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  The Nosferatu Scroll

  ( Chris Bronson - 4 )

  James Becker

  James Becker

  The Nosferatu Scroll

  Prologue

  10 May 1741

  Krumlov Zamek, Cesky Krumlov, Bohemia

  ‘Open it.’

  The torchlight gave the priest’s face a haunting, almost satanic, quality, an impression reinforced by the chamber in which he was standing. It was a small underground room in the castle, located in the same part of the building as the cages that held the wolves. Four flickering torches were mounted in sconces, one on each wall, but they failed to drive away all the shadows.

  A sturdy table stood in the centre of the room, and on it lay a large, ornate, black wooden coffin, the closed lid divided into two parts and hinged on one side, the other edges secured with screws. The coffin had arrived from the Schwarzenberg Palace in Vienna two days earlier and had immediately been carried into St George’s Chapel in the castle. There, the upper section of the coffin had been opened to allow the mere handful of mourners who had appeared in the building to see the thin, white face of the body inside.

  The princess had come home for the last time.

  Masses for the immortal soul of Princess Eleonora Elisabeth Amalia Magdalena von Schwarzenberg had been held all over Bohemia, but few people made the journey to the vast castle — which wasn’t a single structure at all, but a complex of huge yellow and grey stone buildings roofed with red tiles — that stood on the north bank of the Vltava River.

  It was here that her burial was about to take place, and there were preparations — important preparations — to be made.

  Four servants had carried the coffin down from St George’s Chapel. Now, one of them moved forward in response to the priest’s instruction and removed the handmade iron screws that secured the upper part of the lid. His task done, he stepped back.

  ‘No. Take all of them out,’ the priest ordered.

  The man looked surprised, but obediently removed the remaining fastenings that held down the lower section of the lid. As he worked, he glanced back at the priest, wondering why the man who’d so publicly shunned the princess while she was alive was now so concerned with her dead body.

  The priest’s name was Bohdan Reznik, the surname meaning ‘butcher’, and in truth he looked as though he would be more at home in a bloodstained apron than in the plain, dark brown robes he habitually wore.

  When the body of the Princess Eleonora Amalia had been delivered to the castle, one of the escort party had walked down into Krumlov town, found Reznik at his home and handed him a single folded sheet of parchment. The document bore three separate seals, one of them the distinctive double-headed eagle mark of Karel VI, King of Bohemia, the current ruler, and a member of the Habsburg dynasty, which had governed the country since 1526.

  The instructions contained on the parchment were unambiguous, and made perfect sense to Reznik. He’d noted with satisfaction that his orders had been prepared by Dr Franz von Gerschstov, Eleonora Amalia’s preferred physician, and a man whose other, less well-known, qualities struck a chord with Reznik.

  The servant removed the final screw, and stepped back from the coffin once more, awaiting any further instructions the priest might issue.

  ‘Swing back the lid,’ the priest said, and watched as two of the servants did so, to reveal the whole interior of the coffin.

  ‘Now leave me with her. You may return in half an hour.’

  Only when the door of the small room had closed behind the men did the priest step forward. He walked across the flag-stoned floor to the coffin and looked down with distaste at the slight figure of Eleonora Amalia. Her hands were placed demurely on her breast, the right hand resting on the left, her wasted body clad in a long white dress, her small feet bare.

  Reznik felt in the pocket of his habit and pulled out a folding knife with a black wooden handle. He’d spent several minutes the previous evening putting a fine edge on the dark steel blade.

  He made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer — not for the immortal soul of Eleonora, but for himself, asking for forgiveness and divine protection for the actions he now had to take. He lifted the princess’s hands and lay her arms at her sides, then snapped open the knife. Reznik inserted the blade under the neckline of the dress and in a single fluid movement ran the knife all the way down to Eleonora’s feet, slicing through the layers of material. Then he peeled aside the two cut halves of the dress and looked down at her naked body. The skin that had been so white in life was now mottled and discoloured, with livid brown and purple marks where the initial stages of decay had taken hold.

  But that wasn’t the most noticeable feature. What held Reznik’s attention was the crudely stitched cut that ran from between the princess’s small, wrinkled breasts down to her pubis.

  Her nakedness offended him, but he had his instructions. His expression of distaste deepened as he again used his blade, this time to slice through each of the rough stitches that held the skin and flesh of her abdomen closed. Then he put down the knife, inserted his fingers into the wide incision and with little difficulty pulled apart the two sections of dead tissue. He was looking for one thing, one single object in the chest cavity, and in seconds he knew it wasn’t there — which was as it should be. But Reznik had been ordered to make absolutely sure before the burial took place.

  He nodded in satisfaction, wiped his hands on the front of his robe and stepped back from the open coffin. Then he walked across to one corner of the chamber, where another, much smaller and very plain wooden box was propped against the wall. Reznik was a strong man, and he picked up the box with little effort. He carried it across to the table, placed it next to the princess’s coffin, and lifted off the lid.

  Then he strode back to the wall of the chamber and picked up a leather bag, the contents of which clattered metallically as he carried it over to the table. He placed the bag on the floor, opened it and took out three substantial leather straps, which he positioned under the open box, spacing them equally along its length.

  He reached into the larger casket, picked up the mortal remains of Eleonora Amalia and dropped the body unceremoniously into the smaller box. Before he placed the lid in position, he took a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket and sprinkled the contents over the corpse, muttering a prayer as he did so. Then he took a hammer and a handful of nails from his bag, and drove a dozen of them firmly through the box’s lid, securely sealing it to the base. To complete the process, he knelt down and tightened each of the leather straps around it.

  Reznik took a deep breath and then, grunting with the effort, he lifted up the small wooden box and manoeuvred it into the larger coffin. It would have been easier to wait until the servants returned, but his instructions had been clear — when they returned to the chamber, he was to have sealed the coffin for the last time. Nobody must ever know what he had done. He closed the lid and started replacing the screws.

  When the servants knocked at the door a few minutes later, Reznik had finished securing the lid and was standing beside the coffin, waiting for them.

  ‘We leave the castle at eight,’ he said. ‘Ensure that the carriage is ready and everything has been prepared by then.’

  A few minutes before the appointed hour, Reznik strode into the castle courtyard. Night was already falling, and the expansive open space was in deep shadow, the only illumination coming from the fitful flames of the torches mounted along the walls.

  A black-painted carriage, its doors bearing the device of the Schwarzenberg dynasty, stood waiting in the centre of the courtyard. Two black mares were already hitched to it and tossing their heads impatiently in black-plumed headdresses. The drive
r, also dressed in black, stood beside the vehicle. As Reznik had instructed — his absolute authority conferred by the parchment he still carried — all of the castle’s servants, wearing the darkest clothes they possessed, were standing silently on one side of the courtyard to bid their mistress a last farewell.

  Reznik walked across to the carriage and looked into the rear section, behind the seats. The coffin was already in place, the gleaming black wood marred in two places by the leather straps that held it in situ, a precaution against the jolting the carriage would experience on the rough and unmade road that ran from the castle to the church of St Vitus, where the princess’s body was destined to rest for all eternity. Reznik nodded in satisfaction: all his instructions had been followed to the letter. Finally, he clambered up on to the carriage, the driver joining him a few moments later.

  For a couple of minutes nothing else happened, and then the castle clock struck eight. As the first peal of the bell echoed around the courtyard, the servants standing beside the large wooden gates stepped forward, released the bolts, and pulled them open. Only then did the driver tap the reins lightly across the broad backs of the two mares. Obediently, the horses stepped forward, their hooves clattering on the uneven stones of the courtyard, and the carriage began to move, creaking gently as it did so.

  The funeral cortege, if that word could accurately be applied to only a single carriage containing two men and one corpse, passed through the wide gateway and out of the castle. The sight that greeted the two men outside the walls was both spectacular and sad: the road that wound away from the castle was lined on both sides by silent and unmoving figures, each holding aloft a flaming brand. Indeed, from the castle gates, it looked as if a thin double ribbon of fire was stretching out in front of the carriage, illuminating the final route that the princess’s body would take.

  Reznik glanced at the first few figures as the carriage drove slowly past them. Some of the torchbearers had been drawn from the local villagers, but the others, and perhaps the majority, were men and women of the cloth: monks and nuns who had been summoned by Reznik so that their piety and righteousness might lend a certain dignity — and protection — to the proceedings. Each of them bowed his or her head in respectful supplication as the carriage passed, and then made the sign of the cross.

  And as the carriage trundled slowly past the silent ranks, the torchbearers extinguished their burning brands in metal water buckets which had been placed beside each of them specifically for that purpose. The moving end of the ribbon of fire marked the position of the carriage, while behind it darkness again reclaimed the land.

  An impartial observer might have wondered at a funeral for a princess of the Schwarzenberg dynasty being conducted in such a manner. It was unusual enough that the presiding clergyman should be just a village priest rather than a bishop or some other high Church official, but even more surprising was the complete absence of a single member of the Schwarzenberg family, or any representatives from the other aristocratic families to which the Schwarzenbergs were linked or related. Even Eleonora Amalia’s son Joseph was missing.

  It was as if the only people who had any regard or respect or affection for the princess were the peasants and villagers of Krumlov itself, but even that impression was false. The local men and women lining the route and holding the torches aloft had been ordered to do so by Reznik, on pain of punishment.

  About twenty minutes after leaving the castle, the carriage drew to a halt outside the open doors of the Church of St Vitus. Reznik climbed down from his seat and issued a series of instructions. The straps holding the coffin in place were released, and the heavy wooden box was hoisted on to the shoulders of six powerfully built monks. They carried the coffin into the church and placed it on a wooden trestle that had been prepared and positioned in front of the altar.

  The service was short — about as brief as Reznik could make it — and almost all the pews in front of the pulpit were noticeably empty. The only people sitting in the church were wearing the habits of monks and nuns, summoned like the torchbearers before them. Once his duty was done, Reznik stepped down from the pulpit to supervise the actual burial.

  As a Schwarzenberg, it might have been expected that the princess would be laid to rest in the family vault, in St Augustine’s church in Vienna, but Eleonora had been denied that privilege. Instead, Reznik led the way into a small side chapel where a large section of the stone-flagged floor had already been removed and a deep grave dug, a grave that had been lined with a clay-based concrete. The six monks lowered the casket to the floor where three substantial ropes had been placed in readiness. Then they each seized the end of one of the ropes and lifted the coffin off the floor, moving awkwardly in the confined space around the grave, and manoeuvred the casket over the hole. Slowly they lowered the coffin into the waiting void.

  Reznik murmured a few last prayers, and then ordered the handful of official mourners out of the church. The final rituals were to be witnessed by as small a number of people as possible.

  Reznik stepped to one side of the chapel and picked up a crudely fashioned wooden ladder, which he carried over to the side of the grave and then lowered into it. He gestured to the monks, who silently descended into the pit. Reznik held a torch over the void so they could see what they were doing. Stacked along both sides of the grave were a number of heavy flat stones. Working under the priest’s direction, the monks picked these up, two men to each stone, and placed them carefully on the flat top of the black wooden coffin, in a double layer.

  Reznik inspected their work carefully from the top of the grave, and ordered them to climb out again. Their next task required all the considerable strength the monks possessed. Reznik had already arranged for a rough wooden arch fitted with a heavy-duty pulley to be positioned inside the chapel to allow a single heavy slab to be laid across the top of the open grave to seal it completely. Even with this mechanical device to assist them, it still took almost half an hour before the slab was positioned to Reznik’s satisfaction and, despite the cool evening air, the sweat was pouring off the faces of the six men.

  But still they weren’t finished. Reznik permitted them a short break to recover their strength, then supervised the disassembly of the wooden arch, the component pieces of which they stacked against the side wall of the chapel. Once that had been completed, he instructed them to drag three heavy sacks containing soil, taken from the cemetery outside the church, across to the slab that now covered the tomb. They upended the sacks and spread the contents into a single even layer over the slab.

  Now, finally, the monks’ work was almost over. They replaced the flagstones that had been removed to allow the hole to be dug, but left enough space directly over the grave for the gravestone itself, a slab that Reznik had had prepared by a stone mason in the village the previous day. Two of the monks picked up the stone and lowered it carefully into position.

  Reznik stepped to the end of the gravestone and lowered his head in prayer for the last time, the six monks who had assisted him kneeling on the flagstone floor beside the tomb.

  Moonlight speared in through one of the chapel’s side windows and the beam played silently across the freshly cut and very simple inscription in the stone. The words made no mention of Eleonora Amalia’s family name or her aristocratic status. It didn’t even include the Schwarzenberg coat of arms. On the specific instructions of Reznik, who had himself simply been following the orders he had been given by the men who had prepared the parchment, the inscription simply listed the first name of the princess, and the date of her death:

  Hier liget die arme sunderin Eleonora bittet fur sie. Obut die 5 Mai A1741.

  With the body of Eleonora now safely consigned to the earth, Reznik had two more tasks to perform. The carriage was standing outside the church, the driver waiting for him. Reznik climbed up on to the vehicle and instructed the man to return to Krumlov Castle.

  The gates were still wide open, but the courtyard was now virtually deserted. Only thr
ee men waited for Reznik’s return and the orders they expected him to issue. The priest stepped down from the carriage and walked across to them.

  The men were all wearing tunics that identified them as servants of the Schwarzenberg dynasty, and two of them were armed with short swords, the scabbards buckled to their belts. It was these two men that Reznik approached first.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Do it now. Kill them all, and dump the bodies in the forest.’

  The men nodded, turned on their heels and vanished inside the building.

  Reznik turned to the third man. ‘Show me the painting.’

  The servant led Reznik into the castle and to a long gallery, at one end of which hung a life-size portrait of Eleonora. The priest stared at the princess’s pale face for a few moments, his lip curling in disgust.

  ‘Lift it down,’ he ordered.

  Once the painting was leaning against the wall, Reznik took his folding knife and opened it. He drove the point of the blade through the canvas to the left of the princess’s head and hacked downwards in a vertical line. He repeated the operation on the right-hand side of the image as well, then sliced a horizontal line above the head to join the two cuts. He seized the flap of canvas that now fell forward, and started to cut along the last remaining side.

  As his blade began cutting through the painted image of Eleonora’s neck, the mournful howl of an animal echoed through the vast old building.

  The man beside Reznik glanced round in alarm, but the priest ignored the interruption. He completed the final cut through the canvas and stepped back, holding the painted image of the princess’s head in his left hand. He looked around and then stepped across to the nearest sconce in which a torch burned brightly. Taking it down, he held the flames to one corner of the square he’d removed from the painting. The canvas was heavy and the paint thick, and for a few seconds it merely smouldered. Then the fire took hold and it flared suddenly, the flames a kaleidoscopic mix of colours as the pigments in the paint were consumed by the heat. Reznik dropped the final corner of the canvas to the floor and watched as the last of the flames flickered and died.