The Bloodletter's Daughter (16 page)

A L
ETTER FOR
M
ARKETA

A weary rider in rumpled clothes and mud-stained boots approached the bathhouse. He was a stranger to Cesky Krumlov, his accent indicating he was from the northern reaches of the empire. Across his saddle was a thick leather bag, weathered and battered.

He dismounted and banged his reddened knuckles against the door.

Lucie Pichlerova opened it a crack and eyed the stranger.

“Is this the residence of Slecna Marketa Pichlerova?” he asked, wiping his sweaty face on the sleeve of his shirt. The gesture left a smear across his right cheek.

Lucie nodded.

“Yes, I am her mother. What would you want with her?”

The man opened the leather bag and withdrew a letter, a large red seal of wax stamping the vellum folds closed.

“I must deliver this to her.”

Lucie opened the door wider and stretched out her hand. “You can give it to me. She is down tending the baths.”

The rider shook his head. “The gentleman who penned the letter and paid for its delivery said I must give it to her in person.”

Lucie frowned. “Marketa!” she bellowed back into the house. “Come here!”

“Coming, Mother.”

While the two waited, Lucie crossed her arms over her bosom and looked the rider up and down. She took in his travelworn appearance—his dirt-streaked face and neck; his tired, puffy eyes; and the stiffness in his back as he bent over toward the cobblestones in a long, wincing stretch.

“You look in need of a good soak, Pan Courier. Why not let our stable lad take your horse for a feed and rubdown. Then let my daughters bathe you. My Marketa has the hands of an angel. She will melt those knots in your aching back and render you a new man.”

The rider shook his head, for he was in the habit of hoarding every coin he possessed. He knew the cost of a bath in Krumlov would be a fraction of what it was in Prague, but he was loathe to part with any pennies. He was determined to buy a more comfortable saddle for the long rides that were his livelihood.

But when Marketa emerged, drying her hands on her white apron, he reconsidered. The dirty skin on his face creased in a smile.

“This gentleman says he has a letter for you,” Lucie said, pointing her chin toward the rider.

Marketa’s eyes widened. She had never received a letter before.

The courier placed the large folded parchment in her hand, nodding to her. Marketa’s fingers cradled the fine vellum as if she were receiving the host in mass.

“Well, open it, girl. Who is it from?” asked Lucie.

“I have no idea.”

“Open it!”

Marketa shook her head. “I need a proper blade to break the seal. I will ask Papa for a good knife.”

The rider watched her as she hurried away from her mother. Then he turned to Lucie.

“Good
pani
, I think I will take the bath after all.”

“Humph! Smart man.” Lucie whistled for the stable boy. “You won’t be sorry.”

Lucie’s curiosity about the letter was replaced by her immense satisfaction of attracting a new client to the baths and coins to her pocket.

The stable boy Vaclav had taken the reins of the horse and was leading him toward the feeding shed.

“You will be back to bathe me, won’t you,
slecna
?” called the rider to Marketa’s back.

Barber Pichler was not in the bleeding room. He was still at Rozmberk Castle with Doctor Mingonius. Marketa hesitated. She was forbidden to touch his instruments without supervision. But she couldn’t wait for his return. She opened the oak trunk and reached for the case that held the bloodletting fleams and blades, her hand trembling. She opened the leather flap and pulled out a sharp knife. Its short iron blade shimmered darkly, honed to an exquisite edge.

Marketa slipped the blade under the seal with the same care as if the parchment were live flesh. Her hand worked the blade with precision, careful not to nick or tear the vellum.

She unfolded the document. Two silver thalers dropped to the floor, ringing brightly against the floor stones. Marketa stooped to pick them up, her mouth dropped open in amazement. The figure of Jachymov, the Virgin Mary’s father, gleamed in the dim light from the face of the coin.

My Dear Slecna Marketa:

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I remember my exquisite bath at your establishment and your capable hands, easing my tired muscles. I remember much more detail of our brief encounter, but I will not digress as this letter is of an urgent and professional nature.

You professed an ability to read, so I have decided to exercise that ability with this missive. I am intrigued with your curiosity in the matters of science and medicine—perhaps we could discuss these matters in correspondence.

I understand that Doctor Mingonius has contracted the services of your father in the attempt to bleed Don Julius. You told me that you often serve as your father’s assistant, though I am quite certain that he would not let you near such a dangerous patient. Still, you may be in a position to learn how the patient is progressing. This information is of the utmost importance to the king.

The priest who accompanies Don Julius prepares a weekly report, as will Doctor Mingonius. However, the casual comments and observations your father may relate to you could be crucial to our understanding of Don Julius’s progress. What you overhear may serve our purposes more than any formal report.

As I related to you, I am not a believer in Galen’s humors but a follower of Paracelsus and the chemistry of the human body. Doctor Mingonius has persuaded the king that this should be the course of treatment. His Majesty does, however, want me to monitor the reports from both Mingonius and the priest. He also seeks reliable eyes and ears in Krumlov to gather information.

I would be most appreciative if you would serve in this role. In return, I can offer you reports of medical progress, scientific discoveries, and new experiments here in Prague. You will be in service to the king, His Majesty Rudolf II.

It is necessary that this correspondence remain strictly confidential, as it relates to royal matters. The king will know only that there is an impartial informant who reports to me.

Would you consent to this arrangement?

I will wait for your reply. Obviously you will need time to consider and to compose a letter. Please know that if I write to you again, in order to avoid arousing suspicion I will send my letters through our mutual friend, Annabella, who I know can be trusted.

I enclose reimbursement for the purchase of ink and parchment.

And a little extra for curing me of my damnable fleas!

Your companion in service of our King Rudolf II, I wish you good health.

Jakub Horcicky de Tenepec

Marketa’s hand cupped her throat, and she realized she had stopped breathing. A letter, news from Prague! Reports of scientific progress and communication with a physician of the Imperial Court. She fingered the thalers in her hands and made up her mind immediately.

One thing she knew was how to keep a secret. Especially for a man as handsome and learned as Doctor Jakub Horcicky, a man whose lips had touched hers and whose gentle hands had lingered on her skin as he tied a scarf around her neck.

Throwing her shawl over her shoulders, she hurried off to the market to buy parchment from the tanner, forgetting all about bathing the courier.

L
EECHES FOR A
H
APSBURG

Pichler came home from the palace that night and would hardly touch his supper. He held his head in his interlocked fingers, thumbs pressed against his temples.

He poked at the sausage and peevishly nibbled on the cabbage, complaining there was not enough caraway in the dish and it tasted bland. Marketa knew some trouble was brewing, because it was rare for him to complain about her mother’s cooking. And even more rare for her not to bristle at such an insult.

“Marketa, I must ask you a favor,” he said finally, dropping his knife on his plate, surrendering to a force stronger than his appetite.

“Anything, Father.”

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then rubbed his temples. He did not return her look but studied the glistening fat oozing from the sausage on his plate.

“You will need to go to the ponds tomorrow and fetch some leeches. I shall accompany you.”

Marketa cocked her head in puzzlement.

“Do you not trust me with Pan Brener’s cow? How many times have I led her to the pond to harvest leeches? Have I ever failed? And we have a goodly supply already. We must have over thirty lean ones in the barrels of the cellar.”

Her father looked away and scanned his wife’s face. She jutted her chin out at him, a stubborn gesture urging him on.

“Tell her, Husband,” she said folding her arms across her stomach.

The barber drew a great breath.

“The leeches we are gathering cannot be harvested in our usual manner. They must be attracted to human flesh, not an animal’s. I have strict orders, Daughter. Otherwise I would not ask you.”

It took Marketa a few seconds to understand his meaning.

“I need you to wade into the pond, Marketa. Your tender skin and blood must be their bait, pure as you are. These leeches will be for a bloodletting for the king’s son, Don Julius.”

Marketa shuddered. She wondered if it was the idea of the leeches waiting under the muddy waters of the pond or the idea that her blood would be in some way mixed with that of the madman in the castle.

“Don Julius? The howling prince?”

Her father looked at her with a dull reluctance in his eyes.

“I am sorry, my daughter. But it is for the king’s son’s health... and science.”

Marketa nodded her head. “Of course, Father. For science. I will be ready in the morning.”

Pichler nodded with satisfaction. Then his eyes grew serious.

“I want you to go now and see why the twins are tarrying so long at the tavern fetching the ale. Your uncle has probably set them to work scouring pots.”

“Yes, Father.”

Marketa pulled her cloak off the hook and wrapped a wool scarf over her head and neck.

“Tell him to send them home immediately,” he called to her as she shut the door. A gust of autumn wind blew in a spray of brown leaves, littering the stone floor.

“Wife, I must talk to you,” Pichler said, his jaw working over the gristly meat in the sausage. “Of a matter of great importance.”

“Yes, what is it, Husband?” said Lucie, sitting at his side. “Tell me.”

“Marketa—is she—”

“What is it?”

“Is she still a virgin?”

Lucie’s eyes dropped to her plate.

“I know I said when we married that I would leave the business of the bathhouse to you, but this is information that is of importance to the king.”

“The king!” cried his wife, looking up at him, her hand flying to her throat.

“It must be a virgin who harvests the leeches. If Marketa has already lost her virtue, you must tell me at once.”

Lucie’s mouth dropped open in a gasp.

“Oh, no! She is pure, I swear it. She has never lain with a man!”

“Good,” muttered Pichler. He sighed deeply, and his shoulders relaxed. He reached back with a crooked elbow and rubbed the muscles between his shoulder blades.

“I know she is of age for a patron, but it is our good fortune she remains a virgin, Wife. The leeches she harvests shall be the only ones that can touch the skin of a Hapsburg.”

Lucie Pichlerova swallowed hard. She thought of how she had almost bartered away her daughter’s virginity and her service to the king of Bohemia, the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, for meat scraps and beer.

That night, Pichler called the town councilors and the elders of Cesky Krumlov together at Uncle Radek’s tavern. There in the stone-walled cellar, with the door barred and shutters pulled closed, they sat talking, arguing, and when it seemed necessary, shouting at one another through most of the long night. Over tankards of ale, they pounded their fists on the wooden barrels and threatened treason.

“King Rudolf cannot let that madman loose on our town,” said the tanner from the corner where he sat alone, his smell having driven the other men away. “How can we protect our women?”

“I saw the letter myself,” said Pichler. “The king’s orders were clear. And then Don Julius asked me about my daughters. He leers at the women from his chambers in the castle.”

The baker shuddered and pounded his fist. “I will kill the bastard before he sets his fingers on my Katarina.”

“Watch your tongue,” warned the jailer. “A spy from the castle hears you say that and you will be hanging from the gallows come morning. Have a care what you say, all of you!”

The blacksmith, sooty and red in the light of the tavern fire, stood up, towering above most of the men. His raised a meaty fist.

“I won’t stand aside and let that filthy bastard defile our women. I’ve heard the stories from Prague and Vienna. We are a God-fearing town, but I’ll not be afraid of a hanging if he touches one of our own.”

Pichler rose again to speak. The side conversations stopped, for he was the only one in Cesky Krumlov who had met Don Julius face-to-face.

“I appeal to your reason,” he said.

“Oh yes, you’re a man of reason,” the rope-maker said over his beer. “Until he touches one of your girls!”

Pichler stared the man down.

“You think I do not worry about my girls, especially Marketa, who is old enough to catch his eye? He talked about her today. He has watched her from the castle when she rinses the letting bowls in the river. I live in horror at the thought of him walking freely in our streets, but I know what I heard today. The king has declared he shall be free, once he has undergone a cycle of bleeding. I know that I cannot protect myself and my family from the wrath of a Hapsburg. Don Julius will descend upon us as soon as we have balanced his humors.”

“Bleed the whore’s son dry,” said a drunken sot in the corner. “Let that lancet slip, good barber, and you will do all of Bohemia a favor.”

The jailer growled at the drunk and went to check the door and windows to make sure no royal guards were straying close to the tavern.

“Listen to Pichler, you drunken fools,” he said. “Not enough of you have witnessed the kicking and choking of a hanged man, or you wouldn’t be so quick to tie the noose around your miserable necks.”

Pichler continued, “Doctor Mingonius is a respected physician. Together we will work to bleed out the bilious imbalance of the king’s son. But I have witnessed his crudeness in Austria, and I cannot but warn you to lock up your womenfolk. They will not be safe from his lechery for long, for we have permission to bleed him but a couple of months.”

Pichler woke Marketa at what seemed the middle of the night to set off for the Rozmberk carp ponds. Lucie had packed some buttered bread and a piece of cheese and pickle for each of them. Marketa carried hers in her apron pocket wrapped in a rag. She
tied up her skirt in a knot at the side of her waist so the cold morning dew and mud would not soil the cloth. If she returned with muddy skirts, her mother would make her pound the hem on the rocks with urine collected from the chamber pots to get out the stains. Marketa avoided getting her clothes dirty at all costs.

Her father knew the way even better than she, and Marketa marveled at how he could thread through the meadows so quickly. She realized that he had spent many summers there before she was born, gathering leeches for his practice. He carried two buckets with a long pole across his back, slipped through the wooden handles of the pails. Despite the burden, he ducked agilely through the brush and around the trees.

Petr, the caretaker, was milking his cows in the pale light of daybreak when Pichler and his daughter reached the dams. He waved, his toothless mouth spreading wide in a smile.

“I have a fresh carp for your
pani
to cook tonight,” he said. “As big as your shoulders are broad!”

“Thank you, Petr, you are too kind.”

Marketa’s eyes welled up with tears as she thought of Old Petr’s only grandson, her first childhood love, who had died of the pox five years before. She could see Petr the younger in his grandfather’s kind face.

“Ah, but you want the cow. Let me just finish with her,” Petr said. “Just a moment and she’ll be dry.”

Pichler shook his head.

“We don’t need the use of your cow this morning. Marketa will wade into the water and collect the leeches.”

Petr sat up so abruptly from his milking stool that he nudged the cow’s flank with his head and she bellowed, slapping his neck with her tail.

“The girl?”

“Yes,” said Pichler, setting his jaw. “These leeches are for Don Julius, the king’s son. I’ve been told to fetch them with a—with a girl.”

Petr stood scratching his head. His rheumy eyes looked distractedly at the bloodletter. “Marketa will harvest the blood worms?”

Pichler nodded at him solemnly and thanked him for the gift of the fish. He assured him his wife would be delighted and cook the fish and they would toast to Petr’s good health.

They walked to the pond, the reeds waving high above their heads as they stood side by side at the edge of the shallow water.

“Are you ready, Marketa?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You’ve never been bled before. You need to know that their mouths make a little stick, but then like magic, the pain goes away like nothing ever happened. You won’t even feel them except the tug of the water current as they start to wave.”

Marketa swallowed hard. She knew them from the buckets stored in the dark corner of the bathhouse. Her father never let her touch them when they were ready for feeding; only he could pick them lean and hungry from the murky water, and only he could apply them to his patients.

Marketa had picked them up after they had fed, either from the wet grass when they fell off Petr’s cow or from the cold stones of the floor after they had sucked the bad humors from a patient’s body.

Then they were sated, their oval mouths and sharp, tiny teeth sucking listlessly.

But now they would find her flesh in the muddy water of the carp pond. They would smell and attack her, tapping into her blood. Marketa looked at her father and nodded. She wanted him to know that she was aware of what she was doing, that she would sacrifice anything for him.

Marketa stepped into the pond. At first there was nothing. Perhaps the water was too cold, she thought. She shivered and her father put his wool jacket over her shoulders. It smelled of beer and tavern fire, comforting in the cold dawn.

Then she felt something. A slight trembling in the water, a soft brush of a weed or twig.

And then a prick.

“Ow!”

“That’s the girl,” said her father. “In a minute, you won’t feel a thing.”

She looked down and saw a leech, no bigger than her baby finger, attached to her calf. Then two swam toward her legs.

“Ow! Ow!”

“Stand still now, let them attach. You have got to give them a chance to bite firmly or you will knock them loose and they might not come back.”

Marketa trembled now in the water, feeling unsteady, but trying hard to stand still. She studied her father’s face; he encouraged her every time they bit and she yelped. Soon the water was rippling with the small leeches, waving like tiny brown flags from her legs.

“You must have hit a nest of them,” he said eagerly. “Now wait just a moment. We can’t risk knocking them loose or scaring away the others. But they cannot fatten too much on your blood. They must be lean and hungry, ready for a meal on Don Julius’s veins.”