by Alex Archer
But in this case it was more than that.
It wasn’t just the lure of history.
It was the legend of the Blood Countess.
The idea of standing on the same stones where the notorious serial killer had once lived held a kind of eerie fascination for many people. The fact that it all happened back in the 1600s didn’t make any difference; as with Vlad Dracul, the Wallachian prince who was generally recognized as the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the legend of Elizabeth Báthory had grown over the ages.
However, Annja wanted to expose the history behind it all. No doubt Doug would prefer her to ignore the high road and feature reenactments of the beautiful Báthory climbing naked out of a pool of blood. But that simply wasn’t Annja’s style.
If she was going to do a show about Báthory, she was going to tell the truth.
Or at least as much of the truth as anyone knew.
Annja stepped to the edge of the escarpment and looked out across the forested hills and rocky crags. The late-afternoon sun lit everything with a patina of gold as it sank toward the horizon. She imagined the countess had done the same thing many times, though with her own deeply tanned skin, long auburn hair and amber-green eyes, there was little chance of anyone mistaking Annja for the pale, dark-haired woman who had terrorized this land for nearly two decades.
Never mind my baseball cap, Annja thought with a laugh as she reached up and adjusted the brim to keep the sun out of her eyes. It was a nice day, warm and clear, and she could see for miles. It would get colder later that night, but for now she was perfectly comfortable in her long-sleeved shirt, shorts and hiking boots. It was her usual dig attire, and fans of the show expected to see her outfitted in the same. She didn’t mind; it was what she would have worn anyway, show or not.
As she turned away from the overlook, she reviewed what she knew about the countess.
Báthory had been born in Hungary in 1560. Both an uncle on her father’s side and her maternal grandfather had been princes of Transylvania. She was also cousin to Stefan Báthory, the king of Poland and duke of Transylvania. Elizabeth was raised on the family estate in Nyírbátor and taught to speak multiple languages, including Hungarian, Latin and Greek.
By all evidence an extremely intelligent woman.
Engaged to Ferenc Nádasdy, a Hungarian nobleman, at age twelve, Elizabeth became pregnant after an affair with one of the palace servants the following year. She gave birth in secret, but not before Nádasdy had the servant castrated and thrown to the dogs. The child, a daughter, was quickly disowned, and Ferenc and Elizabeth were married in May of 1575 when she was fourteen and a half years old. His wedding gift to his young bride was Csejte Castle and the territory surrounding it.
Fourteen and a half? Annja couldn’t imagine getting married now, in her midtwenties, never mind a decade or so ago. She knew it was the custom of the time, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Especially given what happened next.
In 1578 Báthory’s husband was appointed head of the Hungarian troops and led them to war against the Ottomans. In his absence, Elizabeth was responsible for the care and upkeep of the castle and its environs, including the country house of the same name and the seventeen villages nearby.
Fertile hunting grounds for appetites that grew harsher as the years went by.
Annja knew the countess had gotten bored with castle life. She and her husband wrote letters back and forth, as any married couple might do, but Elizabeth and Ferenc talked about methods of torture to be used on the Turkish prisoners. She would suggest new techniques and her husband would report the results back to her; some of those letters were still stored among the Nádasdy family documents in the National Archives of Hungary.
Soon the countess was trying out techniques of her own on her staff, all peasants—and therefore of no consequence in her view—from the surrounding villages. Severe whippings and beatings were frequent, often for the slightest infractions.
As time went on, more girls were lured to the castle under pretense of working for the countess, and then those girls started to disappear. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much the people could do about it. Báthory not only controlled the land they lived on but was related to the very authorities the villagers would’ve brought their concerns to.
What a terrible situation. Parents forced to watch as their daughters were taken from them with impunity. One of history’s monsters, indeed.
Báthory had finally paid for her crimes. The countess was imprisoned inside this very castle. She’d lived alone for four long years before dying from some unknown illness. Even the date of her death was conjecture; several plates of food had sat untouched just inside her chambers, so there was no way of knowing if she’d been dead for a few minutes or a few days when she’d been found.
That’s it! she thought. That’s the opening!
Annja rushed over to the camera, snatched up the remote and got into position. She took a few deep breaths and then stared directly at the lens as she pressed Record.
“Four hundred years ago, a woman was walled up inside the castle that now stands behind me. Her crimes were so terrible she would earn a reputation as the world’s foremost serial killer. Her name? Countess Elizabeth Báthory. Her rumored victims, six hundred and fifty in number, were all young women, and the savage way in which they were killed earned Báthory the nickname by which she is more commonly known—the Blood Countess. But was Elizabeth Báthory a monster? Or was she also a victim, caught between two sides of a titanic struggle for power that reverberates through this region today?
“Join me as we examine the reality and the myth surrounding the Blood Countess, Elizabeth Báthory, here on Chasing History’s Monsters.”
3
Annja spent another hour shooting video of the castle ruins, footage she could splice in during the editing phase, and then packed up her gear. By the time she’d loaded the rented four-wheel-drive vehicle, the sun was just about down.
She drove through the small village of Čachtice, home to some three thousand residents, and headed for her hotel in nearby Nové Mesto nad Váhom, a town about five miles northeast of Čachtice.
Annja had been driving for less than five minutes when her headlights picked up a figure standing by the side of the road, frantically waving his or her arms. As she drew closer she could see it was a young woman of about twenty-five, dressed in hiker’s boots and jeans and wearing a canvas jacket against the chilly evening. Behind her, Annja could see a backpack sitting on the ground.
Her first thought was hitchhiker, but then she caught sight of the young woman’s face and realized something was terribly wrong. She pulled to the side of the road about ten yards away, turned off the engine and got out.
“Are you all right?” she called from her position by the driver’s door.
The woman shouted something back at her. Annja recognized the language as Hungarian, or Magyar as it was known here, but it wasn’t related to any of the half dozen languages she did speak, so there was no chance of her getting the gist of what was being said. The woman’s frantic hand motions spoke a language of their own, however.
Come here! Quickly!
Most people would’ve been concerned at this point. A dark road with no one around made the perfect place for an ambush, and a woman driving alone in a foreign country would no doubt be an attractive target. Not only that, but she had just made it easier for any would-be bandits by getting out of her vehicle.
Annja wasn’t concerned. If this was a setup, she’d deal with it. She’d been in tougher situations before and had managed to extricate herself just fine. It helped that she was the bearer of Joan of Arc’s weapon, a broadsword she could pull out of where it waited for her—the otherwhere, she called it—with just a thought.
The sword had been shattered by the English commander who’d overseen Joan
’s execution, the pieces scattered into the mud like so much waste. In the wake of that sundering something miraculous had occurred; the lives of the two men who had been assigned to watch over Joan, a knight named Roux and his apprentice, Garin Braden, were extended indefinitely. Both were over five hundred years old and still as hearty as they had been the morning their charge had met her fate.
Roux had set out to retrieve the pieces of the sword, and one by one they’d been reunited. Annja had been present when the very last piece had been added to the puzzle and the sword had restored itself in a flash of power that bound her and the blade together in a stunning, and rather unexpected, fashion. The sword wasn’t bound by the rules of time and space and so was available to her at any moment with just a thought. It made getting out of tight situations much easier.
The way the other woman was reacting, the obvious relief on her face that someone, anyone, had stopped to help, made Annja think that whatever this was, it wasn’t a trap.
When Annja got closer, she realized the ground had given away on the side of the road. The woman was still talking nonstop, but now she was pointing frantically into the darkness.
Annja suddenly understood what the woman wanted.
Down there. He’s fallen down there.
Annja turned around, intending to go back for a light, and the woman shrieked and rushed forward, grabbing Annja’s arm.
“Easy now, take it easy,” Annja began, but the woman wasn’t listening. She was clearly in panic mode, more than likely thinking Annja was leaving. The backpacker was talking a mile a minute, pointing into the darkness over the edge, and paying no attention to what Annja was saying.
Annja knew how to fix that, at least.
She dug in her heels, pulled her arm back sharply and yelled, “Wait!” as loudly as she could.
The sudden blast of sound broke through the woman’s panic, and she snapped her head around to stare at Annja.
Annja held up her free hand in a “take it easy” gesture. “I’m not leaving,” she said soothingly, hoping the woman understand a little English. “I’m going to get a light, so we can see.”
She mimed shining a light over the edge and looking down after it.
Understanding blossomed on the other woman’s face and she calmed down.
Annja turned and hurried over to her vehicle. Opening the rear doors, she pulled out one of the polymer cases containing the lights and carried it back to where the woman was waiting.
“I’m Annja,” she said, pointing to herself. Then she pointed at her companion and raised her eyebrows.
That, at least, the woman understood. She smiled wanly and said, “Csilla.”
“Okay, Csilla,” Annja said, “show me what’s got you so upset.” She extended her hand palm up in a sweeping gesture, the universal “after you” sign, and then followed Csilla as she hurried over the edge of the drop and pointed downward at a spot a few feet to their left.
Annja nodded and then set the case on the ground next to her. She flipped open the catch and pulled out a handheld spotlight. The light used only a single thirty-five watt HID bulb, but it generated a fifteen million candlepower light beam that was twenty-eight hundred feet long. If there was something out there, this light would find it.
She hit the switch on the top of the rig and the beam of light leaped into existence, throwing back the darkness. The brush lining the edge of the drop jumped into view, seeming larger than life in the cold light of the spot.
Csilla nodded and pointed again, more emphatically this time.
“Siet! Siet!”
Annja didn’t need to understand Hungarian to understand.
Hurry.
She did as she was told, pointing the spotlight in the direction Csilla was suggesting. Annja began to sweep the beam across the rocky slope below them.
At first she didn’t see anything but the jagged shale for which the region was known, but then she caught sight of a flash of white against the harsh gray of the stone. Slowly, carefully, she swung the beam back and found the object a second time.
It was a human hand.
Female, judging by the size and shape.
It thrust up from the slope as if it were waving to them. The hand was attached to a forearm—thank heavens!—and the arm presumably to the rest of the body, though she couldn’t see the latter. The woman was hidden by a depression in the slope.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” Annja shouted.
Silence.
She might be too injured to shout back.
“Hold on!” she called out. “I’m coming down after you!”
She thrust the spotlight into her companion’s hand and ran over to the rear of her SUV. She grabbed her climbing bag and carried it over to Csilla, who was keeping the light on the hand.
“Were you traveling together?” Annja asked as she pulled several pieces of gear, including a nylon climbing rope, out of the bag. “Did she fall?”
Csilla shook her head, but Annja wasn’t sure whether the woman didn’t understand what Annja was saying or didn’t know what had happened.
Annja pulled on a headlamp and switched it on, then grabbed the gear she’d pulled out. She looked around for a suitable spot to anchor her rope, finally selecting a tree that stood near the edge of the drop. Hurrying over, she pushed on it for a moment, testing its strength, before deciding it would do. Using a couple of slings and some carabiners, she quickly rigged an anchor and then fed the rope through it, tying the two loose ends together. She gave the rope—and the anchor—a good tug to double-check, then coiled the rope and tossed it over the edge.
She pulled on her climber’s harness, secured a locking carabiner to the front and then clipped on to the rope.
“I’m going down. Keep that light on her,” Annja said. Then she pointed at herself and down the slope in an effort to make her companion understand.
Csilla nodded.
Letting the rope play out between her hands, Annja began backing down the incline. The footing was loose, and therefore treacherous. Annja wouldn’t be able to get the other woman out of there if she cut herself on the shale while climbing down.
Slow and steady, Annja, she reminded herself. Slow and steady.
As she moved downward she began to edge sideways, angling toward the spot where the floodlight was shining. She called out several times, hoping for a reaction, but she didn’t get anything in return. That wasn’t a good sign; the woman was either too injured to respond or past the point of help. Annja hoped for the former.
An experienced climber, Annja was able to descend the hundred feet or so in less than ten minutes. She called out as she drew close.
“My name’s Annja. Can you hear me?”
No response.
Annja carefully maneuvered herself over to the lip of the depression and looked down.
The woman lay facedown on the hard stone about two feet below Annja’s present position, her long dark hair hiding her features. She was nude, which meant she probably hadn’t been Csilla’s traveling companion...and her injuries likely weren’t accidental.
The woman lay unmoving and didn’t respond to Annja’s repeated calls. Her skin was extremely pale—blood loss?—and the woman didn’t appear to be breathing.
The fall down the rocky slope had cut her body in several places, but there was very little blood around the wounds, leading Annja to believe the woman had been killed elsewhere and dumped here. Whoever was responsible must have expected the body to fall all the way to the bottom of the slope.
Fate, however, had intervened.
The woman’s arm had become wedged in the cleft between two rocks, arresting her fall and holding her body in place against the slope. If her arm hadn’t gotten stuck, her body would have been hidden from view and wild animals would’ve likely gotten to her re
mains long before anyone chanced upon them.
Someone would have gotten away with murder.
Getting the body out of there wasn’t going to be easy, especially on her own, but Annja had to try. She could take the time to go back to Čachtice and look for some help, but the woman’s weight might finally pull her arm free from the rocks while Annja was gone.
If that happened, the effort to recover the body would be considerably more difficult, never mind expensive.
No, if she was going to do something, now was the time to do it.
The question was, how?
The depression in which the woman’s body rested was filled with loose rocks and debris. The footing was going to be treacherous, and it would be all too easy to step on the wrong piece of loose rock and send the body sliding free.
What she needed to do was get to a point below the body and work her way up toward it. That way, if the body slipped, she’d be in a position to do something about it.
Annja climbed back up the slope a few feet and then moved a couple of yards to her right, far enough that her actions wouldn’t have any impact on the body’s position. She rappelled downslope about ten feet and then began searching for a suitable place to put an anchor. When she found it, a narrow cleft in the rock, she used a spring-loaded cam device attached to a sling to anchor the rope. She gave the anchor a tug to test it and then clipped the rope into it with another carabiner.
The wind had picked up since the sun had set, and the temperature was starting to drop. Annja could feel her hands tingle from the cold.
Get moving, she told herself. You don’t have all night.
With the anchor in place, she moved confidently to her left, picking her way across the rock face until she was directly below the body. She could see it on the slope above her, just a few feet overhead.