The Bloodletter's Daughter (19 page)

“Join our bloods!” screamed Don Julius. “Oh merciful God, let the divine communion begin.”

“I will not witness such references to our Holy Father!” shouted the priest. With a sweep of his robe, he rose from the chair and stormed out the door.

Pichler placed the leeches on Don Julius’s wrists, forearms and neck. Don Julius smiled in ecstasy.

“Now we shall open a vein,” said Doctor Mingonius. “Only for a few seconds, to ensure we reach the depths of the bad humor, where the leeches cannot reach.”

“And she—she shall hold the tray,” Don Julius murmured.

“Yes, if you remain quiet.”

Marketa approached him, and he swiveled his head to watch her every move. He seemed peaceful now, as if the leeches’ sucking mouths had already reduced his choler.

Still, Marketa stood well away from him as her father cut the vein in his forearm, and then she approached cautiously, praying the ropes and guards would restrain him.

The blood splashed into the gleaming white tray. She removed the tray by placing another just under it, not spilling a single drop.

Don Julius’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“I can smell her,” he uttered in a hoarse whisper. “I cannot see her anymore, but I can smell her.”

“Enough,” ordered Doctor Mingonius. “Stanch his bleeding. He has given enough blood. We will wait until the leeches have had their fill, but no more blood shall be taken today.”

Already two or three leeches had fallen to the floor, bloated with Hapsburg blood. Marketa knelt and gathered them up, weaving them into the coarse grass to be carried back home.

“Fräulein, give me the leeches,” said Doctor Mingonius, taking the basket from her. “I must dispose of them in a way that will satisfy our king.”

Marketa dipped in a curtsy, bowing her head. As she did so, she could see the water worms in the basket, resting peacefully in the damp grass.

The walk home from Rozmberk Castle was silent. There were no more cries from the Hapsburg lord echoing through the town.
The only sound in the air above Cesky Krumlov was the wind off the river and the chirping of birds.

Pichler kept looking furtively at his daughter, but she kept her eyes trained ahead, greeting her neighbors who stood outside their shops and homes, staring after her.

“Pan Pichler’s daughter accompanies him to treat the mad prince,” Pani Kovak whispered to her mother-in-law. She dried her wet hands on her apron without taking her eyes off Marketa.

“He lets her assist him! She sees the wretched man in his madness.”

Pan Dvorak stopped dusting the porcelain jars of his apothecary. He saw the sloshing bucket of leeches and watched as Marketa stooped to pick up one that had climbed to the rim and slipped out onto the cobblestones. She dropped it gently from her fingertips into the wooden bucket without a word.

“How could he allow her to see a madman?” Pan Dvorak asked himself, shaking his dust rag in the open air.

Marketa nodded, her white kerchief clean and neat over her hair, as she met the stares of Krumlov with a smile.

The greengrocer’s wife waved and called after Marketa to send greetings to her good mother, adding that she would be bathing on Saturday.

“Musle looks pretty today,” said Pani Kranz to her husband, who was stacking and arranging cabbages in a pyramid display. She kept a knife at the ready to pare away the wormholes.

“Look at her, she’s radiant,” she said, poking her husband.

He sighed and rubbed his back, sore from bending and moving crates of vegetables and roots.

“Yes, Wife,” he said. “She is comely, although Pan Pichler should feed her more. With the supplement Pan Brewer is paying her mother, they could afford to give her more meat and cheese.”

“Yes,” said Pani Kranz. “But there is something special about her today.”

It was not just the greengrocer who noticed Marketa’s unusual radiance, but the sausage-maker and his son. Marketa stopped at the shop to buy some wurst for the family’s dinner, and the butcher, known for being a skinflint, refused her money.

The butcher’s son Andrej ducked behind the scales and stole a piece of bacon from the larder chest. He ran the fat-streaked strip across his unruly red hair, to make it lie flat and shine for Marketa.

“Your father’s medicine has eased the ill humors of the prince,” said the butcher. “My hand will be steadier on the knife, thanks to the silencing of his infernal screams.”

Andrej wrapped the sausages in a clean rag, and when he passed them to Marketa, his hand lingered on the package. He, too, noticed the sparkle of her eyes, the radiance of her skin, and he wanted her to linger a moment longer.

Marketa pulled the package gently from his hands.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smiling down at the sausages.

“What’s he like?” whispered the butcher’s son. “Is he as mad as they say? Does his royal blood look different than ours—is it blue? Does it smell any different?”

“Does a lamb’s blood look different from an ox’s?” she asked, still smiling. “Can you smell the difference as you hack open the carcasses?”

“Ah, but the meat has a different taste, doesn’t it, Marketa?” His eyes danced with mischief. “One is sweeter than the other.”

Marketa dismissed him with a cluck of her tongue.

“I do not taste the prince’s blood. But thank you for the sausages, Andrej. It is kind of your father.” Her voice was now raised so the butcher could hear her.

As Marketa repeated her gratitude and turned to depart, she gulped hungrily at the fresh morning air. The butcher smelled
of meat, the sharp metallic odor of blood clinging to his skin and breath. He smelled of coins being rubbed together in greedy hands. And his son—smelled of bacon lard.

Jakub received the letter from the courier, his hands eager for the parchment. He smiled as he looked at the writing, for it was smudged and spotted with ink spots, signs the writer had labored to write the missive. He had waited almost two weeks for her reply. Still the Czech was legible and he was impressed by the bath maiden’s ability with the written word.

Her father’s interest in her education had not been wasted, he thought. Some students at the Latin school could not write as well as this girl.

Esteemed Physician Horcicky:

I was surprised beyond all measure to receive your proposal. I accept, willingly, and swear to keep all communication between us confidential as requested. I am flattered to act in service to His Majesty, King Rudolf.

I am in a perfect position to observe the patient, for I have accompanied my father to a bleeding now. I do not have to rely on hearsay. My information is gathered with my own eyes and ears.

Don Julius rants and behaves most rudely—he despises his doctor and must be tied to a chair for Physician Mingonius to even approach him. He snarls and spits, shouting blasphemous curses not only at his physician, but at the priest as well.

For some reason his malevolent humors calm when he is in my presence. Sometimes he reverts to the character of a little boy, confused and lost. He makes the most bizarre comments, but he will allow bleedings if I am within his sight. My father and Doctor Mingonius work quickly while I speak to him.

He raves about a book. A book with fantastic illustrations of maidens and waters, spells and incantations.

He is a lost soul. Dare I say I feel sorry for his torment? Was he once a normal man such as you? I have now met two men from the royal court—you and Don Julius. What a curious place it must be to have created two men so different in almost every way.

Your servant in service to our noble king, Rudolf II.

Marketa Pichlerova

There were no howls from the castle for over a week. Pichler brought back reports each night to his family, saying the prince was resting quietly and taking food.

“His behavior is quite docile,” he reported over a midday meal of dumplings and sausage. “Even the Spanish priest has remarked on his improvement. He has said a rosary with the priest at his bedside. The choler has vanished.”

He chewed his gravy-covered dumpling, contemplating.

“What is it, Father?”

He looked up at his wife’s back as she stirred the night’s soup.

“He still begs to see you,” he whispered. He held his finger to his lips, glistening with fat, in warning. He did not want Lucie to hear.

“So is there a bonus for curing the king’s son?” asked his wife, casting a look over her shoulder. “There should be some compensation for letting him breathe easy again—and not keeping us up at all hours of the night with his howls!”

“There is no compensation.”

She grunted and shifted her weight to her other leg.

“Poor leavings these Hapsburgs give us,” she said in a growl. “No orders for fine cakes or sausages, no washing of linen, no shaves, no baths. No courtiers to buy our goods, give us trade.
Those who lived at the castle once sustained this town. How will Krumlov survive?”

Pichler poked at his sausage and let the juices ooze out.

“I have been summoned again.”

Lucie stopped scraping the vegetables and turned to him.

“They asked you to return?”

“Doctor Mingonius has requested a meeting this afternoon. I do not know what it is about. Perhaps he will employ me after all to bleed Don Julius once he departs for Prague.”

Lucie dried her hands on her apron.

“Did I not say that this Don Julius would bring us good fortune!”

Pichler put down his knife for good. He threw his daughter a look, and Marketa ducked her head, concentrating on her sausage.

“He asked if I might bring Marketa back as well.”

Lucie’s face warmed, the corners of her lips taking an uncustomary turn up.

“The king’s son has taken a fancy to our Marketa, has he?”

Pichler’s eyes flashed at her. He set his jaw so that the muscles bulged.

“The man is a lunatic! And a dangerous one.”

He stole a glance at his daughter. She looked up from her plate and set down her knife.

“Would you consent to accompany me, Marketa? We must be there at four o’clock.”

Marketa was startled, feeling like someone watching a puppet show when suddenly one of the puppets spoke to her.

“I—I do not know.”

“Of course you will, girl!” insisted her mother. “I will get the
kroj
pressed and ready.”

“No!” Marketa said, jumping to her feet in defiance. “I will go, yes, Father. But I do not wish to dress in a
kroje
. If I am to
accompany you, I shall wear the same skirt and blouse as I use every day.”

Her mother’s face fell.

“And have him see you as a common girl!”

“I
am
a common girl, Mother. I do not want to go about tied up in ribbons.”

“The girl wants him to see her gentleness, and her mind,” said her father, softly. “Her presence calms him.”

“Who cares about her mind? This is a Hapsburg, and he has had book learning since he was at his milk nurse’s teat. What he wants is a bit of Bohemian beauty—a real woman.”

“Stop, Mother!” Marketa cried.

Pichler pounded his fist on the table, making his empty tankard jump and the cutlery rattle.