by Sarah Rayne
Somehow he must find the strength to go on. He must ignore the tiredness, the frightening fits of exhaustion. The blood taking back what once it gave. . . – please, not yet. Not until he could be sure that Pietro was safe. Not until Pietro was in Varanno, ready to step into the place that was his by right. Until then, he must keep about his shoulders the mantle of authority, the charisma, the power . . .
As Elizabeth had done. As his forebears had done. And as he had been brought up to do.
Elizabeth Bathory condemning disobedient serving girls to the torture chambers below Csejthe . . . Licking her beautiful lips as she trod down the narrow dungeon steps by night . . . Striking fear into the hearts of the villagers.
But ruling.
It had been important to keep the village people in Csejthe continually afraid of her. Elizabeth rather enjoyed seeing their cringing faces and their frightened scuttlings when she went down from the castle, riding in the fur-covered sled in the depths of winter, using the crested carriage at other times. After the snooping Ponikenus came to Csejthe, it was even more important to keep them subdued and fearful, because Ponikenus with his long, prying nose and his righteous, jowly face was poking into things that were nothing to do with him. He was asking questions about the disappearance of village girls, and he was spreading stories that Csejthe’s Lady had unnatural appetites. She stole children to feed her warped desires. Perhaps she sacrificed them to dark gods, said Ponikenus, who was not without some learning. It was Ponikenus who coined the phrase ‘donning the scarlet cloak’, which made Elizabeth laugh when she heard it, because the puling pastor thought she killed purely for sexual gratification. The nuisance-creature had almost found the truth, but he had completely missed the real core.
Immortality. Beautiful for ever . . .
It was irritating when the credulous villagers became so frightened that they sent away their daughters as soon as they were of an age to be interesting, but it was not a huge tragedy. Dorko and Illona could be ordered to scour the countryside further afield; girls could be found in the teeming Vienna Streets, where life was less narrow. ‘Come with me to my castle, my dears . . . Come inside and see what I can give you . . .’
In the meantime, there was no reason not to make use of the villagers’ fear.
The Csejthe villagers agreed that it was a grief to lose their daughters, but it would have been a far worse grief to know that their innocent lovely girls had been dragged into the Lady’s torture chambers so that she might don her scarlet cloak. That was a very nasty thought indeed.
They had learned to live in the Lady’s shadow by this time, and in the main she did not trouble them. The great Count was away at war for most of the time, and the villagers were left to their own devices so that they could go quietly about their work, farming their small pieces of land, tending their modest vineyards or spinning the wool from the soft fleeces of the mountain sheep.
But for all that, the Lady owned them and not one of them would have dared to disobey her. Not one would have dared refuse an order, no matter how sinister it might seem.
The blacksmith who had his forge at the village centre, did not refuse the request made of him that winter’s afternoon. He had been working happily and absorbedly at his forge, which was a good thing for a man to do on such a cold day, and he had not heard the carriage or even the horses’ hooves outside. It seemed to him that at one minute his forge had been its normal homely place – smelling pleasantly of hot iron and good honest sweat and echoing with the rhythmic ring of the hammer on metal – and the next it had been a place of twisted crimson shadows and hungry evil. And although he could see that outside was the black carriage with the Nádasdy arms emblazoned on its panels, and that the horses were ordinary flesh and blood and bone creatures with vapour blowing from their nostrils into the cold air, still he had the feeling that something inhuman had stepped across his threshold.
Seen close to, she was much smaller than he had imagined, and possessed of a startling, fragile beauty. When she said, ‘You know who I am, Master Smith?’ her voice was soft and gentle and wholly unthreatening.
He stared wordlessly at her for a moment, because of course he knew who she was, and although he knew the tales, he had not expected her to be quite so frail or quite so small and fine-boned. You could snap her wristbones in your hands if you had a mind to do so. A frail little thing, thought the blacksmith, and then reminded himself very sharply that this was Elizabeth Bathory; this was the Beast of Csejthe who was reputed to bathe in the blood of virgins. The blacksmith was a devout soul, and he had listened, round-eyed, to the warnings of their good pastor. It was on Ponikenus’s advice that he and his wife had sent away their two daughters – lovely girls both of them, and the youngest the apple of his eye; but it had had to be done if the children were to live to grow up.
Her skin was the palest he had ever seen, and the blacksmith flinched inwardly, remembering the legend. But her eyes were remarkable; great swirling black lakes that you could not help looking into, and that once you had looked into, transfixed you. A tiny part of his mind wondered whether she might not even be bewitching him just a little, and another part of his mind sketched the sign of the cross on his inner vision, because hadn’t Master Ponikenus told how the Lady trafficked with the sorceresses, and how she prowled the night forests and the mountains like the she-wolf many people believed her to be.
As she stood there, the gathering winter afternoon was behind her and the fires of the smithy twisted eerie shadows about her. The scarlet cloak . . . The blacksmith had never entirely believed the grisly expression, but now, staring at his unexpected guest, he did believe it. A mantle of wet blood cascading about her bare shoulders . . . Yes, it was credible. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to listen to the soft voice.
A cage, she said, her voice still light and gentle. A cage for which she would pay very well indeed, and which he was to fashion in a cylindrical shape, banded with strong metal hoops.
The blacksmith listened carefully and asked the dimensions that would be required, because you could not fashion such a thing unless you had the correct information, and the Lady regarded him unblinkingly. After a moment, she said, ‘It is to be no more than four feet from tip to base.’
An odd measurement. Large for an animal-trap, but a bit small for a man-trap. Warning fear pricked his skin, but he said, ‘Anything else?’ And waited.
Elizabeth said, ‘A door,’ and between one heartbeat and the next, her eyes took on the cold cruelty of a predator. ‘A door that is just sufficient to permit the caging of a large animal,’ she said, and there was the merest tilt to her sensual lips. The wolfsmile, thought the blacksmith staring. Something else I never believed, but there it is. And in the same instant, the Lady said, very softly, ‘A door that would allow for the capture of a large wolf,’ and the blacksmith jumped.
‘A wolf or a bear,’ she said, her eyes still fixed on him. ‘I wish to protect my land and you will know that such – predatory creatures roam at will hereabouts, Master Smith.’
Yes, the blacksmith knew about the wolves and the bears that roamed the Carpathian Mountains, and he knew, as well, about the other creatures that prowled through the darkness. She-wolves with human faces . . . But he nodded and made a note of the requirements carefully because, if you could write, which the blacksmith could, it did not hurt to let people see it.
Elizabeth said in her most honeyed voice. ‘The inside of the door is to have fixed to it jutting metal spikes. Horizontal.’
‘How many?’
Again the thoughtful pause. Again the curving wolfsmile. ‘As many as you can fit,’ she said.
It was not possible to refuse, and so the blacksmith set to with a heavy heart, working by night, so that no one should know what he was doing. Ponikenus had preached an earnest sermon that very week, telling how they should not allow fear of reprisal to deter them from delivering wickedness up to justice. God would protect the right-minded, said Ponikenus, the sweat
glistening pinkly on his face, his brows furrowed with the seriousness of his message. Every single soul in Csejthe Church had known that Ponikenus referred to the Lady, and every single soul thought: denounce Elizabeth Bathory? Not me! If you want to risk the Lady’s wrath, then you do it, Pastor! You call in the Grand Palatine and the magistrates! The more acid-minded of the congregation had mentally added: and see if God saves you from the castle torture dungeons! The blacksmith, working on the terrible cage in secrecy, pushed Ponikenus’s words from his mind and concentrated instead on the very large sum of money the Lady was paying him.
As the sinister instrument took shape, he found himself continually glancing over his shoulder in case something was crouching in the shadows watching him. Something that had the glossy sable pelt of a wolf, but the small pale face of Csejthe’s Lady . . .
He worked precisely and methodically, fashioning the cage exactly as she had specified, hating it more with every hour. At length it stood at the centre of the smithy, a fearsome, grinning contraption, the iron hoops washed with the glowing crimson light from the forge, the points of the metal spikes glinting. The door swung open with a little rasp of sound, and if you were at all fanciful, which the blacksmith hoped he was not, you might almost imagine it was chuckling to itself at the thought of its prey.
Come inside, my dears . . . Come inside and be skewered for your blood . . .
It was a terrible device, but the blacksmith did as he had been bidden: he conveyed the ugly, cumbersome thing up to the castle under cover of dusk, using a small wheeled cart, plodding up the mountain path, casting scared looks about him as he went. Once in the shadow of the great fortress, he rang the huge twisted iron rope and delivered his work into the hands of the ugly Illona who seemed to be expecting him.
He made a vow never to speak of what he had done, and after a time he almost erased from his mind the memory of the grinning cage.
But he did not manage to wipe Elizabeth Bathory’s dark, smouldering eyes from his inner vision, and she haunted his dreams, often wearing only the wet pouring cloak of blood.
Curiously the effect of these dreams was always strongly aphrodisiacal.
Elizabeth had been pleased with the fashioning of the great cylindrical cage, and it had been fun to bemuse the peasant smith and have him almost salivating at her feet. It was so very easy to dazzle these people, using their fear of her and her own allure.
The cage was taken to the dungeons until she decided how she would use it.
The half-dazzled, half-menaced blacksmith was put into a corner of her mind, until she might need him again.
Chapter Fourteen
There was no way of measuring time in the dungeon, but Hilary thought that several hours had passed since the porridge-soup had been brought. Assuming that had represented lunch, it was reasonable to suppose there would be an evening meal. Or did they not bother if you were going to be slaughtered for your blood? Childhood memories of every evil creature who had ever stalked the pages of Grimm or Andersen, putting children and maidens into cages and fattening them for the ovens, began to fill her mind.
The scuttling footsteps of Janos coming down the steps to the dungeons alerted her, and she saw the bobbing light of the box lantern enclosing the thick stubby candle which was what he had brought last time. Would it be evening now? Evening would make her plan easier.
She lay huddled on the straw, facing the iron gate, her eyes open only by a thin sliver. Through her lashes she saw Janos set the lantern down and unlock the gate. He was grinning to himself.
‘Supper for the white bird,’ he said in the harsh guttural voice that bore only the smallest resemblance to the cultured accents of the corpse-creatures.
She felt him pause as he registered her slumped position. He set the food down – there was the rasp of the metal dish against the stone shelf – and came to stand over her. Hilary forced herself to remain absolutely still and keep her eyes shut. She could sense Janos bending down, and there was the same stench of old blood and sour breath there had been when he had carried her here.
Janos’s hand came out to touch her hair, the calloused skin snagging against it. He was beginning to breathe harshly, raggedly, and Hilary felt revulsion crawl over her skin. Dear God, he is stroking me. He is caressing me. And it’s arousing him. She fought for control. Remember the plan. Live it. I’m unconscious, thought Hilary. I’m unwell from that blow to the head and from fear.
Janos was sliding his hand over her neck and her shoulders and Hilary forced herself to remain motionless. This was unspeakably terrible. Would the creature actually ravish her, here in the cell?
Janos was crouching over her, mumbling to himself. ‘Pretty white bird . . . Sleeping white bird. Like this can’t resist me. Can’t fight.’ Both hands came out, cupping her breasts, and Hilary flinched, and then moaned, as if half-conscious, as if in pain.
‘Sick,’ whispered Janos. ‘But Janos will make it better. Janos will love the pretty bird.’ And then – ‘But first to take away from here,’ he said. ‘Take to make better. Must keep alive. Must keep alive for the Masters’ feast.’ Hilary felt his hands sliding beneath her shoulders and her thighs, lifting her with a swift, easy movement. His muscles were like iron.
As he walked out of the cell, Hilary had to fight not to struggle. The plan was working: she had feigned illness so that she would be taken out of the dungeons. She had gambled on them needing to keep her alive and aware for their grisly banquet, and she had thought that, once beyond the locked cell, with her gaolers believing her unconscious, there would be a better chance of eluding them.
It seemed to be working. Janos was carrying her out of the cell; she could feel that he was treading up a steep, winding stair: his booted feet rang out on the stones and there was the feeling of dank walls closing about them. The dwarf’s hot, fetid breath gusted into her face, and then there was the sensation of being out in the open again, of smelling damp autumn scents: bracken and woodsmoke and the distant pine forests.
Hilary risked a quick, furtive glance between her lashes. As she had thought, they had come up a flight of steps, and they were on the edge of a small inner quadrangle surrounded by low, rather mean-looking buildings. She thought they would have been servants’ quarters; they were built of the same stone as the castle but they were clearly of lesser importance. And the shadows that slid across the cracked stone flags were touched with the purple and turquoise of dusk. Dusk . . . Night’s harbinger, when fugitives could slink in the shadows and be swallowed up by the darkness. Thank you, God.
The great bulk of the castle reared up before them. Janos crossed the quadrangle and went through a low door – had it been a wash-house? He threw her on to a narrow bed and there was the sound of a match striking, and the scrape of a glass funnel being adjusted over a lamp of some kind. Hilary risked another cautious look.
She had been right about the lamp: it was a heavy, old-fashioned thing of brass and copper, burning up brightly; in its spurious warmth, the dwarf’s room was very nearly cosy. It was small and low-ceilinged, and there were two narrow windows looking over the courtyard. A rocking chair was drawn up to the hearth, and there was a small table and hard chair. Hilary darted another look about her. Rag rugs were arranged on the floor, softening the cold stone and, as Janos stooped to fire the stack of logs in the hearth, trickles of flame leapt up, washing the cold walls to warmth.
But there was a sour, brackish smell to the room, just as there was a sour, brackish smell to Janos. The bed he had thrown her on reeked of his body-stench, and Hilary repressed a shudder. Surely now he would summon help – one of the rather hard-faced attendants, perhaps. Had she guessed wrongly after all?
It was at this minute that Janos turned back to the bed.
He leapt on to her like an animal, and Hilary gasped as the breath was knocked from her, and then fell back, still feigning weakness.
The dwarf was crouching over her, snuffling and panting, a slick of saliva dribbling from his partly op
en mouth. His eyes glittered, and his small stunted legs straddled her, the knees digging into her thighs. He thrust his body against her, and through his clothes she felt the hard stalk of arousal between his thick thighs. Panic engulfed Hilary and she fought for control.
Janos’s hands were sliding between her legs, rubbing and pinching, and Hilary, accustomed for nearly eight years to the privacy and the reticence of the convent, felt her stomach lurch with nausea. Would she have to endure being raped? She thought she could not possibly pretend to be unconscious for much longer.
Janos was dragging her trousers down over her hips, his hands eager and coarse, and the nails scraped her bare skin in unbearable intimacy. He had curled one hand about her wrists, holding them above her head, but Hilary thought this was only an automatic gesture. He still believed her to be barely conscious.
He was fumbling at the fastening of his breeches, panting and grunting. ‘Janos do it,’ he said, thickly. ‘No one know.’ He pushed his body against her suddenly, and there was the feeling of hard masculinity, warm and thrusting. The warmth of his swollen flesh was the most repulsive thing yet.
Hilary drew in a huge breath, and brought her left knee up with every ounce of her strength. The dwarf gave a squeal of agony and fell back, clutching his groin with both hands, rolling on to the floor, cursing and spitting.
‘Bitch! I stuff your cunt with lit candles for this! I fill your mouth with me so that you vomit! Bitchcunt! You pretend and you fool Janos! I make you bleed and beg for mercy! You see what happens to those who cheat the Lady!’ He was rolling on the floor, his eyes bulging in pain and fury, spittle flecking his lips.
Hilary did not hesitate. She bounded up from the bed and grabbed the bedside jug, bringing it down on Janos’s thick mat of hair. The creature gave an animal grunt and fell prone.
