Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  Ferencz’s pride and his pleasure in the babies had been repellent; she had felt sick at the way he had fawned over her after each birth and said, ‘Another little one, Lady, and with God’s good graces many more still to come.’

  There would not be any more. Elizabeth had had enough of the revolting potions, and of Ferencz’s greedy hands and messily spurting genitals. It had not become any easier with the years, and it had been God’s mercy that had kept him away fighting wars for so many years. Occasionally she had lured one of the young men of the Court to her bed, a little from curiosity, but mainly to see whether someone else could succeed where Ferencz had failed. If he could not sire his own brats, perhaps someone else could do it for him. It would get the whole messy business of providing an heir over and out of the way. Unexpectedly there had been an odd inverted pleasure in luring the young men to her bed for a night or two. She did not enjoy their clumsy bodies, but it gave her a feeling of superiority to discover that she had only to beckon with her eyes and they succumbed, tiptoeing through the candlelit corridors to her room.

  ‘Unbecoming for one of your age,’ Illona had once said, and Elizabeth had turned upon her, her eyes flashing, her face white with rage. She would not punish Illona in the way that she punished the other servants if they were slow or disobedient; Illona was too valuable and moreover she knew too much. But the creature had overstepped the mark and Elizabeth would not forget.

  ‘Frightened,’ said Illona afterwards to Dorko. ‘That’s all it is. She’s frightened of growing old.’

  ‘Frightened of losing her looks,’ said Dorko scornfully. You could be very thoroughly scornful about another’s vanity when you had nothing to be vain about yourself. Neither of them voiced aloud the thought that the Lady was approaching forty, because it was not something you would dare say aloud if you wanted to keep a whole skin. But it was true that the Countess was no longer young. It did not bear thinking what might happen when that ivory skin began to show faint lines, or when that velvety flesh started to pull away from the bones beneath. The blood would not stave off age for ever.

  And now there was the matter of the Master being home for good after all these years. His health had failed, which was small wonder after the years of living in camps and eating rough food and engaging in hard fighting. Damp groundsheets to sleep on and hours of sitting on a horse in rain and wind, said Dorko, shaking her head. You could not wonder at it if his kidneys had ceased to function properly or if he suffered pains in his joints.

  In any event, the Lady would not be best pleased to find that her lord would no longer be riding off to war, staying away for months or even years at a time. She would not like it at all, sniggered Dorko to Illona.

  Elizabeth did not like it. She had become accustomed to being her own mistress, to living in whichever of her castles she chose – Csejthe was her favourite, but sometimes it was good to travel to the others. There had been the glittering Court life in Vienna: she had enjoyed attending the balls and the receptions by herself, making a grand and imperious entrance, graciously and gracefully accepting the homage paid to her. As the wife of the great Count she commanded instant respect, although the respect would have been forthcoming anyway.

  The sojourns in Vienna were enjoyable. She spent hours painting her face, letting Dorko twist her silky black hair into the fashions of the day: threading it with strings of seed-pearls or binding it with gilt filets or jewelled snoods. If her skin did not show the requisite whiteness, Dorko or Illona could be sent out to trap some toothsome little serving wench from an inn or a tavern. There could be a hasty killing; a swift, pleasurable immersing in the blood. It was a bit makeshift after Csejthe’s torture chambers, but the need for secrecy and haste lent its own excitement. Even the search for somewhere private to do it in other people’s houses added to the pleasure. And afterwards it was the most exhilarating thing in the world to walk haughtily into the banquet or the musical evening with the feel and the scent of the fresh warm blood still upon her.

  She spent almost as much time selecting the gown she would wear as painting her face and dressing her hair. White was still her favourite, perhaps crusted with pearls or milky opals, but she sometimes wore vivid scarlet trimmed with the sable fur of wolves. It amused her if the sheep of the Court tried to copy her. They did not succeed, of course, because she had at her beck the arts of the forest sorceresses. The blood . . . It had never failed her yet.

  There were young men to fascinate; more importantly there were young women to seduce. The aristocracy for their bodies, the peasants for their blood . . . It was as good a maxim as it had ever been. It was the most exquisite joy to introduce some trembling, unawakened virgin to all the things that could be done between women. Hands and tongues and fingers. Nipples and clefts. Cloven not crested. . . That never lost its power.

  And now Ferencz was back, spoiling her carefully ordered life, getting in the way, inclined to be querulous, wanting attention. Snooping and asking questions. Why had she so many young girls as servants? It was surely unnecessary. How did she spend her days? Whom did she entertain? How often did their children and their spouses visit her? Elizabeth, accustomed for years to being her own mistress, to serving her moods and hungers as they arose and more or less ignoring her children, stormed about her apartments in a rage. Ferencz’s fretful prying was not to be borne. His watery eyes and trembling hands were not to be endured and his ailments were disgusting. His skin had weathered into a loose, leathery sack, inside which his bones rattled, and his face was pouchy and mournful. Elizabeth could scarcely bear to look at him, and she was certainly not having him in her bed. If she were to appear at Court gatherings – at any gatherings – on the arm of such a one, she would be a laughing stock. Worse, she would be classed with him: old. Old. But Ferencz did not want to go to Vienna any more, and so Elizabeth said, Very well, she would go alone. It was what she had been accustomed to do during the years of his absence in any case.

  But Ferencz had other ideas. They would not need to be at Court so often now, he said: the fool actually smiled with pleasure as he said it. His days of public life were over, and so could hers be. He intended to live quietly in one of their many castles, delving into the works of the great minds of the past, riding out on gentle excursions when he felt well enough, holding discussions with such men of religion as would come to visit them. He had been turning more and more to religion in the latter years, he said, his collapsed, bloodhound-face serious. Perhaps it was associating so closely with the Catholic Hapsburgs. He was even thinking of taking instruction in the Roman faith. What did Elizabeth think?

  What Elizabeth thought was that Ferencz was all set to sink into an ignominious old age and that she was having no part in it. He was pathetic and repulsive with his bloodshot eyes and his fumbling movements and his old man’s weakness. It was embarrassing to his household that he had to be placed near to the door at lengthy banquets and people had to pretend not to notice his frequent trips to the privy. It was humiliating that his boots were sometimes dribbled with smelly moisture.

  But she smiled the falsest of all her false smiles and laid a hand on his arm and said it all sounded very interesting. He should tell her about it. But, later that night, alone in her apartments, she paced the floor, screeching curses, her mind seething. If Fate thought it could bestow on her this fractious, slow-witted old creature, Fate would have to think again. At last, she summoned Dorko and Illona to her bedchamber. If an incantation could not be found to get rid of the old fool, then more direct methods would have to be used.

  Dorko and Illona, conferring together afterwards, agreed that this was going to be the riskiest thing yet. It was one thing to take village girls, the daughters of cottagers and gypsies where there were often so many children in the family that the disappearance of one was scarcely noticed . . .

  The slaughtering of peasant girls was one thing; the deliberately contrived death of the great warrior Count Ferencz Nádasdy was another thing entirely.


  In the end it was done with stealth and caution, and with such care that no one ever suspected, not even the meddlesome Ponikenus.

  It was of no surprise to anyone that the Count was unable to digest plain ordinary food any longer. The sympathetic who remembered how bravely Ferencz had fought in wars, said you could not wonder at it, but the cooks and the scullions who had perforce to cope with the new regime, said crossly that the Master had become downright finicky and they would not have thought it of a soldier. As for this latest fancy of Her Ladyship to dabble in the preparation of the Master’s jellies and soups and broths – Well! said the cooks, that was no work for a lady and certainly not for one who had hitherto hardly known the way to her own kitchens! Mark their words, Madame was up to no good, said the kitchen staff, who liked to say that they knew more of what went on in Csejthe Castle than folks gave them credit for.

  But it was difficult to prevent the Lady from entering her own sculleries, and it was even more difficult when the Master began such a pageant of vomiting and purging that you’d think his poor old body would turn inside out. Madame went rampaging through the sculleries like the Furies then, demanding to know what was being sent to the Master’s bedchamber by way of sustenance, stirring and tasting, and even carrying up his trays with her own hands on two occasions! The kitchen staff did not quite sulk, because nobody in the Lady’s service ever dared to sulk, but they were aggrieved to think she did not trust them to prepare some nice, wholesome dishes to tempt a capricious appetite.

  There was little trace now of the fiery-eyed soldier who had led his men across battlefields for so many years and who had been one of the Emperor’s most trusted men. The Count’s skin had taken on a yellow tinge, and boils and blisters had broken out on his body. And the sickness! Well, said the servants, if he wasn’t vomiting up from one end, he was purging from the other! You could scarcely keep up with it, they said, and told one another that he was dying by inches and, while it was all very sad, it made more washing then you’d give credit for! They heard, with sympathetically clenched buttocks, of how a clyster was to be administered by an apothecary who had come from Vienna especially for the purpose, and told one another that it went to show that all the wealth and power in the world was no proof against ill-health.

  In the stiflingly fetid bedchamber, the apothecary greased the thick shaft of the piston syringe with sweet butter, and helped the two attendants to turn the Count on to his front and pull up his nightshirt. It seemed almost insolent to be interfering with the back passage of such a high-ranking gentleman, but the good God made no distinction when it came to sickness, and a good clyster, properly prepared with honey and salt water and herbs, was often very beneficial. The apothecary spread the Count’s thighs as respectfully as was possible for such an intimate act, and inserted the end of the shaft, relieved when he found the opening without difficulty. It was not pleasant for either party when you had to poke around, and sometimes you inflicted more damage than was seemly. But the syringe slid in and up and there was only the barest groan from the bed. The apothecary pressed the plunger, and the warm fluid emptied into the poor gentleman’s bowels. He straightened up from his unsavoury task and wiped the syringe clean.

  ‘Try to retain that for as long as possible, my lord,’ he said, and then, because he knew what was what and because he had practised it earlier on, bowed low as he took his leave.

  But either Ferencz Nádasdy did not hear or could not heed these words. Or perhaps he was too near to death for the apothecary’s ministrations to have any effect.

  He died early the next morning, after a night of squalid agony spent squatting over a bucket and retching into an enamel pan.

  His Lady, who had welcomed his return so warmly and cared for him so assiduously, shut herself into a black-hung room for seven days and seven nights, only emerging to attend the elaborate funerary ceremonies proper to a gentleman of the Count’s birth.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Hilary and Michael had swept down the hillside in the stolen car exactly as Michael had wanted. Hilary experienced a surge of exhilaration at seeing the guards look round and then run after the car, waving their fists impotently.

  ‘They’ve seen us, haven’t they?’ Michael said.

  ‘Yes.’ Hilary was crouching over the wheel, gripping it too tightly. She had understood in a general way how they had managed to fire the engine, and she knew with the logical part of her mind that the car would not simply cut out without warning. But it felt safer to keep the engine revved. What would they do if she stalled it as they swung out into the main road below? Would she be able to start it again? Red and yellow. Easy to remember. Tomato and egg. And the two white wires were the first stage. Lights and indicators. White to white make the light. And then the road was ahead and she was pulling the steering wheel hard over and blessedly there was nothing coming from either direction, and they were on to the good tarmac road and Csejthe was receding.

  Michael said, ‘Is the BMW there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hilary had looked for it as soon as they turned on to the road. ‘All four tyres cut to ribbons,’ she said. ‘You were right about that.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t been.’

  ‘So do I.’ It had given Hilary a cold, sick feeling to see the viciously damaged car. It brought home the brutality of these people. Though it was an uncomfortable feeling to know you were driving a stolen car, never mind if you had stolen it from a nest of murderers.

  Supposing it ran out of petrol? The petrol gauge was reading half full. Was that enough to get them back to the Red Angel? Hilary tried to remember distances. What would they do if they stopped at a garage and could not reconnect the wires again? A thread of panic spiralled. You had to switch off your engine when you put in petrol. What if somebody saw them using the wires to start it again? Wouldn’t it look suspicious?

  ‘And,’ said Michael softly at her side, ‘what if the castle people have reported the car as stolen and we face road blocks.’

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘I can hear your thoughts, lady,’ he said. ‘All the “what-ifs” coursing through your mind.’ He paused. ‘But they’re quite reasonable “what-ifs”. What were you worrying about? Petrol?’

  ‘Well, largely.’

  ‘How full is the tank?’ said Michael. ‘You notice I’m an optimist. I could have said, “How empty is the tank?”’

  ‘Just on half,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Not enough to get us to Debreczen.’ He relapsed into thought as Hilary concentrated on driving. It would not do to admit to tiredness, but she was actually beginning to feel very weary indeed.

  Michael said, ‘I think we can be fairly sure that the castle people won’t report this car as stolen.’

  ‘Why? Oh, because it would draw attention to them.’

  ‘Yes. And I think we ought to try to reach the Red Angel,’ said Michael. ‘Are you all right to drive as far as that, lady?’

  Impossible to say: when you use that voice, when you call me ‘lady’, I can do anything in the world. Hilary said, ‘If it has to be done, then I can do it.’

  ‘Good. Jesus God, I wish I could be driving us, Hilary . . .’ He stopped, but the savage frustration had been in his voice again.

  Hilary understood that he wanted to be in the driving seat, taking control. Of course he does, she thought. Any man would. But he’s keeping his temper pretty well reined-in on the whole.

  Michael said, ‘As for petrol . . . Supposing we stop at the next garage and simply buy a can of petrol – better still, two – without switching off the engine. Say it’s for a lawn-mower or a motor scooter if they ask, although there’s no reason why they should. Is your German up to that?’

  ‘If not I can point or use sign language.’ But Hilary thought she could manage to buy petrol.

  ‘All right. Then we drive beyond the garage, pull in somewhere quiet and disconnect the wires and fill the tank – oh God, that’s a point – has the petrol tank got a lock?’ />
  ‘Well, I can’t see from in here—’

  ‘If it’s got one it’ll have to be smashed,’ said Michael with decision. ‘Or picked. Can you pick a lock, do you think?’ He said this as if asking a perfectly ordinary question, and Hilary smiled.

  ‘It’ll widen the field of my criminal activities even more,’ she said. ‘If necessary I’ll try. Have we enough money for petrol?’

  ‘How worldly you’re becoming, Sister Hilary. That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about.’ Michael did not add, We don’t have to worry yet, but he thought it. He had counted the notes in his wallet carefully, but it was not easy to tell the difference between the amounts. His mind touched and then discarded the idea of asking Hilary to count them. If there were only fifty schilling notes left, she would worry. And so, when they drew up at the garage and parked a little way beyond the forecourt, he handed her his wallet and said, ‘Take out two – no, three hundred schillings for the petrol.’

  The garage was large and modern and busy. Hilary left the engine ticking over and went inside. The engine would be warm enough not to cut out and, in any case, Michael could reach over and rev the accelerator if necessary.

  It was unexpectedly reassuring to be in an ordinary place where lights blazed and people were engrossed in normality: buying petrol, choosing magazines, discussing the weather. There were two families with children; the children were clamouring for sweets and crisps for the journey. Pop music blared from a radio at the cash desk and Hilary grinned inwardly. Michael would have hated that.

  The plastic cans were on a shelf at the far end. Hilary bought two and discovered that you had to fill them yourself from the pumps. She topped them both up, using the nozzle carefully, and went back inside to pay. The garage had a small area where pre-cooked food and sandwiches could be bought to eat while travelling, and Hilary remembered that it was a long time since they had eaten. Would it be all right to use a little of Michael’s money? But the petrol had only cost 180 schillings, which Hilary thought was about eight pounds in English money. And the food was not expensive. She made a quick selection: crisp brown rolls stuffed with cheese and ham. It was frivolous but fun to be choosing food and deciding what they should have. She added two slabs of solid-looking fruitcake and two cans of coke. They could have a picnic wherever they stopped to top up the tank. She slid back into the driver’s seat and explained this. ‘And there’re quite clean-looking loos at the back of the garage. Shall we take turns to wash and brush up?’