Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  She turned to Bremner and Burghen, both of whom were staring into the hall as if unable to believe any of it.

  Without warning, feet came pounding hard along the corridor, and as the three jerked round, there in the shadows were the runny-tallow faces of the two dwarves, Ficzko and Janos.

  As Hilary looked frantically about her for an escape route, the two creatures leapt forward and she saw that behind them were six of the attendants.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The two police officers fought furiously, but the Csejthe guards overpowered them almost instantly and with what Hilary could not help thinking of as nearly contemptuous ease. Hilary, who had tried to dodge back into the passage, was snatched up and carried into the hall. It felt suddenly and dreadfully vulnerable to be out here, with every face turned towards her. Were they assessing her? Were they thinking, One for our ritual?

  Pál and Anna were both studying her and Hilary glared defiantly at them. After a moment Pál said, with satisfaction, ‘The little English runaway. The one who escaped us.’

  ‘But will not do so again,’ said Anna and incredibly there was a lick of sexual greed in her voice. Hilary shivered, and Anna smiled and said, ‘Ladislas will deal with you presently, my dear.’

  ‘If he tries to touch me I will scratch out his eyes,’ said Hilary clinging to anger and defiance.

  Ladislas at once said, ‘I should enjoy the fight.’

  ‘Whatever she does, she won’t get away this time,’ said Pál, dismissively and nodded to the attendants. ‘Bind her and put her with the others.’

  ‘She will add to the ones brought from CrnPrag,’ said Anna, and Hilary’s mind sprang to attention all over again. CrnPrag. Had Michael reached it? Had he got inside without being caught? She scanned the hall frantically, but there was no sign of him and she could not decide if this was encouraging or not.

  Pál said, ‘And now bring up the prisoners for the exemplum.’

  As the guards moved to the door leading to the dungeons, Anna Bathory said, ‘And bring out the blacksmith’s cage.’

  The instant Hilary saw Pietro Bathory, she understood why Catherine’s eyes had shone with such luminosity when she spoke of him, and why Ladislas and Stefan had deemed it so necessary to rid themselves of him before attempting their coup.

  He stood at the far end of the hall, held by the attendants; Franz-Josef was with him, both of them held firmly and although Hilary looked first at Franz-Josef, once she had looked at Pietro she forgot everything else. She forgot for the moment about being captured and she certainly forgot about the grisly thing in the coffin.

  She had been strongly aware of Franz-Josef’s charm at Varanno that night, but Pietro was Franz-Josef twenty – thirty, years earlier. This was the saint or the rebel that had looked from Franz-Josef’s eyes but, whereas in the father the saintliness had dimmed and the rebelliousness had diluted, there was nothing dimmed and there was certainly nothing diluted about the son. Hilary thought you could not often apply the adjective ‘beautiful’ to a man, but you could apply it to Pietro Bathory. His eyes were as dark as his sister’s and even from this distance, the lashes that veiled them were long and silken. His skin was pale; even with the shadow of a ragged beard, his bone structure was remarkable. This was a face out of its time, a face you might, if you were fortunate, come across in Renaissance Florence or Moorish Spain. You might find it standing at the stake, ready to die for an outlawed religion, or you might see it in one of the dreaming spire-tipped citadels of learning, the eyes burning with the fervour of creation. Scholar and lover and poet . . . Yes, he had probably been all three. He had the long sensitive hands of an artist, and the dark slanting eyebrows of a rebel. Hilary felt her grasp on reality slip for a moment because this was a face, these were eyes you might very easily go to the block or the stake for . . . Small wonder that Catherine’s face had always filled up with such light when she spoke of her brother . . .

  Hilary blinked and reached for normality, and the strange images faded, and she was inside the half-ruined medieval castle again and she had to think of a way to get out.

  Pál was regarding Pietro thoughtfully, and after a moment he said, ‘You know that you are here for the exemplum.’ He gestured to where the grinning cage was being manoeuvred into the hall, and Pietro said in a bored voice, ‘Yes?’

  ‘You see the Family are all gathered,’ said Pál, making one of his wide graceful gestures to indicate the packed hall.

  ‘The exemplum was always intended to be witnessed by everyone,’ said Franz-Josef with immense politeness. ‘I am so glad to see you have not neglected that courtesy to our people, Pál. Elizabeth’s own cage to be used, as well.’ He inspected it with detached, almost scholarly interest and Hilary was suddenly sharply grateful to him for being arrogant and aloof before these people.

  Pietro had ignored the cage, but he was studying the open coffin with sardonic interest.

  ‘So that is the Lady herself, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s rather a garish tomb you gave her, Pál.’

  ‘It’s very nearly vulgar,’ agreed Franz-Josef, turning to look.

  ‘But then Pál’s branch of the family was never famous for its good taste,’ finished Pietro.

  Pál did not move, but a tautness came over him. He said, ‘You were always an insolent cub, Pietro,’ and Pietro grinned and said, ‘So I was. Shall I be making history tonight? The Family have never before executed a renegade, have they? And,’ said Pietro looking around the assembly sarcastically, ‘I can see the huge effort it’s costing everyone.’

  Pál was watching Pietro, and Stefan and Ladislas were standing with him. Ladislas said, ‘You do know that you can’t escape?’

  Pietro looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes of course,’ he said, as if he thought Ladislas a fool.

  ‘No farewell speech?’ said Pál, with a sneer.

  ‘Well,’ said Pietro, as if this was something to be given careful consideration, ‘if I put my mind to it, I expect I could come up with a speech that would burn the air with its fervour.’ He eyed the three men before him. ‘I could certainly hold most of you up to ridicule,’ he said, and Ladislas made a quick angry movement. ‘What are you going to do with my father?’ said Pietro, suddenly and for the first time Ladislas hesitated. It was Stefan who answered.

  ‘He will join the gerons. But first he will be made to relinquish his position as the Family’s head.’

  Pietro looked at Franz-Josef, who said, suavely, ‘How very unpleasant. But not wholly unexpected. Supposing I were to refuse?’

  ‘Then you will die with Pietro.’

  ‘Ah. And you will take my place, will you? Yes, I see.’ He looked at Stefan. ‘Do you really think they will accept your authority after me?’ he said, and although he did not say, You fool, every person in the hall heard the words. ‘Where is Cat?’ said Franz-Josef.

  ‘She is here,’ said Pál.

  ‘Where?’ It was Pietro who spoke now, and the sharpness of his tone sliced across the listening hall. A thin cruel smile curved Pál’s lips.

  ‘So I have found your weakness at last,’ he said, softly. ‘You and Cat. I suspected as much, but I was never sure.’ He studied Pietro. ‘A damned incest going on under our noses,’ he said, in the same silken tone and Pietro made an abrupt movement as if to strike Pál but the guards held him back.

  Pál gestured impatiently towards the half-shelter of the stone alcove where Catherine lay. ‘Bring her forward,’ he said, and the men stooped to unlock the fetters about Catherine’s legs and pulled her into the hall.

  Catherine had barely been aware of the scuffle beyond the stone hall, or the capture of Hilary and the two policemen.

  Until Pietro and her father were brought up from the dungeons, there had been nothing in the world for Catherine except the small embalmed figure in its silent coffin. Elizabeth, thought Catherine, staring as if she could penetrate the coverings. That is the creature who has shadowed my entire life. I killed for you, Elizabeth. I performed b
loody butchery for you in stealthy forests and deserted midnight streets, and all the while I thought it was some kind of secret legacy.

  She dragged her gaze from the coffin at last and looked round the hall, a deep anger stirring. My own people and they all knew. They all knew about Elizabeth and the blood. In this hall was the feeling of a ritual performed so often that it had long since been honed to perfection. Catherine looked to where the bewildered girls were clustered together in a corner, held by the attendants from CrnPrag, and black bitterness rose in her throat. Those will be the victims. Those are the ones brought here to be drained of their blood. All those years when I tried to fight, thought Catherine. All those nights when I crept shivering and frightened after likely victims, and afterwards buried their bodies in forests and cellars.

  And during those years when she had been fighting Elizabeth’s taint, the Family had been accepting it. And nobody told me.

  When Pietro was brought in, Catherine felt as if her heart had been twisted out by its roots, and when the guards dragged her to the centre of the hall, she saw something violent and painful flare behind Pietro’s eyes.

  He said, very softly, ‘I prayed you had escaped.’

  ‘I did escape for a while . . .’ Pointless to say, I came back because they told me you were sick and demented. Catherine said, ‘They brought me back.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pietro looked at the guards standing around them, and spread his hands in a gesture midway between helplessness and bitterness. ‘So after all it ends here, my love.’

  My love . . . His voice was like a caress, and with the sound, the years of struggling to forget, of trying to build a bridge to take her away from that sweet sinless night at Varanno melted into nothing. I might as well not have tried, thought Catherine staring at Pietro, the old longing scalding her body and searing her mind. All those exhausting months of forcing my mind on to other paths. I have only to see him and I am burning up again.

  Pietro reached out and cupped her face in the remembered gesture, his eyes boring into her as if he wanted to print her on his memory for ever, as if he wanted the sight of her to be the last thing he would see. He said, very quietly, ‘I take you with me, my love.’

  Catherine could no longer see for the stupid tears that were streaming down her face, and she knew she was going to have to watch him die. Pietro, who was filled with such life, and who was so dear, so precious, was going to die. It no longer mattered about pretending not to be afraid before Ladislas and Stefan and the others, all that mattered was to stop them from killing him, spilling his life onto the floor of Elizabeth’s castle—

  ‘Make them stop,’ whispered Catherine. ‘Oh God make them stop—’

  She was crying and struggling to get free, but he said, very softly, ‘Let me lay it down, Katerina. Let me go.’

  Because I shall take you with me, my love. And because in this way, I shall find peace . . . Catherine heard his thoughts as easily as he had always been able to hear hers. Pietro said, very softly, ‘There has never been any peace since that night,’ and Catherine knew he had suffered as she had. All of those bleak desolate nights when you tried to pray, but when the pain smothered your prayers; all those hours of piteous entreaty – help me, God! – but when God was beyond your reach, and the only solace was the dark trickle of Elizabeth, clawing her way into your mind . . .

  And now Pietro is going to die, and then there will be nothing in the world anywhere, ever again . . .

  Pietro looked back at Pál and said, sharply, ‘Is Katerina to suffer the exemplum also?’

  ‘No. She is to be brought to the ritual. Elizabeth’s legacy will be offered to her.’

  ‘But first,’ said Anna, ‘she is to witness your punishment.’

  A ripple of new awareness stirred the assembly and a spark of rebellion flared in Pietro’s eyes. For one marvellous moment, Catherine thought that Pietro was going to throw off the guards, and make a run for the door, and she felt her own muscles tense, because of course she would go with him, nothing else was bearable, there would be a way . . .

  And then she felt the gyves snap as she pulled against them, and the despair and the pain closed down again, because of course there was to be no escape.

  Pietro looked at Pál. ‘Well,’ he said, impatiently. ‘Shall we get it over with?’

  With a rasping that grated on Catherine’s stripped-raw nerves, the guards pulled open the door of the terrible cage.

  Catherine was dragged back and pushed against the wall. She was shivering with cold fear, and the scene was blurring before her eyes, but she would not faint, she would not give way to merciful unconscious . . . She would be with Pietro every inch. Let me share the pain with him, God. They’re putting him in Elizabeth’s cage . . .

  Pietro was eyeing it quite coolly, but Catherine, helpless in her corner, felt his fear like a white-hot spear cleaving her mind. She looked frenziedly around the hall. Were the Family going to let this happen? Wasn’t there one of them who would move to stop it?

  The guards were pulling Pietro forward and now, finally, he was fighting. Catherine could see that even though there were three of them, they were having difficulty in holding him and she understood that although there could not possibly be any escape, Pietro was making it as difficult as possible for them. For an incredible minute she thought he would actually break free and her heart bounded, but then two more guards ran across the hall. Between them they dragged Pietro up to the cage and began to force him inside. Catherine’s heart twisted again and she began to feel sick. Elizabeth’s grinning cylindrical cage had been fashioned when people were smaller and slighter, but it had been planned by a tortuous mind and the dimensions had been carefully thought out. Even the under-nourished peasant girls would have been cruelly compressed by the rigid iron hoops that circled the framework. For Pietro, who was slender but quite tall, it must feel like being held in a vise. Could he smell the agonies and the torments that would have soaked into the evil frame?

  For a moment it seemed as if no one was going to move and as if no one was going to be the one to slam the door. It hung open, moving a little: Catherine could see the glinting spikes quite clearly and she could see the anguish in her father’s eyes. Which of them would do it? Pál himself? It wouldn’t be Anna, thought Catherine with a sudden spurt of cynicism. Anna would derive far more pleasure from watching someone else.

  And then Ladislas stepped forward, and a low murmur went through the watching crowd and Catherine thought: yes, of course it would be Ladislas. Ladislas’s eyes were glittering triumphantly; fingers of colour were painted across his high cheekbones and his hatred of Pietro had never been plainer. Catherine looked about her frenziedly. Were the Family really going to let this happen? She looked at the faces – almost all of them familiar from visits to Varanno, and saw the fear and greed in their faces. Disgust rose in her at the sheep-creatures, the sycophants who so slavishly followed anyone who could grab a spurious authority. For the first time she saw Hilary, held by two of the guards, standing white-faced on the other side of the hall, and this was so unexpected that her attention was momentarily distracted. Hilary did not fit into any of this. Catherine stared at her, and Hilary turned and looked across the hall. Their eyes met, and Catherine thought Hilary tried to say something, but she was too far away to understand what it was, and she had no emotion to spare for anything other than Pietro.

  Ladislas was standing in front of the iron grilles and the hoops and staves wrought four and a half centuries earlier by a bemused village blacksmith. The fire blazed up and the wall sconces flickered wildly, silhouetting him darkly against the red glow of the fire and the candles. Catherine clasped her hands and sent up every prayer, every plea, every frantic agonised supplication she had ever heard that Pietro would escape.

  Ladislas paused, and made a curious gesture of obeisance to the thing in the silver coffin and another of the low murmurs went through the watchers.

  ‘Elizabeth—’

  Catherine san
k to the ground, wrapping her arms about her, rocking to and fro, sobbing in helpless agony, and it was at that moment that there was the sound of running footsteps outside and wild shouting. Every head turned, and across the courtyard, lit to fantastical silhouette by the deep purple Carpathian night, came Bianca Bathory, running hard, her hair tossed into wild disarray by the wind, her eyes brilliant with fury. Behind her, running at her heels, brandishing makeshift but effective weapons, were the lunatics from CrnPrag, the poor demented men and women who had suffered under Stefan’s cruel cold rule for so many years.

  Orsolya was running with them, but immediately behind Orsolya, Tobias’s arm holding him firmly, was Michael.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Hilary felt a surge of delight so immense that for a moment she could not speak. Michael was safe. He was here. And then she was fighting against the guards’ hands, struggling and clawing to get free, shouting to Michael at the top of her voice.

  ‘Over here! Michael over here!’

  The lunatics were pouring into the hall, singing as they came, scrambling over the stunned guards at the door and knocking them to the ground, singing in high ragged voices as they came.

  ‘The blood . . . Never failed me yet.

  Never failed me yet . . .

  Though I die, I shall live . . .’

  There was no time to wonder who these creatures were or how they were here, or even which side they were on. Michael was only yards away and nothing mattered in the whole world but reaching him.

  The stone hall was becoming a seething boiling mass of screaming people and wild-eyed men and women, but above it, Hilary heard Michael’s voice.

  ‘Where are you? Hilary keep shouting!’