by Sarah Rayne
None of this mattered. His strength was as good as ever, and it amused Elizabeth to design new instruments of torture for the dungeons, and half force, half coax the snivelling creature to fashion them.
If she had not begun to suspect that the blood might be failing her, the time after Ferencz’s death would have been happy.
It had not been until some time after Ferencz died that the real advantage of widowhood became apparent. Elizabeth, casting about her for new prey, for new games, was becoming aware that the blood was no longer as effective. She studied her reflection for hours at a time, seeing the tiny eroding signs, the slight sagging of facial muscles, the roughness of the long dark hair that had once been like a black silken curtain. There was a slight thickening of waist and hips, and a crêpey look to the skin of her neck.
The blood failing . . . To begin with, she had flung about the castle in a tantrum, storming at Dorko and Illona to bring her more victims, better and stronger peasant girls. Csejthe’s dungeons had rung with the screams and the agonies of the creatures, and Elizabeth had plunged again and again into the stone troughs, feeling the warm gore slop over her skin, cupping it between her hands and smearing it over her breasts and her thighs. The scarlet mantle . . . There was nothing to equal it.
But if the coarse peasant juices were no longer sufficient, then perhaps she should try smoother, more finely honed essences. The blood of patricians. Nobility.
The idea fired her body, and she set her mind to how it could be done. Could she lure the daughters of the aristocracy to Csejthe? There was considerable talk about her now, which made her laugh because, no matter how much they talked, and now matter how much they feared her, they would never dare challenge her. She was invincible. The caul incantation protected her as it always would.
‘Isten give me help . . . Grant me a long life . . .’
How could she bring to Csejthe the daughters of the nobility so that she could drain them of their silken juices?
In the end, the solution was simple. She would play on her newly widowed state and, although she would not actually use the word neglect, she would make sure that everyone remembered that her children were all married and far away, and that winters in Csejthe were long and often lonely. She would play a part, as she had so often done in the past: and this time it would be the part of the sad widow of the great count, alone in her stark castle, hungry for young life and young companionship.
Gradually and judiciously, amongst what were termed the lesser aristocracy, she let filter down the knowledge that she would welcome young, marriageable girls of good family to Csejthe. She would enjoy having them with her – they would be like daughters to her, she said, soulfully, – and in return, she would see to it that these children of two-generation barons and newly-landed gentlemen learned the manners and the customs of the highest in the land. Her people would instruct them in feminine skills such as household management: the preparing of pot-pourri and the stocking of stillrooms and sculleries and flower gardens, while she herself would tutor them in the gentler arts: embroidery, the reading and understanding of rose romances or the lyrical flower-stories of the poets; the singing of ballads and perhaps the music of the lute and virginals. There would be banquets and entertainments for their pleasure and, most importantly of all, they would meet well-connected and eligible young men. She was guileless and rather solemn as she went about this new chapter of her life and, beneath it all, the wolfsmile curved her lips as she anticipated the pretty, velvet-blooded creatures inside her castle.
The plan worked beautifully of course. It was not unheard of for girls to leave their homes and take up residence in some great lady’s household, in order to learn the ways of the aristocracy. And Elizabeth sought her prey in the homes of the newly-rich and the recently-ennobled who were flattered and slightly awed at the thought of their daughters entering a Countess’s household.
It was true that more than one gentleman lifted his brows at the idea of his daughter going into that household, and remembered the very disquieting rumours about the beautiful Countess. But the rumours were so bizarre that they scarcely bore repeating into the ears of ladies of delicacy. The suspicious fathers contented themselves with vague warnings to their wives, and quelled their own twinges of conscience by telling themselves that daughters, when all was said and done, were a woman’s concern. They turned with relief to the rearing of their sons and left the very awkward matter of Csejthe Castle to their wives.
And so the pretty, gently reared girls came happily and willingly to Csejthe, and settled into the pattern of the days prescribed for them by their mentor.
Gyorgy Thurzo, Hungary’s Grand Palatine, had not wanted to visit Csejthe again, and he certainly did not want to do so in the company of his King.
But along with a number of other Palatines, Thurzo had been bidden to a sitting of Parliament in Presbourg, and while Presbourg was not an especially arduous journey, it necessitated one or two stops on the way. When the King said, thoughtfully, ‘Csejthe Castle is on our route, I think?’
Thurzo, who had long since learned the knack of saying what people wanted to hear, spoke up, ‘Indeed it is, and a good place to break our journey, Your Majesty.’
His Majesty said, ‘I believe I should be interested to meet Ferencz Nádasdy’s widow on her own ground. You know, of course, that she has a rather unusual reputation?’ He glanced at Thurzo from the corners of his eyes, and Thurzo felt a tremor of nervous presentiment. Supposing people had been talking about Elizabeth again? Supposing that wretched pastor – what was his name? – had been hinting once more, and the hints had reached the King’s ears? Thurzo remembered that he had always thought celibate Roman clergy prone to gossiping.
But the King said, in a thoughtful voice, ‘She is not especially liked by her son-in-law, I think?’ and Thurzo’s mind worked quickly. Not the pastor after all – Ponikenus, that had been the man’s name. This time it seemed to be one of Elizabeth’s own family. Thurzo ran his mind quickly over the three daughters; he thought they were all married, the eldest shortly after her father’s death, but he could not bring to mind the names of any of their husbands. And then Matthias said, ‘You perhaps know the young man, Thurzo? Miklos Zrinyi, the husband of the eldest girl.’
‘Anna,’ said Thurzo, thankful to have at last sorted this out. ‘I know Zrinyi slightly, Sire. Not well, but I have been in company with him.’
‘It’s a well-respected family,’ said the King, frowning as if he was weighing evidence of some kind. ‘A trustworthy lineage. And Zrinyi spoke with obvious reluctance.’ Again the sideways glance. ‘But he has some odd tales to relate about his wife’s mother,’ said Matthias. ‘It sounds as if Csejthe is sometimes the scene of rather questionable activities.’
Thurzo felt a chill again, but he said, ‘Csejthe is an unusual place, Sire. If you think these – odd tales warrant your making a visit there . . .?’
‘Do you know, Thurzo, I believe they do. Zrinyi is not known for exaggeration. It might be as well to make some discreet inquiries. We should go carefully, you understand; the Lady is – who she is.’
Related to half the crowned heads in Europe, thought Thurzo crossly. Why did the King think that he, Thurzo, had been so reluctant to investigate the Lady years ago?
‘Great tact and considerable diplomacy will be necessary,’ said Matthias, which Thurzo knew meant that it would be Thurzo himself making the tactful and diplomatic inquiries, so that if the whole thing turned out to be a mare’s nest, Matthias could step fastidiously backwards from it, leaving Thurzo to cope with Elizabeth’s powerful relations.
But he said the only thing possible, ‘I should be happy to make suitable arrangements for you to visit Csejthe, Sire.’ And waited, and presently the King said, slowly, ‘Christmas at Csejthe. An interesting interlude. A good idea, Thurzo. And the Countess will surely receive us,’ he added, with the unruffled certainty of royalty who could sleep where it chose, regardless of expense or inconvenience, or eve
n, thought Thurzo resentfully, threat to reputation.
It was not so much Zrinyi’s apparent accusations as the King’s wish to spend Christmas at Csejthe that caused the hackles on Thurzo’s neck to lift. Kings did not spend Christmas in bleak, out-of-the-way fortresses if they could help it. They made sure to be in their own palaces for the celebrations, snug and warm and surrounded by every comfort. If Matthias intended to celebrate this Christmas at Csejthe, it was certainly not for Csejthe’s comforts. The King, it seemed, was taking this matter very seriously indeed. Thurzo wondered precisely what Anna Bathory’s husband had discovered.
It was some years since Gyorgy Thurzo had listened to the anxieties of Elizabeth Bathory’s pastor. He had conscientiously initiated a few discreet inquiries at the time, but he had been unable to discover anything other than vague gossip. There were sly hints that the Lady liked the company of her own sex, as against that of gentlemen; but while this was curious, it was not unheard of and, as far as Thurzo knew, it was not a crime. But there had been nothing to substantiate Ponikenus’s veiled hints of witchcraft. Would there be anything to substantiate Miklos Zrinyi’s stories now, whatever they might be?
Thurzo was very unhappy about the entire thing, and he did not want anything stirred up that might have been better left muddy. He had remarried since that episode in Elizabeth’s bed, and there was his wife to consider. If you unearthed a scandal – any scandal – it had an unpleasant way of splashing its noisome filth on to the cloaks of the innocent. Thurzo did not want to go down as a sordid footnote in history: somebody involved in unsavoury rituals involving virgin blood-letting and ritual sacrifice. His daughter was about to give birth, and a man did not want his descendants saddled with a grandfather they were ashamed to talk about in public. It was the kind of thing that might not be lived down for several generations. But when kings ordered, you had to obey. Thurzo would obey.
In the end, it was quite a party that arrived at Csejthe two days before Christmas, because in addition to the Palatines, several magistrates had been bidden to the Parliament sitting, and no one saw any reason why Elizabeth Bathory’s hospitality should not be solicited for them all. It was the rule of travel. You expected to be housed and fed by acquaintances on your route, and in turn you housed and fed them when they travelled. It was true that the levels of the hospitality varied quite astonishingly, said several of the lesser magistrates a bit sourly, but the principle was a good one. In any case, they had to sleep somewhere, and Csejthe Castle was as good as anywhere else.
Elizabeth, advised of the advent of so many guests by a missive from the conscientious Thurzo, felt chill fingers brush her skin. It was not so unusual for people of various ranks to request a night or two’s hospitality, but it was very unusual indeed for the King to do so. Like Thurzo, she instantly suspected that there was some much deeper reason behind Matthias’s decision to spend Christmas at Csejthe.
Was Gyorgy Thurzo delving again? Or had someone been talking? She had not forgotten how Anna’s husband had eyed her with horror on the morning that one of his accursed dogs had dug up the incompletely buried corpses. Supposing Zrinyi had talked?
But no matter how it had happened or if it had happened, the King was going to be more difficult to deceive than Gyorgy Thurzo or Zrinyi. You could purchase one man’s silence by seducing him – you could probably do the same with three or four or even more, if you had to – but a king was a different proposition.
It might be that the methods she had used to silence her drooling old idiot of a husband would have to be employed again.
Chapter Thirty-five
The feeling of a slowly-swelling threat, like an abscess reaching bursting point, intensified as the time for the King’s arrival at Csejthe drew closer.
Elizabeth knew that Matthias was surrounded, as all kings were, by a large entourage, and that within that entourage would be greedy and self-serving men and women, perpetually on the look-out for scandals and juicy tidbits to carry to their master. It was therefore important that all of these unwanted guests were entertained so glitteringly and so sumptuously that they would have no time and no energy for gossip. She sent out invitations to neighbouring castles, and she gathered about her as many of her family as she could. Her daughters and their husbands must attend, together with Pál and his wife. She hesitated briefly over the inclusion of Anna and Zrinyi, and then decided it was probably safer to have Zrinyi under her eye.
Matthias and Gyorgy Thurzo would see a glittering pageantry, nicely mixed with a family Christmas. They should see the widow of the great hero Count in the bosom of her family, entertaining her children and her friends, so far above suspicion that they would feel remorse and shame at listening to the gossips.
She considered again the idea of poisoning the whole lot of them as they sat at the table; it was an alluring notion and it would get rid of the snooping nuisance Thurzo and also of Miklos Zrinyi whom she was beginning to hate intensely, but in the end she decided against it. To deal with such a large number of people – the King among them – as she had dealt with Ferencz would be impracticable and dangerous.
But what about one of the lesser drugs? The crescent smile curved her lips. She had not listened to her forest crones in vain, and she was by now extremely knowledgeable about the ways in which an unsuspecting guest’s food or wine could be spiced. There was mandragora, the sleep-juice of the poets, but there was another preparation that had far livelier effects than mandragora. A potion made from the dried bodies of the family of cantharidae beetle, which caused such a raging heat between the thighs that those fed it sought instant and fierce sexual gratification. Spanish Fly.
If she could feed her guests Spanish Fly, this unwanted Christmas revel might turn into something akin to a Bacchanalian orgy.
And after that, there would not be a one of them who would dare to denounce her.
The great fortress glistened under the December hoar-frost and, as night began to creep over the Carpathian Mountains, Elizabeth went silently and alone to her bedchamber and, behind locked doors, took out the scrap of caul with the magical incantation. She was confident of her ability to deceive Matthias and the ineffectual Thurzo who had apparently become Matthias’s tool, but a little help would not come amiss.
She sat stroking the leathery surface, rocking gently to and fro, her eyes glazed and unseeing, her lips murmuring the chant.
‘Isten give me help . . . I am in peril . . . Protect Elizabeth and grant me a long life . . . Order ninety-nine cats to bite the heart of Matthias and claw out the brains and the liver of Gyorgy Thurzo . . . Keep Elizabeth safe from harm . . .’
No one who attended the remarkable three-day revels at Csejthe Castle and celebrated the Christmas festival in company with the Countess could ever afterwards find the words to do justice to the splendour and the remarkable pageantry that unfolded throughout their stay. As the castle filled up, the sound of sleigh bells rang out on the cold, crisp afternoon, and servants moved quietly to and fro, replenishing the cressets of wood in the wall-sconces and flinging on to the huge fireplaces newly-felled tree-trunks. The mountain fortress shone and echoed with music and laughter. Gypsy orchestras played ceaselessly, and gypsy dancers and acrobats tumbled and whirled about the courtyards as the guests arrived.
The banquet on Christmas night was the most elaborate anyone had seen for a very long time. One or two of the older guests murmured to each other that the rumours about the Countess’s impecuniary state must have been erroneous or at least exaggerated, but the more cynically minded said, No, this lavishness was precisely the behaviour of a person poised on the brink of financial disaster. If you were hovering on ruin, the first thing you did was order several trunkfuls of gowns and replenish your wine cellars, said these misanthropes. Not that the wine was anything so very special; if you wanted to be discourteous, you might almost accuse Elizabeth Bathory of serving inferior or even watered-down wine.
Further along the table, neighbouring Squires and landowne
rs who knew very well that they had been invited to swell the numbers, thought a bit guiltily that perhaps they had been ungenerous to give credence to the sinister tales whispered about Csejthe. You ought not to listen to gossip about a lady and then accept and enjoy her hospitality, said these overawed Barons righteously, holding out their wine chalices for the pretty young serving girls to refill.
The banquet consisted of ten courses, each one more magnificent than the last. There was baked swan and roast oxen and small succulent sucking boar. There were chines of beef and venison and smaller dishes with such delicacies as stuffed larks and pigeons, and quail. There were even baked carp and trout – very great luxuries at this time of year. When everyone was almost surfeited, the servants carried in immense silver platters piled high with fruit, glistening with honey and crushed sugar. Everyone ate and drank hugely, and no one ever admitted afterwards to the odd effect that the revels had on them. You did not quite like to put into words the fact that you had been seized with such a remarkable burning in your privy parts that you had scarcely been able to sit still and had perforce spent most of the night trying to quench the itch by whatever method occurred to you. It had been very fortuitous indeed that, just as the burning had reached its almost unbearable peak, the Countess’s serving girls had entered the guest bedchambers carrying hot water or a night-candle.
When the guests assembled for a huge breakfast before setting out on a wolf-hunt next morning, it was noticeable that at least three-quarters were unable to meet either the maliciously amused eyes of their hostess or the inquiring glances of their fellows.
The festivities were interminable. They were something to be got through as quickly as possible. To begin with, Elizabeth had found it fun to feed the sheep-creatures with cantharides and watch their antics, and it was knowledge to tuck away in case it could be used against the stupid bores in the future – but it had soon palled.