When you’re strange
No one remembers your name…
Daisy pulled out the earbuds and pressed the PAUSE button. She kneeled in the snow, touching the tombstone with her gloved hand in the silence.
And she wondered: What kind of name was Ceslav?
Chapter 8
ČACHTICE CASTLE
NOVEMBER 28, 1610
At dusk, the courtyard of Čachtice Castle slipped into silence. The butchers who stained the cobblestones red with their slaughters had gone home, the geese were locked away in their coops, the clang of the smith’s hammer was silenced. The dairyman’s wagon had creaked down the long rutted road to the village. The sausage maker’s cast-offs had long been consumed by the ravens and dogs, and the last of the blood licked clean by the cats. The soap-maker’s shavings had been mixed with water to make a lather and rinse off the remains of the day, leaving the stones wet and polished, the moon’s reflection dappling the gleaming courtyard. The torches cast shifting waves of brightness across the walls of the castle, and sentries stood watch in the moonlight.
A thin servant with nervous eyes came to summon Horsemaster Szilvasi to the castle.
Janos wore an open-neck white linen tunic over his dark breeches. It was the kind of shirt a wealthy farmer might wear to a horse fair or tavern. He wore no coat, only a boiled-wool riding jacket, threadbare with age.
The servant surveyed him, moistening his dry lips.
“Sir, forgive me. Do you have anything more suitable to wear before the Countess?”
Janos narrowed his eyes at the servant, clad in black velvet, the silver hooks of his fine cloak gleaming in the torchlight. The horsemaster dropped his eyes to scan his own clean white shirt.
“No, this will do,” he said, testily. “I am a horseman, not a castle servant.”
“Very good, sir. It is just that—”
“What?”
“The Countess is…fastidious.”
“I wish she were more fastidious with the care of her horses,” answered Janos. “And in welcoming a weary traveler from Sarvar Castle.”
The servant took a step back. His eyes were ringed in white, much as the horses’ had been.
“I beg you, sir!” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Do not criticize the Countess in my presence.” The servant looked about the empty courtyard, searching the shadows for spies.
“You are scared of your own shadow, man! Take me to the Countess,” said Janos, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand. “I am losing patience. And I am weary for my bed.”
The courtyard was treacherous, the water on the cobblestones already beginning to freeze. The servant worked his way around the edge of the yard, placing his feet carefully. Janos followed, the click of his riding boots sounding a steady beat on the stone.
The guards opened the massive door of the castle, hinges creaking despite regular coats of pork grease. A servant took Janos aside and patted him roughly, searching for weapons.
“There are enemies of the Bathorys,” he said as way of explanation.
The tapestry-hung halls were illuminated by wrought-iron candelabras. Ornately carved furniture—chairs, chests, and long tables—shone darkly with thick coats of beeswax. The walls—where not covered by tapestries—were hung with oil portraits of Nadasdy and Bathory ancestors, men in gleaming armor, their hands on bejeweled swords, ready to kill the Islamic invaders. One portrait showed the Countess’s husband, Ferenc Nadasdy, triumphantly seated atop a pile of slain Ottoman warriors, their blood coating his boots.
Ferenc had been dead for five years, killed by a wound received in battle—though in the taverns of Nadasdy, it was whispered that the mortal injury was inflicted by a disgruntled harlot whom he neglected to pay.
The air was rich with kitchen odors, wild boar roasting in the open hearth. Janos knew the savory smell, soured by the stink of singed hair where stray bristles had remained in the flesh. The bitter smell of burning hair was chased by the sweet aroma of autumn apples.
Outside an oaken door on the first floor flocked a half dozen young maidens in court finery. Their long silk skirts, laced velvet bodices, and finely beaded headpieces must have been fetched from Vienna, thought Janos, for there was certainly nothing as refined to be found in the wilds of Upper Hungary.
The ladies-in-waiting curtsied and lowered their heads as the horsemaster approached, though he could see them sneaking looks. He heard one stifle a gasp, and a muffled giggle.
“There is no need to bow, maidens,” said Janos in German. “I am a servant, just as you serve the Countess.”
The Slovak women giggled at his fine manners and Hungarian accent. A couple of bolder girls made eyes at him.
The manservant rapped gently on the door, and it opened a crack to expose the mouth and nose of a pretty—though painfully thin—servant girl. They exchanged murmured words and then the door was quietly opened. Janos was ushered into a vast chamber, illuminated by chandeliers with hundreds of flickering candles.
The room was square and sparse. At the far end sat a black-veiled woman.
“Approach, Master Szilvasi,” called the woman. Her starched lace collar stood straight out from her neck like a square banner, quivering slightly as she spoke.
Janos’s face twitched with impatience, but he wisely chose to compose himself before he reached her shrouded presence.
He stood a few feet from what appeared to be a throne—and bowed deeply. He stared at the Countess’s red-slippered feet, peeking out of the stiff folds of silver and gold brocade.
Janos wrinkled his nose. A strong smell of copper coins wafted through the air, metallic and acrid. His eye surreptitiously hunted for its source.
“Countess Bathory, it is an honor,” he said.
“Is it?” she said. “I have heard that you were impatient for your bed.”
Janos swallowed, marveling at how quickly gossip traveled in this castle. Then he collected his thoughts, thinking of the conditions in which he had found the horses.
“You heard correctly. Your—what would you call them, spies?—have served you well. Yes, Countess. I am tired after two days of hard travel and a grueling day in the stables.”
“Spies? You are impertinent, Pan Szilvasi! They are loyal servants who report the truth and warn me of ill conduct.”
“What do you consider ill conduct, Madame? I come from the Sarvar Castle—your own property. At your request, Madame.”
“You needn’t remind me, as if I am too aged and addled to remember!” she snapped.
Janos decided to take another approach, muting his anger.
“I am devoted to the horses and will see that they thrive and are trained to the utmost of my ability. Your stable shall be worthy of the Bathory name.”
Janos could see the black veil tremble. He wondered what lay behind the curtain of black mesh.
“I understand my stable boys have disappointed you.”
“The horses are in bad condition, Countess,” said Janos. “I will work hard the next few weeks to bring them back to health.”
“My stable master died and his nephew is an idiot,” said the countess, lifting the veil from her face, and folding it over her dark auburn hair.
“I—”
Janos stopped speaking. He stared at the white face, skin as smooth as fine marble, the color of Venetian porcelain. Burning amber eyes, unlike any he had ever seen, stared at him under delicately arched brows.
The woman looked inhuman, a perfect statue created by the most skillful sculptor. Except the eyes. The eyes were feral, catlike. She was stunningly beautiful. He could not look away. His eyes ran over her features, again and again, hunting for imperfection.
He found none, despite her age.
She nodded to the footman, who handed her the braided leather horsewhip.
“You returned this to me,” she said. “I sent it to you with a purpose.”
Janos made himself look at the horsewhip and not the woman’s face.
“It was not necessary. The horses do not need whipping and the stable boys are simply ignorant.”
“The sting of the whip can quickly correct ignorance.”
“I find other methods more effective, Countess.”
There was a little gasp among the throng of handmaidens.
The Countess gave them a sharp look. A sudden silence settled into even the most remote corners of the room.
“They say you inherited your father’s—nay, your grandfather’s—uncanny dominion over horses. I remember him from my childhood at Sarvar Castle. I was fifteen when I was brought as a bride there.”
“I understand horses. It is not dominion.”
“Do you believe you can ride my white stallion?”
“I know I can.”
The marble face broke into a smile that was somehow hideous, as if the sculptor who had created her had never meant for such an emotional betrayal to cross that visage. The sculpted features, haughty and perfect, looked as if they would shatter, casting jagged white shards on the floor.
Then the face regained its marble composure, no expression marring the milky smoothness.
“Is there something lacking in my performance, Countess?”
“Yes,” answered the perfect face. “Bozek, show Horsemaster Szilvasi back to his quarters.”
The manservant appeared out of the shadows, at Janos’s elbow.
“There is one thing you lack, young horsemaster,” said the Countess, lowering her veil once more.
“And what might that be?”
“Humility,” she said. “But you shall learn it here at Čachtice Castle.”
She snapped her fingers, the sound echoing through the great hall.
Two guards seized Janos, their strong fingers biting into his arm. He was whisked back into the hall. The torch flames leapt, fed by the gust of wind as the massive door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter 9
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
NOVEMBER 29, 2010
Betsy heard footsteps outside on the porch. She opened the door.
“Dr. Path?”
Framed by the blue trim of the door was the most striking young woman Betsy had ever seen.