The Bloodletter's Daughter (15 page)

“Gluttony is a vice,” snarled the priest. “It is an affront to Christ, who suffered for our sins.”

“And so is a lack of charity and appreciation for God’s wondrous bounty,” replied the doctor, snapping his fingers at a page in the corridor.

“Send up bread and cheese, ale, and whatever other fare you have in the larder for our breakfast. We want Herr Pichler to think we are hosts, not jailers.”

The priest glowered, muttering under his breath in Spanish.

Pichler recognized the young page to be one of the town baker’s sons, Jiri, a brother of Marketa’s friend Katarina. He nodded his head and then winked at the boy, who scurried away down the cold hall in search of food and drink.

“Come, Pan Pichler, sit. I cannot for the life of me understand why you were not comfortably seated before I entered the room.”

The priest did not look up.

Katarina’s little brother, Jiri, brought in a board with fresh rye bread and cheese. A great tankard of ale was set in front of Pichler, a creamy froth blossoming from the rim.

“Will that be all, sir?” Jiri asked, looking down at his shoes.

“Yes, lad. But stay close in case we need your services.” Mingonius smiled briskly and dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand.

“Eat, Barber,” he said. “I will explain our plan. The priest has asked to remain and hear of the treatment. You see, we are competing stewards of Don Julius’s welfare. Our great King Rudolf, embracing both the spiritual and the scientific worlds, has given us equal charge of his son. Even as we talk, a messenger should be on his way from Prague bringing me a letter of permission to bleed the boy.”

“Those who meddle with God’s work will not be redeemed with the word of man!” spat the priest.

“Are you saying that King Rudolf, ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, is a mere mortal, priest? Your words border on treason, I should think, against His Highness the sole protector of the Holy Roman Empire. Perhaps you should say them only in whispered prayers, in Spanish, under the protection of the cathedral.”

Pichler chewed his bread quietly, not venturing a word.

“What I plan is a great purging,” said Mingonius, his long finger lashing the air. “We will need to procure leeches, but not just any leech. The Rozmberks have ponds near here with proper leeches. I have procured them in the past—we have had them carried to Prague in buckets for the spring lettings. As the cusp of winter will soon be upon us, it is a most auspicious time to let blood.”

“I can procure them tomorrow,” said Pichler, eagerly. “I use the ponds to stock my own supply.”

“And, pray tell me, how do you harvest them?” asked Mingonius before nibbling at a crust of bread.

“The caretaker lends me his cow, in exchange for a bleeding and a bath. The leeches attach as she stands in the waters, chewing her cud. We lead her into the grass and she stands until they fall off, gorged. The farmer will not let us unsuckle them any earlier, for fear of tearing the flesh of his fine cow.”

“So they must fast for weeks before they feel ready for more blood.”

Pichler smiled and wiped the foam off his lips with fingers.

“I plan ahead, Herr Doctor. I have hungry leeches harvested from the early spring, in buckets in the back of the bathhouse. We can use them if you want a deep letting.”

“Barbaric!” pronounced the Spaniard. “Animals sipping blood from man’s veins.”

“I should think you would find it in keeping with your own traditions. Is it not the blood of Christ your faithful sup on each Sunday?”

The priest crossed himself and hissed a prayer in Latin.

“In any case, I am afraid, Herr Barber, we cannot use those leeches,” said the court doctor to Pichler. “I cannot allow a bloodsucker who has feasted most recently on a cow to touch the son of the Holy Roman emperor.”

The barber looked confused.

The doctor continued, “We must attract and harvest the leeches on finer bait. I have heard you have a daughter, a good pious virgin, I would imagine.”

Pichler did not answer.

Doctor Mingonius noted his reticence and rushed ahead to break the silence.

“She does her washing just below us in the river?”

“Yes, she cleans my tools and trays for me at the end of the day.”

“Perfect, she will do. When I document the procedure for King Rudolf, I must mention how we procured the leeches. He would not like the prospect of a cow’s blood mingling with his son’s. A Hapsburg—you see my point?”

Pichler had never considered such things, he realized. He was shocked at his own ignorance and felt embarrassed in front of the court physician.

“Certainly, sir,” he murmured. He realized he had eaten most of the bread and cheese and felt like an ignorant bumpkin.

“But leeches procured by an innocent virgin, well, now that would be another matter altogether. More fitting for a king’s son.”

Pichler pushed his tankard away.

“I will see to it, Herr Doctor.”

Mingonius smiled. “Yes, and I think we still have time on our side. The waters are not so cold as to lull the creatures to sleep, though the maiden may find herself cold enough in the Rozmberks’ ponds.”

Suddenly a scream pierced the air.

“Ah, I see that our charge has awakened.”

The priest rose to his feet. “I will lead him in prayers,” he said.

“You will not lead him anywhere,” smiled the doctor. “Any more than I can.”

The shrieking came again, and then a low moaning wail.

“God is with me,” pronounced the Jesuit. “And I can see the devil is with you both.”

Pichler shuddered as Mingonius knocked on the door. He could hear the shattering of crockery and the ranting of Don Julius.

“I trust you have quick enough wits to jump away from him should he attack,” said Mingonius, studying Pichler’s sturdy build. “He is quite agile, though the guards seem to anticipate his moves. But with your beard you would be an easy target.”

Pichler stroked his beard with an open hand and nodded, his eyes registering Mingonius’s concern.

The guard standing beside them turned the key in the great lock and opened the door slightly. A hand reached out, fingers curled, seeking something to grasp. The fingernails were broken and dirty, the fingers without rings or adornment. Nevertheless,
Pichler could see by the smoothness of the skin that it was the hand of an aristocrat.

“Come back, I pray you, Don Julius,” said one of the guards inside. “Come and sit in your chair while we welcome the good doctor.”

“Fie and dog’s dung on the doctor! He and the priest hold me prisoner.”

Pichler slipped into the room, standing well behind Doctor Mingonius.

He looked around. A canopy bed of stained mahogany was still unmade, and the red jacquard bedspread lay twisted in a heap. The porcelain washing basin was overturned on the floor, and the jug had been shattered. Shards littered the floor.

The disheveled Hapsburg allowed the guards to lead him back to his chair. Carlos Felipe stood off to one side. The sour expression on the Jesuit’s face was hardly that of a man who had led another in a moment of satisfying sacred prayer.

“Approach,” Don Julius commanded Mingonius. “Who is this peasant you bring here?”

“He is a fellow guild member, the barber-surgeon of Cesky Krumlov, Don Julius.”

Pichler removed his cap and bowed to the king’s son.

“At least he has manners and recognizes me for who I am,” mumbled Don Julius. “You there, Barber. Why do you not apply your profession to your own face?”

“I prefer my beard,” said Pichler quietly. He looked up as far as Don Julius’s knees. “My wife and daughter like it.”

“You mustn’t trust women, especially in matters of men,” pronounced the pendulous Hapsburg lips. “Look at me, Barber.”

Pichler looked up.

“I know you,” said Don Julius, stabbing his finger at the barber. “I have seen you from my window there. You live and work in that house just below.”

Pichler could not answer. He wondered how much Don Julius knew about him and his household.

“Oh, yes, I know you. I watch your family. There is one, a wild-haired girl. She rinses crockery in the river every night.”

Pichler lifted his chin. The horror of Don Julius’s knowledge of his family could not interfere with his duties as assistant to Mingonius. He was here in a professional capacity.

“Yes. She rinses the bloodletting bowls and cupping glasses. She is my assistant.”

Mingonius interrupted. “Which is why the good Barber Pichler is here today. We are awaiting permission from your father to bleed you. It is high time—the cusp of the season. It will do your body good to have—”

“Barbaric fiends!” cried Don Julius. “Is it not enough that you have kept me under lock and key for months? My father told me that I would be free to walk the streets. This place is my kingdom, I am Lord of Krumlov!”

The barber’s forehead wrinkled as he thought of the madman let free.

“That is impossible in your present condition,” said Mingonius. “Perhaps after a bleeding or two, when the humors are vanquished—”

There was a knock at the door. The guards tensed, ready to grab Don Julius if need be. The door opened and a dusty messenger with a leather pouch slipped in. The door was closed behind him and the lock snapped shut.

“Let me see the letter,” said Mingonius.

The messenger hesitated.

“Ah, it is addressed to me,” said Carlos Felipe as the man bowed and delivered the envelope with the red royal seal to the priest.

No one spoke as the priest opened the letter.

“Come, Jesuit,” shouted Don Julius. He suddenly sprang toward the priest and snatched the letter from his hand.

He bent over it and read to himself. There was a slight wrinkle in his forehead of concern, but then the forehead released and his face buckled and twisted in mirth.

“Ah, yes, Mingonius. You can bleed me. What are a few leeches sucking at my body when I am to be a free man in the near future!”

“What?” gasped Pichler.

Mingonius bowed and requested permission to read the letter. Don Julius flung it in his face.

“Read, good doctor. Bleed me and set me free in health. That is my father’s compromise. He seems to be having second thoughts about locking me up in this godforsaken castle.”

Carlos Felipe crossed himself and kissed his fingertips.

“It cannot be,” he whispered.

Mingonius read the letter, his brow knitting tight in consternation. He passed it back to the priest.

“I am afraid so. Once we have completed a two-moon course of bleedings, he is to be set free to be Lord of Krumlov.”

Pichler did not say anything. He was thinking of his daughters.

“Yes, let your leeches have at my veins,” crowed Don Julius. “But only if you bring your comely daughter with the wild brindled hair to attend me, Herr Barber-Surgeon. I should like to see her close up.”

Then he turned to Doctor Mingonius, and a palsy tremor ran up the left side of his face. When the physician reached out to inspect the spasm, Don Julius swatted his hand away.

“And what about the Coded Book of Wonder?” he demanded, his voice cold and distant. “The letter mentions it. Why have you not told me it is in your possession?”

Doctor Mingonius had the book hidden in his room. He played Don Julius as carefully as he would an opponent in game of cards with a huge wager at stake. Now was the time to deal the first hand.

“It will be yours to decode, Don Julius, but only after the Jesuit priest and I determine you are cured and can be trusted with such a great treasure. It is the king’s command.”

Don Julius looked away. When he turned back to face the men again, his face was composed and there was no trace of the spasm.

“Bring your leeches. And bring the girl as well.”