“Good girls, they were. When they were babes, I would pinch their cheeks and watch them play on the village square. Now they are gone,” he sighed. “I shall never dance at their weddings.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Gone. Disappeared. But no one dares whisper a word—except for our village preacher, a good Lutheran, with God’s own pure fury in his soul. All the villagers are scared to speak, even the desperate mothers who cry themselves to sleep at night. The Countess makes up stories, tales that the girls have gone to serve at her other castles or at her house in Vienna.”
“How do you know they are not?”
“No one ever hears from them again.”
The sentries spotted Janos long before he reached the ramparts of the castle.
“Who goes there?” a guard shouted in German.
“Janos Szilvasi, horsemaster from Sarvar Castle of Nadasdy. I am here to serve Countess Bathory.”
The guards had been expecting Szilvasi for a fortnight. They let down the plank used for foot traffic.
“Master Szilvasi—welcome to Čachtice Castle,” said the head guard, straightening his hat over his gray hair. He was immaculately dressed: a red jacket skimming over his hips, a black wool hat, a sword at his side. His boots were of fine leather, with not a trace of manure or straw and no dark stains of horse sweat. Janos frowned at the gleaming footwear.
“My name is Erno Kovach,” continued the man. “I command the Countess’s castle guards.” He did not extend his hand. “You look too young to be a horsemaster.”
Janos saw the man studying him, gray eyes flicking from Janos’s worn boots to his well-traveled cap.
“When my father was sent to fight in the Ottoman wars and train our King Rudolf’s cavalry, I took over his position at Sarvar Castle. I am skilled enough, Guard Kovach,” Janos said, his tone of voice challenging the guard. “I was called away from my duties at Sarvar to serve the Countess by her mandate.”
Erno Kovach regarded the blond young man, the red blossom of youth still coloring his cheeks. He wondered if this boy truly had the command of horses his legendary father possessed, or whether the Countess had summoned him for his handsome countenance, and especially his youth.
“And your father now?”
“He trains the white Spanish stallions in Vienna for King Matthias.”
Kovach grunted. “Follow me, Szilvasi. I will accompany you to the stables. Jiri—send notice to the Countess that her horsemaster has arrived.”
“Yes, Captain.”
A cobweb of frost clung to the granite blocks of the castle wall. As they emerged from the archway into the busy courtyard, Janos’s eyes took in a whirl of activity. Flocks of chickens pecked the cobblestones for grubs. Butchers stripped entrails from hanging pigs and handed the buckets of guts to the sausage maker who selected the choice bits for his grinder, hurling the slop in the drainage ditch for the dogs and ravens to devour. Knives flashed as farmers trimmed huge heads of cabbage, sharp blades hacking away the tough outer leaves and stalks. The dairyman pulled his wares from a wooden cart, offering them to a stout cook who stood with her hands on her wide h*ps as he boasted of the quality of his product, pulling back the linen cloth so she could inspect the crocks of butter and wheels of fresh cheese.
Children chased flocks of geese about the cobblestones, only to run shrieking when a gander turned on them, hissing through his sharp yellow beak and flapping his powerful wings.
A mutton carcass roasted on an enormous spit, the fat sizzling and sparking the coals into flames. The fire licked the meat, spreading the rich aroma through the air. A blacksmith pounded on his anvil, the sound ringing over the courtyard. Bits of molten iron flew, glowing yellow-orange, leaving scorch marks on the worn stones of the courtyard.
Janos followed the guard to the stables. A team of ragged boys assembled in a line in front of the arched entry. Despite the cold, fat lazy flies buzzed from piles of warm manure and the stench of aged horse piss stung Janos’s nose.
“Welcome to your domain, horsemaster,” announced the guard captain, sweeping his arm wide.
Janos wrinkled his nose and his jaw clenched, muscles working taut under his skin.
“What conditions are these for Bathory horses!” he said, his voice rising in anger. He whirled around. “Who is responsible for this?”
One of the older boys came forward, his face smeared with dirt.
“I am, sir. My uncle was in charge until he took ill with the plague. He died a fortnight ago,” said the boy. He ran his dirty sleeve under his runny nose.
Janos trembled with fury, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side.
“Bring out the horses. At once!”
One after another, the horses of Čachtice Castle were brought out into the courtyard, which was paved in end-cut wooden blocks. There were twenty-seven horses in all, and every one showed evidence of neglect. There were boils on the backs of several, proud flesh festering over wounds, cracked hooves. Several were lame with blistered coronets from standing in old urine-soaked straw. Two bay mares were crippled with thrush. When Janos picked up their hooves, he saw the soggy flesh and smelled the stench of rot.
The last horse, three boys brought out together.
The white stallion reared, his front hooves flashing. His eyes were ringed in white and his piercing neigh was a threat that ricocheted around the castle walls. The boys held him by ropes trying to keep him on the ground.
He, like all the others, was thin despite the band of muscle that still clung to his powerful neck.
“These wretched horses are starving!” said Janos. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in one of the windows of the castle. But his attention returned quickly to the horses.
“We feed them, but the horses have no appetite,” said the head boy. Janos looked closer at the boy’s eyes. They were shining with fever.
“They nose aside the grass and choose to starve,” said the boy. Janos saw the beads of sweat on his face. His cheeks burned bright red, his eyes glassy.
“What is your name?”
“Aloyz, sir.”
“Aloyz, you are ill.”
“Yes, Master Janos,” he said, shuffling his rag-tied feet. “But do not send me away, I beg of you. I need to work for our family, else we will starve.”
Janos nodded. “Where is the hay?”
Aloyz beckoned him to a leaky wooden-shingled hayshed. The grass was wet and mottled with black, white cobwebs lacing the mildewed interior.
“The Countess is lucky she has any horses left!”
The head guard approached Janos. “The Countess said to give you this.”
In the Kovach’s hands was a braided leather horsewhip, glistening black in the sunlight. Janos wrinkled his brow.
“What is this? I shall not strike these miserable horses.”
Kovach looked over his shoulder toward the castle.
“Take it!” he said, shoving the whip into the horsemaster’s hands.
Janos let the whip drop into the mildewed hay. He glared scornfully at the head guard and turned to the stallion which still raged and reared, lathered now with sweat.
“Easy, boy,” said Janos, approaching him. The horse reared again, and the three boys pulled hard on their ropes.
“Stand back, Szilvasi! That horse is mad,” shouted Guard Kovach.
“Easy, boy, calm down, now, easy, easy,” said Janos. He looked down at the horse’s lightning-fast hooves, not meeting the animal’s eyes.
Janos stretched out a hand, slowly. The stallion snorted, but did not rear. He snorted again, bunching his long neck muscles in a tight arch, then he turned his muzzle toward Szilvasi’s outstretched hand.
Janos reached out and stroked the stallion’s neck.
The horse slowly released the knotted muscles and lowered his head, his nostrils flaring as he pulled in the scent of the man. He snorted and stamped his front foot, not fully convinced to trust a human.
“How long since this horse has been ridden?” Janos asked.
The boys looked at each other and then to the ground.
“No one rides him, sir,” said the leader. “He cannot be handled. He was bred as Count Nadasdy’s mount, but the noble gentleman died before the dam foaled.”
Janos slowly worked his hand up the horse’s neck, toward his head. The horse lifted his head slightly, his skin quivering spasmodically as if covered with flies. The beast’s nostrils flared, showing red, and his eyes remained ringed in white.
But he allowed Szilvasi to touch his broad chest.
Szilvasi turned toward the guard. “Please tell the Countess that the horsewhip will not be necessary,” said Janos, his hand moving toward the horse’s withers.
Keeping a wary eye on the stallion, the guard approached Janos and whispered in his ear. “The whip is not for the horses. It is to be used on the stable boys.”
Janos dropped his hand from the horse’s withers and the stallion jumped back, dragging the boys with him.
Janos looked the guard in the eye. Then he turned toward the window where he had seen movement a few minutes before. He stared at the castle and lifted his chin in the cold air.
“Send back the whip to the Countess,” Janos said, his words steady and calm. “Tell her I shall have no need of it for boy or beast.”
Chapter 5
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
NOVEMBER 28, 2010
And you might want to be a little more professional about your office,” Jane had said again, picking Daisy up from yesterday’s session.
“Get yourself a good maid. Maybe one of those Mexican women next door? Pick up all the clutter. When was the last time you dusted?”
Betsy sighed.
Jane was right. I am the world’s worst housekeeper.
Betsy cast her eye about the little Victorian house, hands on her hips. The small of her back ached just thinking about cleaning up.
Periodicals—Quadrant, Jung Journal, The Journal of Analytical Psychology—lay scattered across every horizontal space in the house. Towers of Jungian textbooks teetered, their balance precarious, especially when Ringo wagged his tail.