proud and determined warrior, eventually becoming Captain of the Hungarian Army, and spent his life fighting the Turks, becoming incredibly wealthy. He was a national hero. But in 1575, when he was nineteen years old, he married the fourteen-year-old Countess Erzsébet, or Elizabeth, Bathory.’
‘I’ve heard that name somewhere.’
‘In popular legend, Elizabeth Bathory was famous for bathing in the blood of virgin girls, believing this would give her immortality.’
‘Did it?’
‘It’s just a legend.’
Her eyes widen suddenly. ‘Are you —’ she starts, then bites her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m not. But I did spend a few years in Vienna in the late 1580s, and Elizabeth would stay in Vienna from time to time. I never spoke with her, of course. She was high in society, and I stayed in the fringes and the shadows. But I did see her. She was beautiful and very intelligent, and absolutely in command of the people around her. I was in awe. I wanted to be like her. One night I went hunting for a way to sneak into her mansion, and heard screams of torment from within. I waited for someone to react, for I could see guards and servants and knew that they must hear, but there was no rush to the rescue, just a general agitation.
‘The screams continued intermittently for hours, and the following night there were more, and the following. This fantastic, beautiful woman I so admired spent her nights in relentless torture of young serving girls. There were rumours of coffins being taken away, supposedly victims of cholera. But no one was investigating. She was the wife of Hungary’s hero, and servants in those days were just property and often treated badly. By the time she was finally arrested, many years later, she and her cohort were said to have tortured several hundred young girls to death.
‘But however terrible the Countess was, she was kindness itself in comparison to the Inquisitors. Those holy messengers of God developed the torture of heretics and witches into an art form. No one was safe, and tens of thousands of people, mostly women, were killed. I saw inhumanly cruel things done that are still giving me nightmares four hundred years later.
‘There are monsters, Cleo, and I am one of them, but I am the least of them. It’s the human ones you should hide from.’ My muscles are tense around the stem of the wine glass, and I have to consciously relax them. ‘I have done many terrible things over the years, but what troubles me, sometimes like a sharp blade in my chest so that I can hardly breathe, is the guilt I feel for my cowardice, for not killing Bathory, the Inquisitors, the witch-hunters, and the many abusers and torturers of women.’
Cleo has gone pale. She sits back, glass in hand, deep in thought for a few minutes, until: ‘What happened to your husband?’
‘Cleo,’ I say. ‘Tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, maybe, when you decide that I am truly a monster, and you need to save humanity from me, what will you do?’
‘Put a wooden stake through your heart?’ she asks uncertainly, suddenly glowing with embarrassment.
‘You could do that to me?’ I gasp, eyes wide and sad, lips trembling melodramatically. ‘Hold a sharpened wooden stake to my heart with one hand, and drive it in with a heavy hammer in the other?’ I let tears roll down my cheeks.
Cleo looks at me guiltily for a few seconds, then glares. ‘Stop that!’ I burst out laughing, and I’m pleased to see Cleo is suppressing a smile.
‘Are you sure that would work? I was shot in the heart last night, and look at me now. Practically perfect. Mary Poppins.’
‘Cut off your head?’
‘Now you’re talking. Of course, I’m not going to just lie down and let you do it. And I’m not going to let you tie me up, not even for kinky sex games. Why don’t you just call the authorities, let them deal with me?’
‘They’d never believe me.’
‘Well, no, not if you phoned them up and said, “My
‘I’ve heard that name somewhere.’
‘In popular legend, Elizabeth Bathory was famous for bathing in the blood of virgin girls, believing this would give her immortality.’
‘Did it?’
‘It’s just a legend.’
Her eyes widen suddenly. ‘Are you —’ she starts, then bites her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m not. But I did spend a few years in Vienna in the late 1580s, and Elizabeth would stay in Vienna from time to time. I never spoke with her, of course. She was high in society, and I stayed in the fringes and the shadows. But I did see her. She was beautiful and very intelligent, and absolutely in command of the people around her. I was in awe. I wanted to be like her. One night I went hunting for a way to sneak into her mansion, and heard screams of torment from within. I waited for someone to react, for I could see guards and servants and knew that they must hear, but there was no rush to the rescue, just a general agitation.
‘The screams continued intermittently for hours, and the following night there were more, and the following. This fantastic, beautiful woman I so admired spent her nights in relentless torture of young serving girls. There were rumours of coffins being taken away, supposedly victims of cholera. But no one was investigating. She was the wife of Hungary’s hero, and servants in those days were just property and often treated badly. By the time she was finally arrested, many years later, she and her cohort were said to have tortured several hundred young girls to death.
‘But however terrible the Countess was, she was kindness itself in comparison to the Inquisitors. Those holy messengers of God developed the torture of heretics and witches into an art form. No one was safe, and tens of thousands of people, mostly women, were killed. I saw inhumanly cruel things done that are still giving me nightmares four hundred years later.
‘There are monsters, Cleo, and I am one of them, but I am the least of them. It’s the human ones you should hide from.’ My muscles are tense around the stem of the wine glass, and I have to consciously relax them. ‘I have done many terrible things over the years, but what troubles me, sometimes like a sharp blade in my chest so that I can hardly breathe, is the guilt I feel for my cowardice, for not killing Bathory, the Inquisitors, the witch-hunters, and the many abusers and torturers of women.’
Cleo has gone pale. She sits back, glass in hand, deep in thought for a few minutes, until: ‘What happened to your husband?’
‘Cleo,’ I say. ‘Tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, maybe, when you decide that I am truly a monster, and you need to save humanity from me, what will you do?’
‘Put a wooden stake through your heart?’ she asks uncertainly, suddenly glowing with embarrassment.
‘You could do that to me?’ I gasp, eyes wide and sad, lips trembling melodramatically. ‘Hold a sharpened wooden stake to my heart with one hand, and drive it in with a heavy hammer in the other?’ I let tears roll down my cheeks.
Cleo looks at me guiltily for a few seconds, then glares. ‘Stop that!’ I burst out laughing, and I’m pleased to see Cleo is suppressing a smile.
‘Are you sure that would work? I was shot in the heart last night, and look at me now. Practically perfect. Mary Poppins.’
‘Cut off your head?’
‘Now you’re talking. Of course, I’m not going to just lie down and let you do it. And I’m not going to let you tie me up, not even for kinky sex games. Why don’t you just call the authorities, let them deal with me?’
‘They’d never believe me.’
‘Well, no, not if you phoned them up and said, “My
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