Haunted Castles (14 page)

F
erencz! The mention of that cherish'd name at once restor'd me to my former self. “Dorottya,” I quickly said, “this girl must not be found here; secrete her where my lord will not come upon her . . .”

“It will be done,” Dorottya replied, urging the girl out of the tub.

“Ilona, dear,” I said, “fetch here my nightdress, remove the tub and blot away this water.”

These things were swiftly done, and it was not long ere Dorottya, now dress'd, appear'd again within my chamber and assur'd me that the girl was safely hid away. “Is it my lady's wish,” she ask'd, “that I, as well, hide from the Count?”

“No, good Dorottya!” I said. “Thou art my trusted friend. Stand here at my side, for the Count will wish to meet thee, I am certain. Later, thou wilt be given leave to retire to thine own chamber, for the Count will wish to be alone with me.”

“Oh, that is sure,” said Dorottya, with a tinct of slyness that made my cheeks all roseate with blushing.

And, while my face was yet thus flush'd, my dear Ferencz, he gone from me these many weeks, enter'd my chamber. His face was made gaunt by weariness, and he walk'd with a halting step that spoke, with mute eloquence, of grievous wounds. I rush'd into his arms, and felt him crush me hungrily to his bosom; I wept with joy; and neither of us spoke for many moments.

Then what a torrent of sweet words cascaded from us twain! What sighs, what vows, what bright renewals of our love! Until, at length, his eye first catching sight of Dorottya, Ferencz ask'd, “And this lady: who is she?”

“A dear and valu'd friend, by name Dorottya,” I replied. “She hath done much to make my days less bleak.”

“Why, then,” he said to her, “I am beholden to thee, mistress.”

“Such duty is but pleasure, good m'lord,” said Dorottya. “But now I see thou'rt tired, and I beg leave to retire.”

Ferencz nodded graciously, and Dorottya repair'd to her own rooms. This caus'd my husband to lift his eyebrows: “She dwelleth here?” he ask'd.

“Sweet Ferencz, do not scold,” I said. “She is a kind and most devoted lady; without her, I fear I would have gone quite mad with sorrow. Pray let her stay.”

“It matters not,” he answer'd, with a wan smile. “For a while, at least, she may stay.”

Then did I help remove my husband's battle gear, and rubb'd his wounds, and coo'd soft words into his ear as we lay upon our bed; and soon had brought him to a pitch of glowing love, and we did cleave as we were wont to do before his leaving.

How happy was I then! how luminous! how tingling and alive!

After a time, Ferencz turn'd to me and said, “Elisabeth, a secret hides behind thine eyes, a darkness. Tell me of it.”

“I have no secrets from thee, Ferencz,” I replied, “and if a darkness thou divinest in me, it is the shadow of the loneliness I felt when thou wert far away.”

“Is not that shadow now dispell'd by my return?”

“It is, beloved husband, oh it is!”

But still did Ferencz stubbornly persist.

“This Dorottya,” he said. “What traffic does she have with thee?”

“Friendship, gentle Ferencz, nothing more. Solace for my lonely hours. Am I to pine without companions? May no one cheer my heart when thou art gone from me?”

He then did stroke my hair, and spoke more low, and call'd me his little raven. “Elisabeth, there are abroad in this world things thou know'st not of, such things that it were better thou shouldst be struck blind than look upon, struck deaf than bend thine ear to.”

“What breed of things, Ferencz?” I ask'd, masking my fearfulness, for his voice had taken on a thickness much disquieting to me.

“Things of black night,” he said, in hollow tones.

“Thy words afright me, though I glean them not,” I said.

“My little one, my pearl: in elder time, before Christ shed His blood for us, unholy joys were known . . .”

“Why dost thou tell me of them, Ferencz, and in a voice so full of haunt that I am chill'd unto my marrow?”

“I do
not
tell thee of them,” he said, “I do
not.
For these sweet ears, such stuff would not be meet. And yet, I do most earnestly abjure thee: pray to God, read deeply of thy Scripture.”

“I do, I have; both prayer and Book have always fill'd my days.”

“Let them fill thy nights as well, Elisabeth,” he said, “for there are sins without faces; sins that, in their shame, shun the glare of honest day and creep unseen into the soul. Such guileless souls as thine are lodestones to them. Therefore, pray; steep thyself in Holy Writ. Be mindful of that blessed Paul of Tarsus, and those of whom he wrote.”

“Wrote what, Ferencz?”

“Of those who ‘changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man,'” he answered, “‘and worshipp'd and serv'd the creature more than the Creator . . .'”

“Ferencz, these words are naught but fumes to make me giddy! Desist, I do beseech thee, and let us talk of blither things!”

Fatigue of battle took its toll, however, and soon Ferencz was in a deep sleep. I, rested by my earlier nap, and made still more awake by my returning warrior's kisses, lay for a time, with open eyes, beside him. Then, sleep evading me, I arose and crept quietly into Dorottya's rooms, thinking to talk with her if she be still awake.

Her bed was empty. This was most curious, and I went in search of her. I walk'd through halls and antechambers, peeped within alcoves and nooks, and still I found her not. Then, from far off, I thought I heard a cry.

So faint it was, that I at first deem'd it a figment or, at most, a passing bird. Then, as I turn'd into another corridor, I heard the sound again, more clearly and much closer, and knew with certainty it was a human cry; or more precisely, scream.

Again it rang out: high and sharp and piercing, the scream of one so sore excruciated that all mark of sex or age was lost—man, woman, child, crone, any of these could have utter'd it in dire extremity.

Downward I delv'd into the castle's bowels, into dominions dark and rank with damp effluvium of must, on stone steps slick with parlous grume—and, of a sudden, very near to me, that scream reach'd shrilly out once more, and I was much afraid, for, turning, I perceiv'd that it had issued from no other place than that horrendous dungeon wherein, long since, despairing victims had been tortur'd unto death!

Chill'd by fear, my flesh acrawl and prickl'd, I yet did muster courage and approach'd, on timorous feet, that evil room.

T
he torture chamber's heavy iron door was but an inch ajar, and yellow torchlight flicker'd out through this discrepancy. The screams had stopp'd, but now I heard another sound: the voice of Dorottya.

“I will return to thee at dawn,” she said, “at which hour wilt thou be more acquiescent to my wishes. Indeed, by that time thou wilt beg, if need be, on thy knees for the privilege of serving me.”

The door, with shriek of hinges, open'd wider, and I back'd into the shadows. Dorottya appear'd, her dark eyes smouldering, her face agleam with sweat. She turn'd to close and lock the iron door, but ere she did so, I stepp'd forth and challeng'd her by name. She spun around, astonish'd, then, making out my face in the half-dark, spake: “My lady here, and at such an hour?”

“That question should be mine,” I said.

“A matter of mere discipline,” she smil'd. “Nothing of such high import that it should trouble thee.” And, so saying, she began to lock the dungeon door.

“No happening in this castle is too low of import for mine ears,” I said. “What dost thou here, Dorottya?”

She sigh'd. “Why, then, I see thou art distrustful. It is no more than this: when, earlier, thou bad'st me hide the village girl in some recess where Count Nadasdy would not find her, I, in my haste, could think of no place better than these dungeons, where no one treads. I lock'd the girl herein, and charg'd her to be silent. Later, as I lay alone abed, I heard the silence of this night disturb'd by the foolish wench's cries. Fearing the Count would hear them, I arose, descended hither, and abjur'd her to be quiet. She would not; she demanded I release her; I told her to be patient and she would gain thereby, with fair rewards and bounty; but the stubborn creature still persisted until, at last, I was oblig'd to chastise her. That, my lady, is the simple sum.”

“How chastise her?” I ask'd.

“Such trifling things must not concern my lady.”

“How
chastise her, Dorottya?” I repeated sternly.

She stood unspeaking for a moment, her eyes as hard as flint. Then, smiling thinly, she replied: “By means most honour'd with long use and old tradition the world over, even in far-off heathen lands, and most particularly in the noble canons of thy Christian law.” She push'd open the dungeon door. “Will it please my lady pass approval on my handiwork?”

I fear'd to step inside that place of ancient horror, but the steady eyes of Dorottya, narrow with mockery, goaded me, and with a shuddering breath, I took heart and pass'd through the iron door. In the erratic, twitching torchlight, I saw again the rack, the brazier of old irons and ashes, the cages, chains, the instruments of crushing and of tearing, the ghastly slab of the
peine forte et dure.
And then my breath caught suddenly in my lungs, as I saw the village girl.

Naked from head to toe, she hung motionless and silent in this place that smell'd of pain. Her feet dangled inches off the dungeon floor. Her arms stretch'd straight above her head, and the weight of her small body, slight though it was, dragg'd upon her thumbs, purpled and swollen in the leathern thongs that bound them. Her back and nates were cover'd by a tangle of glistering welts. Briny blood ooz'd thickly from the freshest of these, making its sluggish way down the serpentine length of her body in thin rivulets, thence to gather into heavy droplets at her toe-tips and drip evenly into a pool of ruby slime under her feet. The metrical slow dripping of her lifeblood was the only sound in the dungeon, and the foetid air hung still as Death.

I whisper'd in revulsion, “Oh, God in Heaven, Dorottya—hast slain this unoffending child?”

“Nay,” Dorottya said, grinning, “she is but senseless from the blows. A little salt rubb'd briskly on her rawest weals, and she will shew thee life enough! Wouldst have me demonstrate?”

“Pile one abomination on another?” I cried.

“Tut, lady, 'twould be healthful to the wretch,” Dorottya rejoin'd.

“This is a monstrous thing,” I said. “How dar'd thou trespass thus, and so abuse my confidence?”

“My lady likes it not?”

“Thou knowest well I like it not!”

“My lady finds some flaw?” she said with a sneering lilt. “Some thing not done or poorly wrought? My lady would
improve
my efforts?” She thrust into my hand a coil'd black whip, still thick with blood: my fingers jump'd from it as they would jump from a venomous reptile, and the ugly length of hide fell to the floor.

Dorottya pick'd up the whip. “Wilt add thy signature to this piece of work?” she taunted.

I dash'd it from her hand. “Art mad?”

She cluck'd her tongue in mocking admonition. “So squeamish art thou, Countess?” And ere I could reply, she added: “So squeamish—
and a Bathory?”

“Thy words lack all concord and sense,” I told her. “In what wise does my name have aught to do with this?”

“Oh, lady, 'tis a large and lustrous name, known far and wide, familiar to the ears of great and humble . . .”

“Thou speakest wildly, Dorottya!” I said, and stepp'd forward to cut down the hapless girl.

“Sayest thou so?” snapp'd Dorottya, seizing my shoulder and staying me. “Here is a marvel, then, indeed! What? Thou, a Bathory, unknowing of the fame that shineth from thy family's escutcheon? This is surpassing modesty, my lady; innocence so pure, unspoilt, and rare that Reason's own sweet self is ravag'd!”

“Let loose mine arm,” I said, “and help me dress this poor girl's sorry gashes, or
thou
wilt hang thus in her stead, I swear!”

“Ah!” crow'd Dorottya in triumph. “Now speaks the true Bathory voice!”

“What meanest thou, by this vain harping on my name?”

Dorottya shook her head in wonderment. “Dost thou, in truth, not know?”

My blank looks gave reply; and Dorottya, with a bestial snarl, look'd past me, toward the dungeon door, and said,
“Enlighten her.”

I swiftly turn'd, and gave a cry of sharp surprise. There in the open door of that vile chamber—not livid in disgust and loathing, not mouth agape and wide of eye with unbelieving awe, but, rather, with lips curving in a calm and curious smile—stood my husband.

F
erencz stood in the doorway for an unending moment, not speaking, his eye darting from me, to Dorottya, to the tormented victim hanging from the ceiling; then he advanc'd into the chamber, easefully, unhurried, his smile broadening the while. “Enlighten my little spouse?” he said at last. “Cast her out naked from that Eden of sweet ignorance she hath so happily inhabited? Crease that unlin'd brow? Darken those starry eyes? Bow those alabaster shoulders with the heavy, horrid burthen of knowledge? What saith Elisabeth: shall I indeed enlighten thee?”

Terror and fearful portent rose like a freezing mist, enveloping my body, choking the words in my throat. My Ferencz, who was my world, my god, to look and speak thus cold, ironical, and strange? To be so alter'd and unlike his own fair self in every aspect? If this could be, then nothing in this sphere or in the vast eternal firmament was constant, staunch, or true. Heaven and Hell were, then, but painted pictures, and love itself a lie.

Yet, though fear transfix'd me, my first words were of the unlucky village girl, for I said: “Enlighten me if't please thee, Ferencz, but not until that blameless maid is loos'd from out her crippling bonds.”

He look'd up at the hanging girl, and at her blackening thumbs, and said to Dorottya: “The purpose hath been serv'd, methinks, the lesson learn'd. Cut down the little drab.”

With one of the sundry cruel blades that lay about the cell, Dorottya sever'd the thongs from the wall-hook whereat they were affix'd; the ceiling pulley squeak'd; and the girl slump'd to the damp stone floor, a silent, naked, bleeding heap of flesh.

“Enlightenment hath been ask'd for,” Ferencz said when this was done, “and indeed it seems most timely. Enlightenment by dint of words; but first by dint of action . . .”

What follow'd then was so abhorrent, that to think upon it even now, after the lapse of years, makes my gorge to seethe and rise within me.

“Sit thee down,” said Ferencz, and push'd me into a chair affix'd with manacles, and these he lock'd upon my hands and feet. “Thou'lt not be much discomfited,” he said, “for I do not mean to light the pan of coals that lieth under the iron seat. This is but to assure thy fixity.” A kind of vise he tighten'd, not ungently, at my temples, saying: “And this to keep thy head from motion.” He then display'd two small iron rings, about the same circumference as florins. “And these?” he chuckl'd. “Why, these will make it certain thou'lt not miss the smallest trifle of the enlightenment.” He, quickly and with deftness, forc'd the iron rings around my very eyeballs, in such wise as to keep my lids from lowering, obliging me to stare, unblinking, at whatever lay before me.

Ferencz then, to my mounting anguish, gather'd the gloating Dorottya into his arms, and kiss'd her with excess of zeal; and did not stop with kissing, that perfidious pair, but, unmindful of all decency, like ruttish beasts that lack the benefit of soul to guide them, did foully slake their lusts in that rank cell, amongst the cunning tools of agony, within an arm's length of the insensate village girl, whilst I, unable to turn my head from the infernal scene, beheld, with stinging, bulging eyes, each moment of that union, unto its final hideous gasp.

Arising then from his depravity, Ferencz walk'd over to the chair in which I was constrain'd to sit, saying, “My little wife is shaken by this entertainment, Dorottya: see, her face is all o'ercast with sickly pallor.” And he laugh'd. “What, Elisabeth? Hast lost thy pretty tongue? No epithets, no pious cries? Quite mum? Thine eyes do stream with tears—but whether they be drops of sorrow, or no more than that liquor Nature doth provide to lave thy parching orbs withal, I know not. Let me affirm my fondness for thee, sweetest chuck, and relieve thy lovely eyes of their hindrances.”

So saying, he remov'd the iron rings, and I blink'd, my lids comforting my burning eyeballs like healing poultices.

“Know, then,” Ferencz continu'd, “that I intend thee nothing hurtful, unless thou dost prove tiresome by stubborn protestations—yet this thou wilt not, I believe. Art silent still? 'Tis well, for thou hast much to learn, and it is meet that thou shouldst meekly listen:

“This wanton, wise, and artful gypsy wight, this Dorottya, hath been my ardent mistress since before thine own fair beauty snar'd my heart. With her, I have known deep delights surpassing those pale, milky pleasures other folk enjoy. For most men and their dames are plodding, stale, proscrib'd, bound in by limitation, fear, denial, an host of guilty doubts and shames. To but a few is granted spirits broad and questing, undismay'd, which freely vault o'er petty confines, to range in unexplor'd demesnes; and such an one am I, for those of my blood have ever been impatient with the shackles other men clap round themselves. Thus, from an early age, I sought out bypaths little trod, and cleav'd to those whose passions match'd mine own.

“Dorottya was one such, yet it is too small a thing to call her ‘one such'—rather, has she been the paramount and chiefest sharer of my joys: pupil and tutor both, purveying and receiving; yet not permitting jealousies to hinder her from being the avenue whereby I met with other congenial spirits.

“Our pleasures were not look'd upon with favour when, from time to time, a whisper would escape from some disgruntled creature we had used; but I would quell such rumours with a show of piety, and all would then again be well.

“But for how long would soothing words and seeming virtue still these grumblings? Not forever, surely. Much need had we to join our forces with those who, sympathetic to our tastes, would yet be sturdy shields, protectors, with blood alliances to noble ministers of mighty sway. 'Twas then we learn'd there liv'd, in a purlieu not far distant from our own, a fair young maid, in whose comely person nubility with nobility were conjoin'd; who counted cardinals and kings among her line; who was a most beloved cousin of that high-placed Gyorgy Thurzo, Prime Minister to His Majesty . . .”

I found my voice at last. “Oh God! Myself!”

“Thyself,” Ferencz confirm'd.

“But . . .” I stammer'd haltingly: “didst thou not say, just now, that such highborn allies must needs be ‘sympathetic to thy tastes'?”

“Ay, little wife. And art thou not of Bathory breed?”

“I am, but what of this?”

“Come, art so innocent? Dost thou not know full well the maim'd repute thy family bears—yet suffers not a jot of open censure, by reason of its powerful affiliates?”

“'Tis slander!”

“Truly? Is it slander, then, to say thy brother is an unsated ram who spends himself on young and old alike by main force, yet goes unpunish'd? Is't calumny to recall to thee thine aunt, whose lusts consume the choicest youthful blooms her influence and riches can procure, distinguishing not betwixt their genders? Is't falsehood to evoke that uncle who is call'd a warlock, concocter of dread alchemies, whose prayers are offered not to God, but Satan? And, dear Elisabeth, what of thy princely cousin Mad Zsigmond, he of Transylvania? Art thou indeed unknowing of his ways, of how, to entertain him whilst he sups (as others might be cheer'd by songs or stories) he hath serfs dragg'd before his table, that he may watch their coupling, and if he be not pleas'd with their performance, bids his varlets torture them to death, their screams concordant carols to his ears?”

“Nay, these are lies!” I cried.

He did not heed me, but went on. “And so, on Dorottya's urging, I paid thee court, was welcom'd by thy father, found thee most beauteous, and set about persuading thee to wed me. Young thou wert, and as young mares must needs be broken to the saddle, so must young maids. During this time of tutelage, Dorottya did absent herself from Csejthe. Thine untried ardour soar'd, but still did I refrain from leading thee to arcane joys, for fear of shocking thee and marring all. The mask of sanctimony I put on, and prated like a monk, and anxiously awaited such a time when it would be propitious to bring Dorottya to thee, for different teachings. The king's command well serv'd my purpose; I rode off to rout the Turk; thine unquench'd passions rag'd; and Dorottya, as was my plan, came unto thee to sate them.”

“To . . . sate them?” I said. “Nay, Dorottya but calm'd me with anointings and sport . . .”

Dorottya, long silent, threw back her head and laugh'd. “Is't innocence or idiocy?” she said. “Wert thou indeed purblind, that thou wast unaware how interdicted and unlawful was our congress? Did not these ‘calmings' and ‘anointings' and our romps, from which thou didst derive such glee, not once seem contraband or guilty?”

“Nay . . . nay, never!” I rejoin'd.

Ferencz then spake. “I do believe it, Dorottya. For when, tonight, she lay clasp'd within mine arms, I did attempt to sound her, by talk of ‘secrets' hidden from me, hints of things unholy in the world, righteous warnings of the faceless sins that ‘creep unseen into the soul.' And not once was she disquieted by guilt or shame, she is so pure. I press'd the point e'en further, bade her read Scripture, spoke of Paul, recited verses that I hop'd would lead her on to fuller guessings.” He look'd down upon me, still manacled, by hand and foot, unto that chair. “Dost recollect, Elisabeth? Those pagans who, 'tis writ, ‘worshipp'd and serv'd the creature more than the Creator'? The Holy Book has ever fill'd thy days, thou saith. Then canst thou not recite the words that follow? ‘For this cause . . .'”

In memory, the page of Scripture rose before mine eyes:
For this cause God gave them up into vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature . . .

“Then I . . .” My voice falter'd and broke.

“Ay, little one,” said Ferencz. “Thou, either by the fault of too excessive innocence, or the strain of Bathory perverseness in thy veins, hath done things call'd uncleanly and corrupt.”

Dorottya said, “Thou art now one of us, Elisabeth.”

“Bound to us by bands stouter than the ties of blood,” said Ferencz.

“Ay,” said I in hollow answer, “and likewise damn'd with ye.”

“If that be so,” said Ferencz, “then let thine arms embrace damnation like a lover . . .”

“And let us lead thee onward,” added Dorottya, “to keen delights far stranger and more bold than those thou hast already savour'd . . .”

“Ay, wife,” said Ferencz, “and be thou Bathory not but in name, but in hot deed, as well!”

“And let us seal this compact with a solemn pledge,” Dorottya said, “a ceremonial bath to signalize our fealty to sin.”

“We three to bathe?” said Ferencz. “'Tis well. And what, of all thy unctions, Dorottya, shall we bathe ourselves withal?”

“One richer far than all the others,” she replied, pointing to the girl who lieth, scourg'd and raw, upon the floor. “That which floweth in her veins.”