to publish his work. Do you know how well respected he was in Vienna, before we married? Then all of a sudden, it was like he wanted to hide under a rug. Disappear.”
“What’s wrong with helping people with their problems?”
“Helping people! That’s for social workers and school teachers! School crossing guards, boy scouts—”
“You know what, Mom? I think you’ve had too much slivovica. And you’re really acting out here because you’re heartbroken over Dad.”
House of Bathory Page 4