by Alex Archer
Soon his men were entering the cells, leading those who could move up the stairs and into the great hall, where they received as much care as Thurzó’s men could provide. Those who were too injured to walk were carried upstairs by one or more of his soldiers; the gentleness these hardened warriors showed to the wounded struck Thurzó deep in the heart.
When the last of the prisoners were upstairs, the bodies were carried out of the cells and lined up in the passageway one after another. Thurzó stopped counting when he reached forty-three.
He’d checked the first few corpses—those that were reasonably intact, at least—and noted the same kinds of injuries as they’d discovered upstairs. They’d been bled dry like animals brought to the butcher’s for slaughter.
His disgust now in full bore, Thurzó stood back and let his men work, his mind wandering to all-but-forgotten days, trying to figure out just where the countess was hiding.
The upper floors were vacant, and they had covered every inch of the lower floors, as well. Lady Báthory had been inside these walls when the night had begun, and Semtész’s behavior seemed to indicate she was still here somewhere.
But where?
He cast his thoughts back, back to the days when he and Ferenc had run wild through these tunnels, and as the images rushed through his mind, one stuck out. A faint memory of Ferenc showing him a hidden door in one of the cells, a door that led to an unfinished tunnel...
Thurzó slipped away from the others and entered the cell in question. Holding a torch, he walked over to the back wall and pressed on it several times, trying to remember how his childhood friend had done it all those years ago.
Something about putting pressure on the right slab while standing...just so?
The wall slid open silently, revealing the passage he remembered from his youth. At that time, the tunnel had led to a dead end, but he could see now that improvements had been made over the years, widening the tunnel and lengthening it, as well. Torches had been lit at regular intervals. The tunnel took a couple of sharp turns and then opened up into a wide chamber.
In the center of the room, a large rectangular sunken bath was surrounded by half a dozen braziers. Each had a fire blazing inside, no doubt to help ward off the room’s chill.
In the flames’ lurid light, the bathwater had an unusual crimson tint.
Thurzó stepped forward, moving closer, and as he did so the smell finally hit him.
A thick, coppery scent—one he was intimately familiar with from the time he’d spent on the battlefield.
With slowly dawning horror, Thurzó realized the bathwater wasn’t truly water at all. It was blood, a vast pool of blood hot enough to give off steam.
He’d never seen anything like it.
And while he stood there, the surface of the pool suddenly rippled and a figure rose out of its depths, shocking him so much that he stumbled backward.
A hearty laugh—a laugh he recognized—filled the chamber as the woman rising from the bath caught sight of him.
“What’s the matter, György? Surely you’ve seen a naked woman before?”
Elizabeth!
He stood there staring—he couldn’t help himself. The countess stood thigh deep in the tub, the fluid slowly sliding down her curves and back into the bath, allowing her pale skin to peek out from the crimson flow. Her usually raven-black hair was highlighted with streaks of color, and her blue eyes peered out of a face that seemed to be camouflaged in red paint.
When she licked her lips, he was reminded that it wasn’t paint at all, but blood.
Human blood.
“My God, Elizabeth, what have you done?”
She laughed again, longer and harder this time, and he realized that asking what she hadn’t done might have proved a more useful starting point.
Even so, her answer surprised him.
“What have I done? I’ve found the very thing man has spent centuries searching for, the very thing he thought forever out of reach. I’ve found the secret to immortality!”
Thurzó couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Immortality? You’re insane! Look at yourself, Elizabeth. You’re covered in blood, for heaven’s sake!”
“Yes, look at me, György. Look at me!” she exclaimed, spreading her arms to draw his attention to her body. “I’m fifty years old and I look like a girl of twenty-five! I’m getting younger with every treatment.”
Thurzó was looking; as morbid as the scene was he couldn’t take his gaze off her. He told himself he was looking for evidence to back up her claims, preposterous as they were, but deep down he knew the truth. Countess Elizabeth Báthory was a beauty, even as she appeared now; Thurzó couldn’t deny that. He’d found her attractive when they were younger, when she’d been betrothed to his friend, and the years had only done her justice.
He looked because he wanted to look. It was as simple as that.
Rounded wounds, like those caused by a pike or an auger...
The thought slipped in like an enemy from the shadows, reminding him of just how the countess and her companions had obtained all the blood currently steaming in the sunken bath and Thurzó was suddenly ashamed.
He focused his gaze just beyond her, so he could see her movements but wouldn’t be so tempted to stare. Thurzó tried to figure out just how many bodies it must take to fill a tub of that size. And she had mentioned multiple treatments...
“I don’t care what you claim to have discovered,” he said through a jaw stiffened with anger and distaste. He waved with his free hand at the bath before him. “You should be struck down where you stand for this...this abomination!”
Elizabeth walked forward slowly, swaying slightly as if listening to some sensual rhythm only she could hear. Thurzó tried to keep his gaze focused over her shoulder, but the closer she came, the more difficult that was, until he had no choice but to face her.
By now she was only a few feet away.
His gaze found hers, and then, as if by its own volition, dropped to her body once more.
Catching himself, he looked back into her face and saw her smirking at him.
“Oh, but you’re not going to do that, are you, György?” she asked softly. “There are other things you’d much rather do than strike me down.”
She was right; he could no more hurt her than he could grow wings and fly. The sad truth was that he’d been in love with Elizabeth Báthory for years.
Elizabeth moved closer, until her blood-slicked body was just inches from his own. He could feel the heat rising from it as she said, “So what are you going to do, György?”
Thurzó stared deep into her eyes, letting her see the storm that raged within him, and then, steeling himself, said, “In the name of His Majesty, King Matthias II, and under the authority granted to me as the palatine of Hungary, I place you under arrest for the torture and murder of multiple young women under your care...”
Bytča, Hungary
January 1611
THE TRIAL WAS a madhouse.
Thurzó had been observing the proceedings from the balcony overlooking the judges’ box for the past several days. He’d watched witness after witness take the stand and condemn the three women and one man on trial for the evils conducted at Csejte and elsewhere.
Elizabeth herself was not on trial; she remained at Csejte Castle under house arrest, guarded by ten of his most trusted men. It had taken considerable effort on his part to convince King Matthias that putting a member of the upper nobility on trial would serve little purpose. Báthory came from a wealthy and influential family; angering them by trying and executing her, which was precisely what Matthias wanted to happen, would have caused no end of difficulties. Thurzó had hoped to convince the king that Elizabeth should be spirited away to a nunnery for the remainder of her days, but that possibility became l
ess and less likely as word of Báthory’s involvement in the atrocities quickly spread.
Just the day before a journal was produced as evidence by one of the maids, listing six hundred and fifty victims who’d died by Elizabeth’s hand. Thurzó hadn’t seen it himself, so he couldn’t vouch for its authenticity, but at this point it really didn’t matter. Elizabeth was responsible for killing young women and stealing their blood. Thurzó had witnessed her crimes firsthand.
Commotion spread through the courtroom below, breaking into Thurzó’s thoughts. Leaning over the banister, he could see that Royal Supreme Court Judge Theodosius Syrmiensis was returning to his seat while his twenty co-judges took their places in the judges’ box.
Thurzó felt his pulse race; a verdict must have been reached.
Judge Syrmiensis sat down and waited for the wardens to restore order to the room. When all was quiet, he faced the defendants.
“Dorotya Semtész, Ilona Jó, Katarína Benická and János Fickó, this court finds you guilty of eighty counts of murder.”
A roar went up in the courtroom, and the judge had to wait until the wardens could quiet everyone a second time.
“Defendants Semtész, Jó and Fickó shall be put to death, sentence to be carried out immediately. Defendant Benická is sentenced to life imprisonment. The court has spoken.”
Commotion erupted again, but Thurzó had lost interest. The verdict was exactly what he’d predicated; Benická had been bullied by the others and therefore deserved a lesser sentence, an opinion he had stressed during his own testimony a few days earlier.
Justice had been served.
A memory of Elizabeth rising out of the pool of blood reminded him that one aspect of this whole mess still needed to be resolved. Thankfully the verdict would give him the opportunity to see the king and plead his case again.
Perhaps this time the king might listen...
Forty minutes later he was ushered into the king’s meeting chamber, where he found Elizabeth’s eldest son, Paul, already in conference with His Majesty.
“Ah, welcome, Thurzó,” the king said when he arrived. “How goes the trial?”
“Judge Syrmiensis returned a guilty verdict less than an hour ago. The three sentenced to death have little time left in this world.”
“And thank God for that,” the king said with a grim expression. “A nasty business all around.”
Thurzó glanced at Paul, but the other man wouldn’t meet his eye. A tremor of concern shook Thurzó. Had Paul been negotiating with the king behind his back?
Thurzó suspected he had, and the king’s next words confirmed it.
“Young Báthory has a rather unique answer to our other problem.”
“Is that so?” Thurzó replied, glancing at Paul one last time—still no response—before giving his full attention to the king.
“You made it clear that a public trial and execution of Countess Báthory would be a mistake.”
“Yes, I have and...”
The king held up a hand, silencing him.
“I happen to agree with you. As does the countess’s heir.”
This time Paul met Thurzó’s gaze and nodded briefly before looking away again.
“We cannot, however, allow the countess’s monstrous actions to continue.”
Here it comes, Thurzó thought.
“I have agreed to grant Countess Báthory my pardon and absolution for the crimes she has committed against my subjects. In return, her son will consider my debt to the Báthory family repaid in full.”
Thurzó knew the family had loaned the king considerable amounts over the past several years. But Countess Báthory controlled that debt, not Paul. And she would continue to control it until her death. Then, and only then, would control pass to her son.
The king wasn’t finished, however.
“Paul agrees that the countess must pay for her crimes. It is only just. To that end he has suggested that she be imprisoned within her suite of rooms inside Csejte Castle, there to remain until she passes from this earth. Since she would be unable to carry out the myriad duties her position as head of the Báthory family requires, I would have no choice but to declare her legally dead and pass control of her estates to her heir.”
Matthias and young Báthory smiled at each other, and Thurzó knew in that moment it was already decided. The king wanted his debt excused and Elizabeth’s son wanted her out of the way. The solution was elegant and simple. Everybody would win.
Everybody, that was, but Elizabeth.
At least she’ll be alive, he told himself.
Pasting on a smile, Thurzó told the king he approved of the solution.
“Good,” the king replied. “I’m putting you in charge of the masonry work.”
It took a moment for the king’s words to register. “Masonry?”
“Yes, of course. Did you think we would just guard the door?”
That was exactly what Thurzó had pictured. Post a guard, allow her to spend some time in the fresh air every day—the civilized approach.
But too late Thurzó remembered that Matthias had a cruel streak, and this was his way of getting back at the countess for holding that debt over his head.
“I want the entire suite of rooms bricked up. Doors, windows, everything! We’ll leave a few slots in the walls through which she can receive her food, and so the guards can keep an eye on her, but she will remain a prisoner—a real prisoner—until the day her vile countenance passes from this earth! Do you understand, Thurzó?”
He nodded and waited for the king to dismiss him with a toss of his head. As he moved toward the exit, one final question occurred to him.
“If I may, Your Majesty, why me?”
The king didn’t even look at him as he delivered his answer.
“You should have killed her when you had the chance, Thurzó, and saved me all this nonsense. Since you didn’t, I’m leaving it in your hands.”
And that was that. In trying to save her life, he’d ended up bringing her a fate worse than death.
Love certainly was blind.
2
Csejte Castle
Present day Slovakia
Annja Creed eyed the camera for a moment, and then stepped forward to adjust the angle of the lens an inch or so to the left. Satisfied, she nodded to herself, moved back to her former position and keyed the remote in her left hand.
“As you can see, behind me lies the ruins of Csejte Castle, home to one of the most beautiful, and most villainous, women who ever lived—the Blood Countess herself, Elizabeth Báthory.”
A shake of her head, a double click of the remote to stop and restart the recording, and then she tried again.
“The crumbling walls you see behind me are the ruins of Csejte Castle, once home to Elizabeth Báthory, a woman some consider one of history’s greatest monst... Gah!”
She stopped the recording and turned away in frustration. Creating the opening to the show should have been a piece of cake. She’d done hundreds of such takes during her time as cohost of Chasing History’s Monsters, the cable television show she’d worked for these past few years. Yes, normally she would’ve worked with a cameraman and wouldn’t have to worry about framing and proper exposure, but she was a steady hand at this by now and probably could have shot, edited and produced the entire show on her own.
Which was exactly what she was intending to do for this one.
The whole thing was a bit of a lark, she had to admit. She’d been with her regular crew in the Czech Republic, filming an episode on Faust and the mysterious creatures that still supposedly haunt his house, but the shoot had wrapped early. With a few extra days suddenly on hand, Annja decided to make the jaunt across the border into Slovakia to do some rock climbing and maybe even visit Báthory’s legendary castle.
She’d caught a flight into Bratislava, took a train northeast into Košice and drove the short distance to the small village of Višňové. Annja could see the castle’s ruins on the hill above the village as she’d driven in, and that was when the idea had struck. She’d checked into her hotel, fired up her laptop and searched the database.
For some strange reason, Chasing History’s Monsters had never done an episode on the world’s most notorious serial killer, Countess Báthory herself.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Annja, she’d reminded herself, and decided then and there to see what she could put together on her own. Selling a complete episode—shot, cut and edited—to her producer, Doug Morrell, would net her some extra cash and give him an episode he could deliver to his own bosses seemingly overnight. That would make him look good, and he could even hold on to it for an emergency situation when some other episode’s filming went south. It was a win-win situation.
She was pretty certain Doug would take the show; the subject matter was right up his alley. It would make a great episode.
If she could get the opening right, that was.
Annja turned and surveyed the ruin of the castle. There really wasn’t much to look at, truth be told. A few sets of crumbling walls, an extended tower or two, but not much more than that. The castle had been sacked and plundered by Ferenc II Rákóczi in 1708 as part of the Hungarian uprising against the Hapsburgs. It had been left to fall into ruin, and a ruin it had become.
And yet something still drew people here.
She knew what it was, of course.
The lure of history.
Annja understood that; she’d felt that same thrill, that same connection to the past, every single time she’d started an expedition or been involved in an archaeological dig. It was the reason she’d pursued her chosen career—as an archaeologist, not as a television host—in the first place. To reach out and touch something from the past, to hold a piece of history in your hands and wonder about the person who’d last held that object hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years before... Yes, archaeology had a way of getting down deep into a person’s soul.