The baby makes a soft, gurgling sound. Tiny fingers flex.
“Oh, my dear girl,” the Grey Lady tells her. “I shall be keeping a very close watch on you.”
“Mary, Mary” by Kirstyn McDermott
A SONG FOR SACAGAWEA
Jane Yolen
There were forty-five before her:
frontiersmen, good hunters,
stout, healthy, unmarried,
accustomed to the woods;
watermen, robust sailors;
experts on botany, carpentry,
forestry, smithery,
navigation by the stars.
One was master of the universal Indian signs,
one a black slave named York.
They carried powder and balls,
pork, purgatives, Peruvian bark,
beads for the natives,
writing desks and “creyons”,
six papers of ink powder,
a swivel gun with bullets,
casks of gunpowder,
a Newfoundland dog.
They knew how to read
words on a page,
points on a map.
But they could not read the rest:
how broad the mountain-hemmed plains,
how deep the winter chill,
how wide the river fords,
how far good faith could travel.
They did not speak
with the tongue of the Shoshone,
they did not know
the Hidatsa words for peace, for war.
She spoke for them,
helped them passage through
the rough divides,
She dug roots for them,
wild artichokes,
when all they had to eat was parched corn.
She put up the tent,
packed it down again,
her infant son in a cradleboard on her back.
Was she a hero?
Did she get a medal?
Was she counted an explorer
who charted the way?
These are notions of the white man.
She was a Shoshone woman,
slave to the Hidatsa,
won by a French trader in a bet.
Carrying her son on her back,
she did all the white men did,
all that had to be done
to keep them alive on the long trail.
She was Sacagawea.
It was enough.
LOOK HOW COLD MY HANDS ARE
Deborah Biancotti
Look how cold my hands are.
– Last reported words of Báthory Erzsébet
8 August 1560 – 21 August 1614.
Erzsébet was at her desk. “Have you tallied the day’s costs? The fence around the village paddock, the church fees.”
Church fees again.
Costs were relentless for the Báthory estate. And a relentless aggravation.
“Yes, Countess.” The simpleton, Fickó, crinkled his face into a frown. He sat sprawled on the floor with the parchment between his knees.
Erzsébet rubbed at her temple. “And then incomings?”
There were always fewer of those.
She picked at the cold roast lamb on the tray at her elbow and calculated the monies for collection. “Payments owed on our castle at Beckov. Sales from the hemp crops. Use the coarser parchment for your workings, Fickó.”
“Yes, Countess.”
She pulled a quill from the quiver of ink and wiped it on the cloth at her elbow. Then she trimmed the candle wick and returned to her letter.
To Ferenc Batthyány, December 30, 1610
May God bless you in all your endeavours. We are arrived at Csejte manor this eve, not yet advancing to the castle.
In the depth of winter, the castle took longer to warm. Erzsébet would save on firewood if she could.
We saw many of the poor by the roads. But all follow loyally our King and saviour.
She grunted when she wrote that about the king. The Slovak witch, Erzsi Majorova, had taught her many curses. She cursed the king now.
By God’s grace, my health improves. The headaches and visitations of which I wrote previously have lessened.
It was mostly true, though the pain in her left eye was almost constant these days.
I trust it is your considerate words and the careful ministrations of my healer, Anna Darvulia—
“Another letter, Countess?’
Erzsébet jumped. “Anna! I didn’t hear you come in.”
Anna gestured. “I see you write to Batthyány again. Does he write back? Or has his young wife stopped him?”
“Business about our adjoining property.” Erzsébet put a hand across her letter. “And I may write to whomever I please. I am the Countess Báthory. My husband was the greatest war hero in the Kingdom of Hungary. My uncle was King of Poland. I am descended from princes in Transylvania! My daughters’ husbands—”
“You are the most powerful woman in Christendom,” Anna supplied.
“Don’t interrupt!” Erzsébet snapped.
She would punish that impudence in anyone else. But she had never punished Anna. They were closer than sisters.
“Which jewels will you wear, Countess?” Anna asked, as if Erzsébet hadn’t spoken. “You never go anywhere without your jewellery.”
“Go? We only just reached the manor—”
But then she heard the heavy footfall of visitors across the stone floors downstairs.
“Who’s here?”
Some superstition shook her. She slipped a wristlet of emeralds and diamonds over her hand, almost by instinct. As if it might protect her.
“That’s what I came to tell you,” Anna replied with a smile. “It’s the Lord Palatine.”
Erzsébet rose to her full height. “The king’s fool! And you let him into my manor without my permission?”
Anna’s smile was cold. It was always cold. “He is the Palatine.”
Second only to the king in Hungary. If the Palatine were here again so soon, it meant the witch’s curse had failed.
Erzsébet checked the impulse to take out her rage on Anna. To hit her hard across the face and leave a grubby stain of ink and blood.
Anna stood unblinking. She was no more afraid of Erzsébet than a stone is afraid of the sky.
Perhaps that explained why Erzsébet couldn’t hit her. Anna was the only one who didn’t fear the wrath of the Countess of Báthory.
“Light a fire in the drawing room,” Erzsébet commanded.
She crossed to her dresser to check her reflection in the copper mirror. Her dark gown was unbuttoned, her pale undergarments stained with sweat and dust. The ride to Csejte had left her skin pinched and red from icy winds.
She smoothed her hands across her face. “They come at midnight? And on Christmas Eve? Parliament is not in session. Can it even be the king’s business they attend?”
Anna moved behind her. “Perhaps they are charged to deploy the king’s debt to your title, Countess?”
Unlikely. The king had owed the seat of Báthory since before Erzsébet’s husband had died.
But it was unusual for the Palatine to be on the roads so late in the year. She hoped it was only about the fighting, some border breach by the unchristian Turks.
She hoped it wasn’t about the allegations against her. Surely she had convinced Thurzó an investigation was unwarranted.
She reached for the powders below her mirror and smoothed a pale tincture across her cheeks. She looked old. It had been a hard year and the king’s debt weighed heavily.
“With what the king owes the seat of Báthory, I could buy nineteen castles. Nineteen!”
“Or you could afford to keep the castles you have,” Anna said. “No more begging Batthyány for assistance.”
“That is not what I was doing!” Erzsébet snapped.
But it was true, she relied on her neighbours more than she wanted to. There were recurring bills for the Nádasdy-Báthory lands, including
villages and churches. Her husband, Ferenc, was dead these six years and it was up to her to ensure her children’s futures. Her daughters were provided for, but Pál was the only surviving Nádasdy son, and he was still too young for leadership.
The king must pay his debts.
The king must pay his debts.
“Who hosts the Palatine? Is my son arrived?”
“Not yet. Lord Palatine requested Szuzanna accompany him.”
Erzsébet froze.
Szuzanna had come from the Lord Palatine’s own household. Consequently, Erzsébet had never trusted her.
“You left him with that idiot maid? She’s not even nine.”
“She seemed safe enough,” Anna said. “They asked only to view the manor.”
“To view it?” Erzsébet frowned. “What have they seen so far?”
Anna smiled that cold, empty smile again. “I believe they have seen everything.”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Anna was irresponsible, not alerting Erzsébet immediately to the intrusion of the Palatine.
And then to leave him in the presence of young Szuzanna. He would take that as disrespect. The lady of the house should greet him properly.
Erzsébet may be close to broke, but her lands and assets meant she was still one of the richest women in the world. Her peers were the Protestant ranks of Hungarian nobility. Even Palatine Thurzó himself was a cousin.
She reached the drawing room. Empty, the fire unlit.
“Anna! Where is he?” She moved from the seating area to the long dining hall. “Where is he? Where is he!”
Tabitha appeared in a doorway. Tiny, porcelain-skinned Tabitha. Her eyes were shadowed from some winter sickness. It made her only slightly less beautiful, but her beauty came mainly from youth. All the young were beautiful for a time.
“The Lord Palatine is in the basements, lady,” Tabitha offered.
“You idiot girl!” Erzsébet shoved her.
There was a hard thud as Tabitha collided with the wall. By then Erzsébet was already out of the room.
She hurried down the slippery steps without a candle, holding tight to the stone wall. Below, she could see the glow of lights and hear the murmur of men’s voices.
She hesitated on the threshold, getting her breath. She was not used to creeping through her own home.
Through a doorway she glimpsed Palatine Thurzó with eight armed men, lit by tallow candles. Probably sourced from her own supplies. She quashed a moment of rage at whoever had furnished them with light.
Pál’s tutor was also there, Imre Megyeri, a look of sly triumph on his face. Duplicitous meddler! Reverend Ponikenusz was with them, of course. Grasping, accusing Ponikenusz. The man who had called her out during Sunday service and accused her of all sorts of sins. And in front of her own people!
Hadn’t Erzsébet provided for the church? Hadn’t she paid burial fees for every one of her dead girls?
Szuzanna saw her first. Fear pimpled the girl’s grimy skin. She raised a hand to point.
Erzsébet swept into the room. The men turned to her as one. Even from here, she could smell the road on their filthy clothes. Their beards glittered with ice. Under a dusting of frost they wore heavy travelling cloaks. Where their cloaks were shouldered, the embroidered vests and coats of office showed.
Official business, then.
Too late she realised her sons-in-law were also there. Anna’s husband, Count Nikolaus Zrínyi, and Katalin’s husband, Count György Drugeth de Homonnay. Zrínyi at least had the decency to look away but de Homonnay met her glare with his own.
The guards held three of her serving women. Dorotya Semtész, Ilona Jó Nagy, and Katarína Benická. They looked at Erzsébet with defeat and pleading.
“My lady—” Dorotya sobbed.
Erzsébet silenced her with a hand.
She bowed once to the Palatine. Curtly, to let him know how he shamed her with his unannounced arrival.
“Lord Palatine Thurzó. What brings you to this lowly room?”
“We followed the sounds of screaming, Lady Widow Nádasdy.”
Thurzó looked grim. He gestured once at the floor as if she had not noticed. Two girls lay there, naked, their wounds exposed. One was already dead, her bloodied hair lying across her dry eyes. Three fingers were missing and there were stab marks on her arms. Her corpse had fallen across the pliers that had been used to gouge her face and chest.
The other girl had burns on her palms and feet. Her face was purple with bruises. Ilona must have taken the whip to her. Erzsébet recognised the deep welts across the girl’s neck and ribs.
“See to the girl,” Thurzó said to the armed men. “Take this one’s statement and administer to her wounds. If it’s possible.”
“And if it’s not, Lord Palatine?”
Thurzó glared. “If you can’t ease her suffering medicinally, at least dispatch her with humanity. It’s certainly more than the good Lady Nádasdy was willing to do.”
There was an expression of disgust on his face.
Erzsébet stood tall, staring back fiercely. Only two girls, she reminded herself. Only two. She was the Countess Báthory. They would not make her account for the wounds of just two girls.
So long as the Palatine remained Lutheran enough to avoid the disruption of graves, there would be only two.
“Seize her,” Thurzó said.
De Homonnay complied. He stepped forward and took hold of Erzsébet’s wrist, but she wrenched away.
“How dare you!”
Her wristlet snapped, spewing emeralds and diamonds to the floor. Some fell into the congealing blood of the dead and dying girls. Under that oily sheen the emeralds turned black, but the diamonds were lost like so much grit.
“Chain the three serving women,” Thurzó said to the guards. “Then follow me to the Castle. We’ll search it in its entirety.”
“By what authority—” Erzsébet began.
Palatine Thurzó lurched towards her. He sank his fingers into her hair, wrenching her out of de Homonnay’s grasp so hard and fast her knees buckled. In her shock she clung to his wrist with both hands.
She let out a cry of rage and Thurzó shook her until her vision blurred.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
“Unhand me! Unhand me!”
Thurzó ignored her.
Her scalp was raw where he pulled her forward by the hair.
He dragged her through the manor and out into the winter night where the cold bit into her neck and hands.
Erzsébet stumbled. Thinking to pull herself free, she let her feet go out from under her. But Thurzó hauled her half-upright.
“Is this how you want your villagers to remember you?” he seethed.
At least thirty people from Csejte had braved the cold on Christmas eve to watch her shame. Erzsébet tried to stand tall, but Thurzó pushed her instead into a low bow.
“Help me!” she cried out to the villagers.
No one moved.
Thurzó began to drag her up the hill towards the castle. She could hear the murmurs and curses of the crowd. Curses! And no one stepped forward to save their lady’s honour.
They would all pay for that later. When she was freed.
There was the clink of armour just behind her, and the snorts of horses forced to follow in a slow procession.
“Go on ahead!” Thurzó shouted. “Open the castle. Search the keep for more victims.”
Erzsébet’s throat went dry. “No.”
By the time they breached the hill and crossed the drawbridge, her skirts were drenched with mud and snow. Her legs were frozen up to her thighs. Her knees were shaking. Her scalp burned and throbbed as Thurzó let her go.
She put her bare hands to the ice-cold wall of the castle to hold herself upright. She was gasping.
Thurzó grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her through the castle to her own drawing room.
No fire had been lit, of course. The stone walls seemed to trap t
he snow and ice and concentrate it more deeply here.
The only light was from a candle lit from one of the men’s lanterns. Thurzó fixed the candle to the sideboard, letting it drip onto the polished wood. The weak light turned the space into monstrous shadows.
This room was stuffed with furniture, tapestries and carpets plundered from the war—blunt shapes in the gloom. The whole castle used to be like this, but over the years she had been forced to sell many pieces to cover bills.
Once, a room like this would have made her feel safe. Victorious. Now she felt hemmed in and crushed.
She hid her hands in her sleeves to hide their shaking.
“Leave us,” Thurzó said to the men who followed them. “I’m sure the Lady Nádasdy poses no such threat to me as she did to those young women.”
Erzsébet took a seat in the shadows. She waited until she was alone with Thurzó. “I should welcome you formally, my Lord Palatine. This castle was my wedding gift from the Nádasdy family.”
“You know where the liquor is kept, then? By all that’s holy, Erzsébet!” he snarled. “We’ve had reports. Six hundred dead. Six hundred?”
“Preposterous,” she said calmly. “Who would claim such a thing?”
Thurzó was at the cabinet beside the empty fireplace, his thick cloak joining him to the shadows. “Szuzanna, for one.”
“Who’s going to believe a nine-year-old girl?”
“A good many people, I should think. She has an angelic little face. And you know the saying. Fools, children and drunken men will always tell the truth. People of Hungary still believe that.”
He poured a generous shot of dark wine into a crystal glass. Then he reached under his cloak and pulled out a bloodstained cloth. He tossed it to her lap. Erzsébet made no move to withdraw her hands from her sleeves.
Cranky Ladies of History Page 7