House of Bathory

by Linda Lafferty

  Brona dropped to her knees, blotting at the Countess’s clothes.

  “Never mind!” screamed the Countess. She plucked up the needle from her embroidery and plunged it into the cook’s scalp.

  She gave it a savage twist.

  Brona screamed, her big hands flying to her head.

  “I shall change my garment,” said the Countess, twisting the needle. “Send the laundress to my bedchamber at once!”

  Chapter 104

  ČACHTICE CASTLE

  DECEMBER 29, 1610

  Vida took the ledger from the cook, who kept her hand clasped over her head in pain.

  “Let me attend to it,” said Vida, her gentle hands touching the wound.

  “Oaaaw!” Brona moaned.

  “The gash is bad. I will dress it.”

  “No,” said Brona. “You must give the book to Janos and leave this castle immediately. The Countess will murder you! Go now!”

  Vida placed the ledger in her apron pocket. She looked out through the leaded windows. Through the warped glass, she saw the figure of the horsemaster, striding toward the stables in the moonlight.

  “Hurry!” said Brona.

  Vida raced down the stairs. She stood panting at the doorway, looking for any sign of the Countess or one of her wicked faithful. She dashed across the courtyard toward Janos.

  “Here, take this!”

  “Vida!” Janos said, looking around, frantically. “You risk your life—”

  “Take it,” she said, shoving the ledger into his hands. “I am leaving this evil place.”

  She reached up and kissed his lips. Before he could respond, she ran toward the gates, her footfalls echoing across the cobblestones.

  Janos felt a chill. He whirled around, searching the windows of the castle in the moonlight.

  Someone was watching.

  Chapter 105

  NEAR ČACHTICE CASTLE

  DECEMBER 29, 1610

  Zuzana told Count Thurzo about a passageway, a secret entry from the mountainside above Visnove, the tiny hamlet at the edge of the river.

  “If you approach from the village of Čachtice, one of her spies would be sure to alert her. There are many passages and tunnels through the caverns below the castle, but I shall show you one through which your soldiers can pass.”

  “Are you sure of the passageway?” said Thurzo, as he rode beside the girl.

  “I could find my way blind through the darkness,” she answered.

  Doricza, a plump, fair-haired maiden from the Croatian countryside, had never imagined such quantities of food and drink as weighed down the noble table of Countess Bathory. There were strange fruits, exotic spheres of yellow that gave off an intoxicating smell and freshness, unlike anything she had ever seen. A rounder cousin of the fruit, bright orange, remained partially eaten. Its spiraling rind—alternately white and gold—lay coiled like a Christmas ribbon.

  But the most precious among the treasures were the golden pears. Mounded high on a silver plate, the delicate fruit tantalized her. They stood untouched, for the Countess had little appetite.

  Soon the fat flies would cover them, thought Doricza. Her heart-shaped face quivered. Despite the December cold, those black spots of pestilence, the eternal plague of Čachtice Castle would swarm. Oblivious to the rhythm of nature, the filthy creatures would rub their greedy legs at their banquet, rotting on the linen-spread table.

  Doricza gazed sadly at the tower of gold fruit.

  Her hand reached out, snatching the top pear. She stuffed it in her apron pocket, hurrying to the kitchen before Brona noticed her absence.

  Chapter 106

  BATHORY CASTLE

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  As Count Bathory descended, he was greeted by the cold, wet air of the dungeon.

  “Show me the prisoners,” he said through the barred door to a skeleton-thin guard.

  The guard unlocked the door, bowing. Bathory’s face was rigid, an ugly twist in his lips. The guard shrank back.

  The fetid smells of rancid urine and feces assaulted the Count’s nose. He drew his wrist over his nostrils.

  “Clean up these girls at once! Bathe and dress them properly, scent them with lemon verbena. They must be fed, their eyes bright.”

  Two prisoners—girls whom the others had assessed as insane—shrank back in the dark shadows of their cells, like beaten dogs. They recognized the voice, and it made them tremble.

  The newer girls—ones who did not know better—called out to him.

  “Yes, a bath! A meal. Oh God, feed me!”

  “Help me, sir! Help me—”

  “Silence, you whores!” he shouted. He swung his cane hard against the bars, smacking imploring hands.

  He stopped in front of Draska’s cell. Something caught his eye on the floor, just within the bars.

  “What is this?” he said, stooping to pick it up. Then he found another and another.

  “Apple pips? You have been eating apples?”

  Draska hung her head, looking at him through her dirty blue hair.

  “Answer me! You stole an apple!”

  “How could I steal anything, Count Bathory? You locked me—”

  “YOU STOLE AN APPLE!”

  Draska shrank back in the corner of her cell.

  “He’s completely mad—” whispered the English girl.

  “You will pay for your dirty sin tonight, girl!” shouted the Count. “You shall all pay for your filthy habits!”

  He turned and swept out the door, his black cape flowing behind him.

  PART

  -3-

  Chapter 107

  BATHORY CASTLE

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  Grace sat up, knocking her head hard against the sofa’s wooden armrest, the sound of the double lock, a key turning in the door, waking her from a fitful sleep. With one hand she fumbled for her glasses, the other hand wrapping around the brass lamp at her bedside.

  She considered its weight in her hand. If the Count attacked her, she would not die without a fight.

  She thought of her husband. A fight to the death, she swore to herself.

  The Count had been acting more and more erratically. Something had deeply agitated him. If he were to have a full-blown psychotic episode, she would not survive his violence. She remembered Ceslav’s words: Nothing is more frightening than an insane mind. Nothing.

  The brass handle moved down and the door pushed open. A flashlight appeared, its beam dodging around the room, searching for her.

  She snapped on the lamp, its hefty weight still gripped tight in her hand.

  “Who is it? What do you want?”

  A tall, white-haired man nodded to her. He was young, the hair belying his age.

  “Pani. Please to turn light off.”

  “No. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I am Bartos, Count’s chauffeur. I come to help you.”

  “Help me?” said Grace. She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I don’t believe you. Why would you help me?”

  “Because I want—‘clemency’?” he whispered, approaching her.

  She backed up, raising the lamp higher. “What are you talking about?”

  “Clemency,” he repeated. “I look word up in dictionary. I want to talk to Slovak authorities, tell Count’s crimes.”

  “So go ahead and tell them. What do you need me for?”

  “You witness. I help you escape, you tell judge I good man, not like Count. We talk to American ambassador. Clemency.”

  Grace said nothing. She wondered how anyone could be considered innocent who was in Count Bathory’s employ.

  “Let me help you,” he said. “Put down lamp. Someone can see it. Count kill many girls tonight.”

  Grace heard the sound of glass shattering and angry words shouted, echoing through the corridors of the castle. She thought of Draska.

  She snapped off the light, plu
nging the room into darkness.

  Grace followed behind the chauffeur through the castle halls. He stooped low, looking over the curving marble banister.

  She heard a woman’s voice. She raised her head enough to see a swirl of dark red hair, and a woman slapping and clawing at her captors.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  Not Draska, she thought. An American.

  What was an American doing here?

  As the men pulled the girl away down the hall, the chauffeur waved her to follow him down the stairs.

  He did not see the figure in the shadows, watching.

  Betsy lay in wait, hidden deep in the darkness of the tunnel. Long minutes elapsed.

  She was crouched below a wooden door. The tunnel had leveled off to a space perhaps three feet deep. Enough room for her to relax and try to imagine what would happen next, what she could do.

  She wedged her face tight against the wood, slimy in the damp. Through a crack between the boards, she could see there was no one in the room.

  Betsy could hear the shuffle of feet. She heard the soft moan of a girl, somewhere in the near distance.

  She closed her eyes, pressing her eyelids tight together.

  Grace stared into the trunk of the car, paralyzed with fear. She had an appalling fear of tight places.

  The trunk smelled of rancid urine.

  “Get in!” the chauffeur whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “Look at me,” she said. “Look me in the eye, damn it!”

  His eyes were frantic like a wild-eyed horse.

  “You must take me out of here the second we pass the gates. You must promise!”

  “Not until main highway. Then, I promise, lady. Now—in!”

  “Where are you going, Dr. Path?” said a voice. “You must remain for tonight’s entertainment. I insist. ”

  Grace jumped.

  When she turned, she saw a puff of smoke in the cool, wet air, and heard the ear-shattering roar of a gunshot. The Count stared straight ahead at his target, the pistol still in his hand.

  Two men grabbed her arms, dragging her back toward the castle.

  The chauffeur fell dead, a small crimson hole in his forehead.

  Chapter 108

  VISNOVE VALLEY

  BELOW ČACHTICE CASTLE

  DECEMBER 29, 1610

  In the dark of night, Count Thurzo’s men assembled at the mouth of the cave. The King’s scout had intercepted Thurzo’s party along the road. The Habsburg rider accompanied an exhausted pastor, barely able to sit his horse.

  “We will take the Countess by surprise,” Thurzo had told the King’s men. “Megyery the Red and Miklos Zrynyi will accompany me along with ten men. You and the pastor can come with us to see justice done. The rest of the troops are to circle around to the entrance of the castle. We will let them in the main gate once we have arrested the Countess.”

  Thurzo turned to Zuzana. “You are certain this corridor leads directly to the dungeon?”

  “Yes, it is part of the labyrinth. There are other entries, but this is one where a man can stoop, not crawl on his belly.”

  Thurzo thought about the girl crawling like a worm through the dark tunnels. The commander of the troops had accompanied the small band this far, and now he held the Count’s horse as Thurzo dismounted.

  As the Count started to enter the cave, Zuzana stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “Let me go ahead, Count Thurzo. If the Countess learns you are approaching, she will flee. If I go first, I can draw her attention.”

  And her wrath, thought Thurzo. He opened his mouth to refuse her offer but saw the burning glint in her eye, despite the dim light.

  “We will let you have only a few moments, no more,” he said, giving her a curt bow. “I admire your courage, Slecna Zuzana.”

  “Always keep your right hand pressed against the wall. That way you cannot lose your way. Follow the wall until you see the stone stairs. The door is fitted with sharp spikes. You will hear the screams before you reach it, I fear.”

  She drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Come quietly,” she said, disappearing into the darkness.

  Thurzo turned to his captain. “We are ready to proceed. Return to your men and lead them around to the main road. Be careful to stay well out of sight. Give us an hour. I want to gather enough evidence to convince the tribunal of her treachery.”

  Hers and all the Bathorys, he thought bitterly. For if he did not present sufficient evidence to condemn the entire family, Gabor would retain his full power and find reason to attack Habsburg Hungary and even Vienna itself.

  Thurzo realized the treacherous line he walked. He must bring enough evidence against the Countess to sentence her, dissuading Gabor from his quest for the crown. But he must also be careful not to produce so much damning evidence that the Habsburgs and their subjects turned against the entire Bathory family.

  “Until midnight,” Thurzo said, dismissing the rest of the troops.

  The commander headed down the hillside toward the road below, trailing the Count’s horse behind his own.

  Hedvika pulled the screaming girl by her hair. She shoved her to the Countess’s feet.

  “What’s this?” said Erzsebet, regarding the plump maiden.

  Hedvika produced a bruised pear from her pocket. “I found this in her apron.”

  The Countess’s eyes narrowed. She turned to the sobbing girl.

  “How dare you betray me!” Erzsebet’s voice was low, dripping with menace. “I take you from a filthy hovel, and you repay me by stealing?”

  “Mistress,” pleaded Doricza. “It was only one piece of fruit, and the flies were lighting on them. They had stood untouched since Christmas Eve—”

  “Silence!”

  Ilona Joo and Dorka crept out of the shadows, like stray cats.

  “Take her to the dungeon. She will pay dearly for her crime against me!”

  The two descended upon the girl, but it took Hedvika’s strong arm and wrenching pull on the girl’s long hair to drag Doricza to the dungeon.

  As the screams diminished in the distance, Erzsebet thought of Darvulia. Incantations, omens, dreams—and the spells the witch had taught her.

  She heard the cats squall in the turrets, screaming like wounded human infants.

  I can feel their approach, she thought. I must depart. Just one bath, one last glorious rejuvenation before he sees me. This maiden will serve me well.

  Darvulia, how could you desert me when I need your magic?

  A draft blew down the hall. She felt the chill of the night storm, the wind haunting the corridor.

  She thought of the incantation the witch Darvulia had taught her. She repeated it now.

  Thou little cloud, protect Erzsebet; I am in peril. Send thy ninety cats, let them hasten to bite the heart of King Matthias and of my cousin Thurzo, the Palatine! Let them tear apart the heart of Megyery the Red.

  The wind twisted the heavy brocade draperies.

  “Oh, Dark One. I come to you,” she said. “Only let me bathe myself in youth and feed my heart upon the terror of this maiden.”

  Chapter 109

  BATHORY CASTLE

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  A silk gown lay on the canopied bed.

  Morgan rubbed the fine material between her fingers. It was deep crimson and black, and the exquisite weave of the fabric felt like cool water. Next to the gown lay a black apron.

  And a huge ruffled collar.

  This is ridiculous, Morgan thought. My head will look like a centerpiece on a Thanksgiving table.

  A fuchsia-haired servant entered the chamber to help her dress.

  “Take off bra,” she said. “Put on slip.”

  “Go to hell,” said Morgan firmly. She gave the servant a chilling stare.

  “We have little time. Count becomes angry. Take off bra.”

  “No,” said Morgan. “I will not.” Her body stiffened, her fists clenched.<
br />
  Ona watched the American’s woman’s face harden. If she snatched at her bra, there would be a fight, an ugly one. The girl had long sharp nails, and the look of a tiger.

  Ona handed her the embroidered chemise and linen shift.

  She had picked enough battles for one day.

  Morgan slipped on the chemise and shift. When Ona turned to reach for the dress, Morgan dug a finger into her bra, touching the warm metal.

  She smiled.

  Chapter 110

  BATHORY CASTLE

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  Betsy clicked off her headlamp and was plunged into darkness. She placed her hand on the rusty iron handle of the door. With a deep breath, she pushed down the handle. When nothing happened, she set her left shoulder against the door and heaved forward.

  With a shriek of corroded hinges, the door gave way. She stopped, listening for voices.

  Please, please, let there be no one in the room.

  The door was behind a heavy tapestry, hidden from view. Her fingertips ran across the rough backing of the tapestry, feeling her way to its edge. At last she saw the flickering light of the torches.

  Her eyes blinked in the erratic light.

  Thank God. No one’s here.

  But they will be back.

  Brown stains marked the stones, splatters on the wall. Betsy focused her attention on what to do next, not on what took place in the past.

  She crouched in the shadows. A table stood in the middle of the room, raised on a wooden dais. A linen lace tablecloth covered the surface. A mahogany lectern, exquisitely carved centuries before, stood on the table.

  She saw strange metal objects—farm tools?—set out on a long table alongside the dais.

  Betsy searched the room carefully before daring to venture out. She crept hunched low to the long table. There she saw fire-blackened tongs, pinchers, a pitchfork. All sorts of crystalline glassware lay beside the tools. One looked like a decanter for wine.

  An ancient leather satchel tied up with a cord lay on the far corner of the table. There was a silver spoon, two more fine crystalline decanters, and a strange gold funnel, with a plastic molding covering the stem.