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
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
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