I will remain at Sárvár for another seven days to ensure no relapse, and then make haste to Vienna.
Written this 3rd day of November of the year 1576 by your most obedient servant,
NMA
III.
Trnava, 1579
HER DARING HAD not lasted long on the road. It was not the coach—the Báthory-Nádasdy fortunes controlled the wealth of half of Hungary, and they were not shy of spending money when they had to. Even Erzsébet’s family could not afford to keep every road in Hungary in good condition, though, and so she had jolted and jumped across dirt tracks and potholed paths all the way from Csejte. By halfway she had begun to regard her impulsive decision as unworthy of her dignity. How exciting! How delighted Ferenc would be, that his bold new wife—was four years still new? She had seen so little of him that it seemed so—dared come into the heart of the soldier’s world to visit him.
One rattling hour too many, one more stop to mend the wheel, surrounded on all sides by darkness and trees, and she regretted the entire venture, but she was Erzsébet Báthory. She did not back down once her mind was made up. There were too many servants and men-at-arms travelling with her who might prattle of a foolish girl. The thought of it made her ball her fists in fury.
But at last she was in sight of Trnava. The town itself seemed eclipsed by the military camp set up outside it. Ferenc was mustering and recruiting, and Trnava would be fertile ground for him, filled with families who had fled the Turkish capture of Esztergom a generation before.
And she should be proud of her husband, of course, because he was only twenty-three and already named Chief Commander against the Ottoman, a bold knight with the respect of the Emperor and the love of his peers. Yet he had gone from Vienna straight to his military duties, passing through her life like a short-lived ghost. So perhaps this was not such a romantic gesture, after all. Perhaps this was her reminding him that, though the Nádasdy had power and wealth, they were in the shadow of the Báthory pedigree, which underlay Hungary like the very bones of the mountains.
Towards the camp edge, the coach was hailed by sentries. A few sharp words served to give her passage, and she had her servants hunting out Ferenc’s livery while the driver manoeuvred the coach along tracks rutted by the ponderous wheels of cannon. All around was the coarse babble of soldiers—their songs, jeers, insults and laughter. Erzsébet shrank back from it, hearing them speculate who might be coming to visit their betters.
And at last one of her people had sight of Ferenc, who was spending the evening with a band of his fellow officers within the town, so that all her winding through this morass of humanity had been utterly in vain. In a vile temper and determined to have her husband regret his choices as much as possible, her servants extricated her from the camp and passed within the walls of Trnava.
Her people asked if they should ride ahead and warn their master of her coming, but no, she would make it a surprise, pleasant or otherwise as she decided. Before long, groping over the cobbles of Trnava by moonlight, she could not imagine how this venture had ever seemed romantic.
At last she had the inn Ferenc was staying at, and she wondered what she might do or say, if she found him with some obliging wench on his knee, or worse.
But she was Erzsébet Báthory. She would not turn aside. That was for the rest of the world to do, when she strode at it.
He was not at play with some harlot. He was not even greatly in his cups. Ferenc’s newfound position had brought out in him a love of war and that was the only love he was indulging. Hovering at the doorway, she caught him with a half-dozen men, all older than he, poring over maps and plans of fortifications, discussing the war with the Turk that everyone knew would come sooner or later.
Seeing him there, Erzsébet’s anger evaporated. It was not replaced by love, exactly; possessiveness, perhaps, was as close as she ever came, and Ferenc was hers. She was seeing a man in his own proper environment, adapted to it as a fish to the river. He was the master of all his companions, and something in her stirred to the confidence and authority he had, that he had never stayed at her side long enough to show her.
Then one of the others was speaking, some portly man discussing the best vantage for an attack against Nové Zámky, the Turk’s strongest bastion to the south. Tiring of his drab voice, Erzsébet glanced across the faces of the others.
And stopped, screwing her eyes up. For a moment, had there been…
But that was in the past. She had been too long on the road, too concerned with stoking the fires of anger inside herself. She would find lodgings befitting her station and then greet her husband in the morning…
But there, between Ferenc and the dull fat man, was there not a shadow?
She felt herself tremble to see it, that the air was dark there, as though one more stood in that room than she could account for. She let her gaze slide off it, let it fall into the corner of her eye—as Dorottya taught her—because surely this was no more than fatigue.
For a moment she saw him clearly at her husband’s elbow, one slender-fingered hand even resting on Ferenc’s shoulder as he leant forwards. She saw his long, pale face, his dark eyes as they darted across the map. In his expression there was an obscene anticipation, seeing on the barren paper the war to come, the blood to be spilled. For the blood is the life.
She retreated from the room and put her back to a wall, heart hammering. For a moment she was just a girl in an orchard, violent death crashing into her life. She remembered the terrible measures that Dorottya Semtész had resorted to, to free her from this man’s cold power.
But, though so few years had passed, she found a core of stone within her. She was Erzsébet Báthory. She did not turn aside, and just as Ferenc prepared to fight the Turk, so she would fight for Ferenc. It was not love; it was because he was hers.
She turned and left the inn and Trnava, back along all the broken roads to Csejte Castle. Even as she travelled, she was sending her servants in all directions with the same mission. Find me Dorottya Semtész.
Letter from György Thurzó, Trnava, to Erzsébet Báthory, Czejte Castle, 1579
To the ever beautiful and noble Countess Erzsébet Báthory, on behalf of your husband the courageous and ever vigilant Ferenc Nádasdy
Ferenc being greatly concerned with matters of the camp, it falls to me as his friend to write to you of what has transpired here, as we have won a victory against the Turk outside Nové Zámky. Though it was only a skirmish, it has given great heart to the people who have seen only the depredation of the Ottoman advance in their lifetimes. Ferenc believes that, with proper application of the new guns, we can retake the town in the near future and then set to driving the infidels from the land.
Ferenc, I am sure, would wish to send you all his love and to be by your side as soon as his duties might allow. For my own part, I have a curious matter to broach with you, for I have now three nights together seen Ferenc rise from his bed and heard his voice as though in conference with some informant. I confess this seems much to me like an ill dream, but last night I even fancy I glimpsed his interlocutor: a tall, pale man with burning deep eyes, dressed in antique style, bending low to speak in Ferenc’s ear. I even forced myself to rise from my own bed, though my limbs were marvellous heavy, seeking to surprise them—or him, for none beside Ferenc was to be found. When I asked him who he had been inviting as a guest to his home, for such had been the topic of the talk I overheard, he seemed so dazed and uncertain that I thought he too had just woken.
As you are wise, perhaps you can shed some light on these nocturnal incidents. Is this a common habit of your husband when he is at home: to walk and talk while yet asleep?
Your friend, and the conveyor of your husband’s love, on this the 29th day of November in Our Lord’s Year 1579
G
Csejte Castle, 1580
SHE KNEW ENOUGH to see the import of that letter. Even before she had reclaimed Dorottya to her retinue, her own reading had taught her what it me
ant to make unwise invitations. Erzsébet had already felt the shadow of the pale man over her when news of Dorottya had arrived.
She had feared the woman might be dead—it’s no safe life, after all, to walk between God and the Devil and be despised by both. She had almost been right. Word came of one Dorottya Semtész imprisoned with her apprentice in Horné Saliby and accused of many crimes, some secular and some religious. The latter would have damned her swiftly had the authorities been either wholly Papist or Protestant, but the Church was tearing at itself all through the Holy Roman Empire, and Hungary most of all. Dorottya lived or died on a matter of theological jurisdiction.
The word of a Báthory was iron, though, most especially when that iron was adulterated with gold. Erzsébet sent a letter and a casket to the elders of the town, the former entreating them to show Christian mercy to a poor unfortunate sinner, the latter remunerating them for the time they would spend stroking their moustaches and signing the documents of release. Soon after, Dorottya and her accomplice were on a coach on the rough way to Csejte.
Dorottya had not aged or changed, or so it seemed to Erzsébet. Instead, she had diminished. She was still a peasant woman without any of that class’s proper deference, willing to stare her betters in the eye, kneeling only on sufferance. Before, Erzsébet had been weak and Dorottya had the power to bring life or give death its rein. Now Dorottya came to her from the shadow of the noose and Erzsébet sat on a Countess’s grand throne and looked down on her.
Erzsébet waved away pleasantry. “When last we met, there was a darkness on this house that you drove away. Now I find you at the mercy of a pack of councilmen and their dogs. Are you fallen so far?” Are you no use to me?
“The Dragon has influence in many places,” Dorottya said, undaunted. “Many mortal authorities hear his voice in their ear.”
“You still fight him, then?”
“And will rid this land of him by and by.” Dorottya drew herself to her full height, gathering what tatters of esoteric mystery her imprisonment had left her with. “I thank you, Countess, for your hospitality, but my work goes on.”
“And how do you go about such work?” Erzsébet countered, letting a sneer through her regal calm. “My people hear stories of you, Dorottya Semtész. Had they not taken you at Horné it would have been some other town. There is a trail you leave, of suspicion and sudden deaths. I hear tell of poisoned girls, daughters missing, bodies found on hillsides where you have passed. Will you tell me this is all him? How far will you travel, to escape those who name your victims?”
Dorottya was very still. “Of all people, Countess, you understand the cost of my work. There is but one currency that can match the Dragon, strength for strength.” There was the slightest tremble in her voice. “Countess, he has a century and a half to give him strength. I… have had to do such things, but it is for a greater good…”
Erzsébet laughed scornfully, silencing her. “Tell me one thing before I pronounce sentence on you. You said before that his prey is women and he loves most the blood of young, innocent maids. What of men, Dorottya? Are they beneath his notice?”
The crafty look that came into the peasant’s eyes was far too sharp. “Your husband is gone to fight the Turk, is he not?”
Erzsébet regarded her impassively.
“There are some things he retains still, from when he was no more than mortal. Two elements of his nature have survived almost intact: a desire for women and a hatred of the Turk he fought in life. Do you think he is not known, for all his name is not recorded in the rolls of honour? Do you think the Ottoman host will ever go into his mountains, or besiege his castle? The Kings of Hungary have long known that there is a stretch of their border that need never fear conquest from the south, no matter what else is lost. So, yes, Countess, he may go amongst men engaged in such a venture, and he may touch their minds and steer them, and make them his. And most especially if such work would open the doors to return to you, for he forgets no soul that he has been denied. And so I ask you, Countess, let me continue my work.”
“Your murders.”
“Will you condemn me, who knows my purpose better than anyone?” Dorottya took two steps towards her. “It is necessary.”
“You passed through these lands last year,” Erzsébet noted. “I have reports of seven young women dead in your wake. Did you make the most of their blood as you fled their families?”
“Countess…”
“My husband’s family bought Csejte for me as a wedding present. All these villages are mine and under my protection.”
“Countess, please.” Now Dorottya’s voice was flat. She stood still, awaiting the fall of the axe.
“Your grand work,” Erzsébet went on. “Living from town to town, hiding like a rat, escaping just in time or not at all. He will outlive you.”
“I do what I can,” Dorottya said bitterly. “Who else even has the will to fight the Dragon?”
Erzsébet felt a release, as though some intricate lock, long in the turning, had been released. “I will fight him. And you will be my servant and my teacher, and between us we will break the back of his power.”
There was a brief flash of rebellion in the woman’s eyes. “My work…”
“Seventeen villages around Csejte,” Erzsébet pronounced. “More around Sárvár and Németkeresztúr. Mine, Dorottya. The beams and bricks of them, the bodies and souls. And the blood; of course, the blood. Is it not time that your work found a proper patroness?”
Dorottya just stared at her, like a woman who thought she was seeing a lantern when in fact it was the sun.
IV.
From the Day Book of Erzsébet Báthory
9th February 1582, Sárvár
Word from Dorottya at Németkeresztúr. Under my writ she has recruited three for service and had them confined within the castle. She reports limited gain from light beating and remonstrance, but reluctant to proceed to bloodletting without my being present. Instructed her to progress to pins and I will travel to join her as soon as I am able.
Judit has been clumsy at service here and, when reprimanded, had a definite defiance in her eye. Had her held upon the battlements unclad until third hour past midnight then brought to me. In her weakened state, merely touching her chilled flesh resulted in a minor gain of strength, which made me suspect she had been brought close to death. Applied pins beneath fingernails as per the usual procedure to draw blood. She was all apology and contrition now, not realising her repentance was no longer sought, nor even an object lesson for others. Her screaming and invoking of saints and pleas wore at my nerves. Judit has always been shrill. Informed her she could take the pins out herself if she wished to suffer the consequences. Watching her try to remove the pins with chilled fingers was amusing, as she often struck against the metal without dislodging it, causing yet more pain. After, I had her fingers struck off. The result exceeded previous cases by a considerable factor. A curious thing: the hope given her definitely affected the drawing process—at first inhibiting the gaining of strength from her, later, when that hope was dashed, greatly enhancing it. Must write to Dorottya suggesting further experiment.
Ilona is gone to Pozsony to procure more staff, but no word from her yet.
Németkeresztúr, 1583
WHEN SHE WAS very young, Erzsébet had watched her father execute a gypsy. The man was accused of selling his child to the Turk, but in truth he was simply a gypsy who had been caught with a few coins on him, and who would miss such a man? She remembered the thrill she had felt, at the death. The man had been so vital before, so full of cries and begging, and then he had been dead, and where had all that life gone?
Later, before her marriage, she had demanded perfection of the women who waited on her, and the servants below them. She had them beaten if they failed her. She had beaten them herself more than once. In the bonds of pain, she had felt something pass from them to her. And after all, she was their mistress, their ruler. Everything of theirs was hers, and if so,
surely that included blood and life and soul.
When the pale man had killed the Turkish ambassador, she had felt the moment when the life passed, the strength fleeing at the point of death to vanish into the shadow of the Dragon’s cloak. The blood was the life, yes, but so were all the stages on the road to it. Simply opening a throat like a worker in an abattoir would waste all that power and vital essence. They needed to gather it, husband and harvest it so that Erzsébet could steep herself in that strength. He had been drawing on the strength of others for centuries. He had shown that the dominion of a feudal overlord was a thing not limited by mortal constraints or mundane power. And if they were to overcome him, they must follow him on that path. Dorottya had the knowledge, but she had never been able to properly refine her methods. Only now, her head bowed to Erzsébet, did she have the opportunity.
And they could not do it alone, just the two of them, and Erzsébet could trust none of her family retainers in the work. Oh, the servants could bring girls in and the guards could lock them up, but that was not the true work, after all.
Ilona Jó was Dorottya’s apprentice, a peasant who had suffered some depredation of his—Erzsébet didn’t care about the details, so long as Ilona was dedicated to the cause and did not seek power on her own account. By now, Dorottya had already passed the tipping point, so that the peasant deferred to the noblewoman, as it should be. When they were together drawing strength from the blood and the bruises and the screams, it was Erzsébet first to the table, and Dorottya grudgingly content with her leavings.
A year ago they had recruited Fickó from a prison; a stunted little creature, half-mad, he had lived with the wolves out in the forest and bloodied his teeth on their kills. Unlettered and wild, still he had ended up on the same scent as they, drawing the strength of others into himself for all he could not use it. Dorottya hoped his grisly feasting would unlock some vital secret, for they still fell short of what he could accomplish. They could not drink the pure well of life with the blood, nor devour it with the flesh. They could merely tap the cask imperfectly, with rods and switches, pins and knives. When he came at last, they would not be able to contest sovereignty with him; he would make Erzsébet bow the knee once more. And she was done with humbling herself before anyone else’s dream.
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