The King narrowed his eyes. “The accounts of the parish priest are true?”
“True and more. The church cemetery is filled with the bodies of young women, all of whom have served the Countess. Their bodies were mangled and devoid of blood. I have seen them with my own eyes. They say the Countess bathes in their blood to preserve her youth.”
“What tidings are these? Is she a witch, Thurzo? I will have her burned!”
“Forgive me, my Lord. If she is a witch and burned at the stake, the Church will receive her lands,” said Thurzo, daring to raise his head and look steadily into the King’s eyes.
“He is right, Your Majesty,” said Klesl. “Heresy and witchcraft are the Church’s domain. It will seize all possessions.”
“I cannot let such a woman terrorize my kingdom! Have we not seen enough mayhem and death by the heathen Turks?” said Matthias. “We will bring the Countess to trial. Have you any witnesses?”
“With good time I believe I can procure all the witnesses we need. The pastor is willing to testify.”
“But punishment of her servants, even to the death—all this is within the limits of the law,” said Klesl. “We could not bring a noblewoman of Bathory’s standing to trial for abusing her own peasants. She has broken no law.”
“There is one servant girl who escaped from the Countess with her life,” said Thurzo. “She may be persuaded to testify. And she has information that is damning, even to a woman as powerful as Erzsebet Bathory.”
The bishop raised an eyebrow. “Who is this girl?”
“I met her in the village, a maiden whose hands were scorched for stealing food. The local healer brought her to me as Palatine. The girl exposed her wounded hands to me. They both begged me to stop the torture in Čachtice Castle. The healer said that there are no local girls who will work again in the castle, that the Countess is a monster.”
“Again, we cannot prosecute a noblewoman for what she does to her own servants,” said Bishop Klesl.
“Yes,” said the Count, “but this particular maiden was privy to conversations between the Countess and a witch named Darvulia. The Countess insisted the blood of peasants was not pure enough, that she was aging once more. She wanted to attract young maidens of impoverished nobility to lodge in Čachtice Castle, with the lure of teaching them the manners of upper nobility.”
The Count took a step closer to the King and lowered his voice. “If she dares to harm them in any way, Your Majesty could take action against her.”
The King moved to the edge of his chair in rapt attention. He sought the bishop’s eye.
Melchior Klesl nodded. “Yes. Such a crime could be prosecuted under law. If Bathory were convicted, all her property would be confiscated and revert to the Crown. And of course just rewards to the Palatine who brings proof of her crimes.”
Count Thurzo bent low to the King, obscuring his smile at Melchior’s words.
Chapter 31
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 20, 2010
The azure-haired girl poured Grace a cup of Earl Grey tea from a teapot of museum-quality porcelain. The historian’s eye studied the inverted trumpet-flower spout, the precision of the Isnik Turkish blue flowers on white background.
Soft-paste. Medici porcelain. White clay from Vincenza mixed with glass, copied from the Chinese porcelains, design borrowed from the Turkish invaders. The end of the sixteenth century.
Priceless.
This could be from Rudolf II’s collection at the Kunstkammer. At the very least it belonged to a house of highest nobility.
Grace closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She was kidnapped, subjected to blood-drinking madwomen, and then served tea from an art treasure. Who was this count, this madman who held her captive?
At least the blue-haired girl was the only person who now came close to her. The psychotic vampire women had been banished since their meltdown.
“Sugar?” the girl asked, her Slovak accent soft and lilting.
“No, just milk, please.”
How bizarre, thought Grace, that I should be shown such manners in the household of my captor, my husband’s murderer. Sugar indeed!
“Tell me your name,” said Grace, accepting the cup.
The girl glanced at the locked door.
“Draska.”
“Draska?” said Grace, remembering. A sob rose in her throat, but she checked it. It was the name her husband had called her in moments of tenderness.
“It means ‘loved one’ in Slovakian,” said the girl.
Grace fluttered her eyelids, blinking back tears.
“Yes, Draska,” said Grace, composing herself again. “How could you ever wind up serving the Count?”
“Excuse me. My English no good. Repeat please.”
“Why do you work for the Count?”
“My mother, she cook. She and grandmother cook for he family, family Bathory, many years.”
“His family, his is the possessive pronoun. Not he family. ”
Draska smiled brightly, thought better of it, and looked at the carpeted floor.
“You know I am a prisoner?” said Grace, stirring her tea.
Draska hesitated.
“Yes, you guest. Count needs you.”
Grace flung the silver spoon on the carpet.
“Damn it! I am not a guest! I was kidnapped.”
The girl’s eyes flashed open, startled. She bent down to pick up the teaspoon.
“No understand.”
Grace fought for control. Screaming would be too easy and too wrong.
“Why does the Count need me? Why does he want my daughter?”
“I no know.”
“I don’t know.”
Draska smiled at the correction. “Yes, I don’t know. Good teacher. You teach me English.”
“My daughter will be worried about me. Just like your mother would be worried about you.”
Draska ducked her head. “Yes,” she mumbled.
Grace saw the girl’s pity. She seized upon it. “Maybe if I could get word to my daughter somehow.”
“Send e-mail.”
Grace stared at the girl.
“I can’t e-mail. There is no internet on that computer.”
“Oh.”
Grace drank her tea, wondering what the girl knew and didn’t know.
“Do you have e-mail?”
Draska smiled. “I have e-mail. I have text message. I have cell phone. I Twitter.”
“You could e-mail my daughter and tell her I am alive and well. You don’t have to tell her your name.”
Draska shifted her weight on her feet and shook her head vehemently. “Count not like. Count knows everything.”
Of course, thought Grace. He is probably monitoring Betsy’s e-mail somehow. Maybe the techie nerd has tapped into her account. Bathory then would read any communication that aroused suspicion, especially one sent from Slovakia.
“What if you were to send an e-mail to another friend, in another country?” Grace whispered, looking around the room for a hidden camera. “Do you have friends in other countries?”
Draska hesitated. “Here, good lady,” she said. “Help me correct my English on the computer.”
“Correct your English?” said Grace.
“See my homework in English. I have grammar questions. You correct, yes?”
Draska sat down at the computer, leaning her body close to the monitor. She opened a Word document and typed in:
MY COUSIN LIVE IN LONDON.
Grace began to smile, and then checked her emotion. She said, “The first person singular of ‘live’ is ‘lives.’ You must remember to add the ‘s’. Let me give you a few examples.”
She, too, moved close to the monitor, her back obscuring any hidden camera that might be focused on them. She set down her cup of tea.
GOOD. YOUR COUSIN SENDS A MESSAGE TO MY DAUGHTER. IT DOESN’T MENTION YOU OR ME. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. BUT SHE WILL KNOW IT IS FROM ME.
“Now see. I have written three sentences with errors. Can you rewrite them correctly?” said Grace, pointing at the screen.
Draska nodded, taking her place at the computer.
COUNT KNOW EVERYTHING. VERY DANGEROUS.
“Good, but not good enough. Look, you made a mistake here. I’ll correct it and we’ll try some negative third-person singular. Those are harder.”
WRITE TO YOUR COUSIN. USE A FRIEND’S COMPUTER AND AT THE END, INCLUDE MY MESSAGE. TELL HER TO CUT AND PASTE AND SEND IT ON TO MY DAUGHTER. IT COMES FROM .UK INSTEAD OF .SK. I WILL GIVE YOU TWO LETTERS. TELL YOUR COUSIN TO SEND THEM A FEW DAYS APART SO THERE IS NO SUSPICION.
“OK. Put the sentences in negative, third person singular.” Grace shifted position, always careful to block the computer screen.
MUST THINK. COUNT KNOWS EVERYTHING!
Draska closed the document, no changes saved.
“Thank you for lesson. Good teacher. Finish tea?”
Grace looked at the interior of her empty cup. Ancient white porcelain. Kings, queens, or other nobility had pressed their lips to the same gold rim. She stared into the young woman’s eyes, searching for some sign of agreement, some reassurance.
“I bring you dinner at six o’clock, Madam. Thank you for English lesson.”
Draska gathered up the teacup, saucer, and ornate silver spoon, placing them on a tray. Grace listened to the bright clink of the porcelain as it rattled away toward the door. She couldn’t help but wince, thinking of such an objet d’art being treated as common crockery.
She heard the click of the lock as Draska left. Then the hollow click of heels down the hall.
Chapter 32
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
DECEMBER 20, 2010
John made the plane reservations online to leave the next morning. He alerted the American Embassy he and Betsy were arriving and rented a car in Bratislava.
All the traits that had contributed to their divorce—his concrete, black-and-white approach to resolving conflicts, breaking down a situation to a mathematical problem—now comforted Betsy. When they were married, she had accused him of handling their relationship with cold calculation, never allowing things to flow naturally, no room for spontaneity or a last-minute hunch.