Haunted Castles (13 page)

N
ow stretch'd a span of time berefit of bliss, like to an arid desert waste which one traverses without hope, on bleeding feet, one's skin aflame, the flesh and humours parch'd beyond endurance, the very soul a festering cicatrix. Such was my lot, with Ferencz gone.

By dint of tender arts, Nadasdy had, as 'twere, spread out for my delight a table heap'd with dishes exquisite and rare, delicious Afric fruits, pungent sauces, succulent meats, all hitherto untasted by my palate—cruelly to sweep away that feast with harsh abruptness, consigning me again to the flat gruel that had been my erstwhile fare.

Cozen'd by heartless war, I pin'd, I mourn'd; the hours of my husband's absence were like the heavy weights of the
peine forte et dure
, each more insupportable than the last, pil'd upon my bosom without pity by a tormenting fiend, until my heart was crush'd within my breast and I cried out in bitter anguish. Daytime was passing desolate; but in the night, my bed transmogrified into an hideous rack on which my aching flesh was torn, I writh'd and thrash'd upon the sheets, despairing and distrait, my teeth worrying the coverlet as might a bitch, my briny tears making the pillow sodden.

From such nights would I wake dull, unrestor'd, and pale, with swollen eyes, my spirit bleak. In such sorry case was I that I would rage at the servants who brought my morning morsel, even at my faithful old Ilona; and at one such time she said, “What pains my lady?”

“Love,” I sigh'd, “no other thing than love for my departed consort.”

She took my hand. “It is as I have fear'd would come to pass,” she said, nodding her gray head. “Thou wast dry tinder till Count Ferencz struck his flint and spark'd thee; now, lacking his cool quenching, thou art an angry ember, my poor child; thou burnest.”

“Oh, my old friend, indeed I burn!” I moan'd, tears brimming in mine eyes. “Red glowing irons sear me to the bone, impale me deep, plunge hot into my vitals. I am in dire distraction!”

As if alone and speaking to herself, Ilona murmur'd, “Abandon'd thus to such a scorching fever, what fearsome, all-consuming blaze might not this child become?” Then, looking down at me, she said, “No other thing within this mortal sphere do I desire but thy happiness. There, there, my child, there, there . . .” And she strok'd my dry, hot hand.

“Thou art so wise, Ilona,” I said, my head in her ample lap, “are there not medicines to avail against such sore distress?”

“None, none, my lady,” she replied. “Fasting and prayer excepted, I know none.”

“These have I tried, at the priest's urging, but they are unavailing. Dost know of some diversions, then? Puzzles and games to tease the mind away from the throbbing wound?”

“None, child; none that are wholesome.”

“Are there unwholesome pastimes, then?” I marvell'd. “My fancy cannot picture pleasures that are vile. To be vile, yet pleasing? This surely is a paradox, Ilona.”

“I chatter'd idly; think not of this,” she said. Patting my hand more heartily, she further spake: “Thou passeth thy days too much alone here, now that thy good Count is gone. None but serfs and servants, and cold priests, hold discourse with thee. This must not be, for thou art young, and have sore need of merriment. In attendance should be those whose arts would fain relume thy heart, as pipers, poets, minstrels.”

“Sweet nurse, they are with their warlike masters, striking tabours, and bawling songs of brave exploits. All men of mettle or of mirth are far away.”

“Then what of ladies?” ask'd Ilona.

I pouted and pac'd. “The ladies hereabout are lackwits,” I rejoin'd, “who prate of naught but gowns and silly gossip.”

Thus did it go, and thus I languish'd for full many a day, and word of my distemper spread slowly through all Nyitra. From time to time, but all too seldom, letters would be brought from Ferencz, swearing his love anew, importuning me to free my mind of worry. These messages would I press to my bosom, and to my thirsting lips, and place beneath my pillow when I slept.

One morn, when I was lolling in my bath, Ilona, as she fetch'd my towel, disclos'd that there awaited in the adjacent chamber a lady, who, hearing of my drear existence, had forthwith come to cheer me.

“Name her,” I said, with some alacrity.

“Alas, I cannot,” said Ilona, drying my glistening limbs as I stepp'd from the tub, “and, indeed, I know naught of her station, or if it is meet that you have concourse with her. She is not, I think, a gentlewoman, and yet, in sooth, her aspect is most gracious and commends her . . .”

“Ilona, leave off prattling! Go to the lady, use her with courtesy, ask what her name be, and—”

“My name,” now spake a purring voice, “is Dorottya.”

I looked up, undrap'd as I was, to see my visitant standing in the archway, tall, full-bodied, beautiful, attir'd all in black, her skin paler than mine, her tresses red as fire. It was one of the persons I had glimps'd, now and again, from out my window, quietly gathering barks and grasses. “Have I leave to enter, Countess?” she ask'd, most deferentially.

I nodded, and she mov'd soundlessly into the chamber, her eyes not once leaving mine. Then, her glance flickering quickly down the length of my dewy frame, she enquir'd, “Is it my lady's pleasure, after bathing, to be rubb'd with scented oil?”

Once more I nodded, and Ilona held out for her to see the phial of oil with which she customarily anointed me. “With my lady's permission,” said Dorottya, “May I proffer a balm of mine own concoction, distill'd of aromatic woodland herbs?” She pull'd the stopper from a tiny urn, and instantly the air was all infus'd with heady fragrance. “To soft skins such as thine, Countess, it is as sweet as lover's lips,” she said.

I smiled my approval, and Ilona reach'd for the urn, but Dorottya did not surrender it. “Let not rough hands perform this subtle office,” she urg'd. “Rather, if it please my lady, let myself be thine anointer.”

Again I smil'd, words frozen on my lips by the unswerving eyes of my new friend, and discarding my towel, I reclin'd upon my bench to await the soothing unction.

Dorottya knelt beside the bench, and pour'd the olent oil into her palm. “Leave us,” she bade Ilona.

H
ow shall I say what comfort Dorottya afforded me; what panacea flow'd from her, in the days that follow'd, to ease my loneliness? Her voice, as rich and dark as sable, was in itself a healing balsam; her gentle, stroking hands unparallel'd in smoothing cares away. To her, I felt that I could speak of all things: trifles, fears, delights, puzzles that piqued my curiosity, small vexing shames too delicate to confess even to Ilona. Dorottya was a vessel that receiv'd and understood them all. She assuag'd my fears, confirm'd my joys, bestow'd upon me peace and absolution beyond the gifts of any priest.

Of herself, she spoke little. “Dorottya,” I asked her straight one day, “whence comest thou; what are thy people?”

“I am a woman of the wood, Countess,” she said. “Some call us gypsies, others deem us fairies. Those who fear our wisdom and our crafts say we are witches.”

“That is no answer at all,” I told her, laughing, “but let it pass.”

She said, “I would not leave my lady unsatisfied.”

“It is no matter,” I assur'd her, “but tell me this: are there others of thine ilk or kin hereabout?”

“More than my lady might suppose,” she said.

“Why do thy people keep their own counsel, and eschew the company of others?”

“Our ways are oft misrender'd, and false readings put on what we do: out of such ill perceivings rise discord and strife.”

“Do I misrender or misread thee, Dorottya? Doth discord come of these fair hours together?”

“No, my lady. But thine affections complement mine own.”

At first, Dorottya paid visits to the castle of an hour or more; these visits I persuaded her to lengthen; finally I gave instructions to Ilona that the woman of the wood was to be granted domicile in chambers next to mine.

It must not be suppos'd that Dorottya's ministrations dislodg'd all thought of Ferencz from my mind, or that my love for him had lessen'd with the lessening of my loneliness. Indeed, some of my new friend's arts seem'd meant by fate to cleave Ferencz more close to me, and fan our love, and sanctify it with issue. For Dorottya's discourse of herbs and vegetals and suchlike held me blandish'd: how ragwort and colewort do enliven virile humours, whereas chaste-tree and water lily quench the generative powers of the man; how mugwort, pennyroyal, fetherfew, and savine are most beneficent to the womb; how saffron is so priz'd for its medicinable effects that, in Nuremberg, if pharmacists adulterate or otherwise dilute it, they are some burnt and some interr'd alive. By this and other learned talk did Dorottya amuse me, likewise by suave anointings and by little games most easing to my nature.

From all of this, Ilona drew away, her aspect clouded by disapprobation. Anger'd by this, I call'd her to task. “Fie, Ilona,” I said. “It speaks most ill of thee to mope thus.”

“I beg my lady's pardon,” she said coldly.

“Was it not thee, Ilona,” I pursu'd, “who said that she desir'd, above all else, my happiness? Why, then, these frowns?”

“My lady,” she said haltingly, “this gypsy woman is not of thy station . . .”

“No more are thee.”

“. . . And yet, ye twain are lock'd for hours together; I hear the plashing of thy bath, and laughter, and low talking, and strange long silences, and sudden cries . . .”

“Dost decree, then, that I weep and groan, which heretofore has been my portion?”

Ilona gabbl'd on, as if I had not spoken: “Such silences, such laughter, and such cries, as I was wont to hear more happily, when thou wert closeted with thy lord the Count . . .”

“Enough of this!” I shouted in displeasure. “Thy brain is addl'd with thine age, and poison'd with ignoble jealousy! What, shall a married lady, the mistress of a mighty castle, be censur'd and diminish'd by her ancient nurse? Hath the fair structure and proportion of mankind been now inverted, dangled by its heels? Do lackeys reign, and servants sit in judgement? Oh, then is Chaos surely come!”

So generous and open was Dorottya that, learning of old Ilona's foolish opposition, she ventur'd to suggest a remedy. “Among my people, there are cordials, broths, and simples to charm away these cholers, and to lull and pacify such peevish minds . . .”

“I would not drug the good old woman,” I said.

“She will no more be drugg'd than is the fever'd, raving patient, when physick'd into calm by healthful draughts. I prithee, Countess, place thy trust in me and in my arts.”

And so, with sprinkling of some powdery dust into Ilona's nightly cup of mead, that source of sad annoy was purg'd. My nurse, quite cur'd of retrograde and waspish thoughts, was coax'd into a smiling mollitude, her eye no longer darken'd by unseemly doubts, but well-content and fix'd as on some distant blissful scene.

“She is the happier now,” I was assur'd by Dorottya.

“Yes, it is good,” I quite agreed. “I would not have the dear dame vex'd and sorrow'd.”

With fresh zeal, then, did I address myself to all those revels which Dorottya had devis'd to fill my heart, made empty by my warrior husband's fealty to the king.

“What would my lady say,” croon'd Dorottya one eve, “if I were to bid welcome to such others as would cheer thee?”

“Bid welcome
here
, dear Dorottya? What sort of others?”

“Some, as myself, of gypsy breed,” she said. “Others, maybe, of different stamp—young village maids of jolly temper, whose rustic songs and dances would regale thee.”

I thought upon this before answering, “I know not if such company would find favour with the Count.”

“The Count?” laughed Dorottya. “I see no Count. Say, rather, if such company would find favour with the Countess.”

I knew not what to answer: fill my husband's home with wild gypsies and ungentle village girls, suffer rude songs and peasant gambols to taint these ancestral halls? I waver'd, said not yes or no; and Dorottya did not persist. “If thou art hesitant, I will not press,” she said, “for it is only thine own merriment, and my sworn duty to preserve it, that brought the notion to my thoughts. Let us say no more of this. At any rate, it is past time for my lady's bath . . .”

Never had I enjoy'd such frequency of bathing and oiling, save since the day Dorottya had come to me. Surrendering to her services, I let my imagination dwell upon the sport she had suggested, the singing and the dancing of the simple village folk, the carefree ways of gypsies. As Dorottya rubb'd me from head to foot with scented ointment (I sipping all the while from a chalice of wine she had mull'd for me), my presentments fell away, and in a drowsy voice I let her know that it would not be untoward if, at some time soon, she invited certain gay companions to the castle.

“I would not do a thing the Countess thinks unseemly,” she replied.

“Nay,” I said, with clos'd eyes, “do it, sweet Dorottya, I pray. I give you leave . . .” And, with this, I was asleep, warm'd by the wine, naked and bath'd and oil'd upon my bench.

Whether an hour I doz'd, or more, I never knew, but when I awaken'd, I was irk'd to see a stranger in my chambers, a young girl, scarcely out of childhood, rudely garbed but comely. I reach'd out, startl'd, for my towel, and with it covered most of my nakedness, crying out, “Who art thou? What dost thou here?”

“Please, m'lady,” the girl stammer'd, afrighted and distrait. “'Twas Mistress Dorottya commanded me to appear before thee . . .” And she look'd, with some trepidation I bethought me, over my shoulder, where, I now discover'd, Dorottya stood.

“‘Commanded'?”
I said to Dorottya sharply. “Dost now command here, gypsy woman?”

“The girl is mewling,” smiled Dorottya. “She is but a village simpleton I had brought hither for thy diversion, Countess. For, sure, thou gavest leave to do so.”

“I may have done,” I said, my brain still wrapp'd in foggy sleep, “I do not now recall. But whilst I am all ungirt, can it be meet?”

“Faith, lady,” chided Dorottya, “are we not all women here, whatever our condition? No harm can come of such an audience, surely.”

Dorottya's words calm'd my first misgivings. “Thou are welcome,” I said, extending my hand for the girl to kiss. But she instead fell forward on her knees and kiss'd mine unshod foot.

This much surpris'd me, and I giggl'd, drawing my foot away and saying, “Nay, foolish girl, I am no pope that thou must pay me homage thus.”

“But Mistress Dorottya—” the girl began to say.

“Silly wench,” said Dorottya, “dost thou so soon offend the Countess?”

I interven'd: “But there is no offense. Arise, girl, do not kneel thus, as if at thy prayers.”

“Truly,” said Dorottya, with a merry laugh, “we hope to be more jocund than folk are wont to be at vespers!”

With this I did concur with all my heart, and ask'd of Dorottya, “What frolic, then, shall we try with our new friend?”

“None at all,” said Dorottya, “whilst she is thus begrim'd with village dirt.” (And true it was, the girl was most uncleanly.)

“What then?” I ask'd, still clutching at my towel.

“Why,” said Dorottya, “would it not prove saucy sport for us to play at being handmaidens to the girl? To let this lowly person once enjoy the ministrations highborn ladies do?”

“It is thy thought, then . . . ?”

“But a passing thought, a vagrant fancy,” Dorottya answer'd with a shrug. “If thou likest it not . . .”

“It suits me well,” I rejoin'd. “To bathe the girl, and then anoint her?”

“For a beginning,” Dorottya made reply, adding: “Surely it is innocent, and Christian?”

“So it is!” I laugh'd.

And thus, with many a smile and slap and sportive cry, Dorottya and I stripp'd bare the girl of her mean attire, and lifted her into my tub. She squeal'd to feel the water, and howl'd as we scrubb'd her with the brush. Such squirming did she do that I was drench'd from head to foot, but this was no great matter for I was still unclad, and Dorottya, in concord with the occasion, had divested herself of her garments, as well.

It was at this time that Ilona enter'd the chamber, was gaily told to be about her business and leave us young ladies to our play, but persisted, and through the girl's pretty shrieks, at length made her message understood; it was none other than the news that, from the highest parapet of Csejthe, a vigil guard had seen and made known the approach of mounted men.

“What men?” I laugh'd, still in the spirit of our romp. “We have no need of men!”

“Count Ferencz and his retinue,” my nurse replied.