The Bloodletter's Daughter (21 page)

A W
OMAN
S
URGEON

The nuns moved aside, a parting of the black sea of habits as Marketa fled the convent. She raced past them, sweeping out the door, breaking into a run. One of the youngest, a novice named Fiala, felt her eyes well up with tears as she watched Marketa emerge into the light of the morning, free of the darkness of the convent, her clothes already airing and losing the heavy scent of incense and old women in the freshness of the morning.

“Will she join us?” she asked no one in particular. “I should like to have a friend like that.”

A withered nun sat in the dark corner by the hearth, embroidering a priest’s robe.

“Ay!” she cried out, pricking her finger with the needle. “What nonsense you speak, Fiala! Your friends abide in the heavens, angels to God and our Lord himself.”

“I should love to have an earthly friend,” the girl sighed, her murmured answer inaudible to the old nun.

“Close the door, Fiala. You are letting the warm air out.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes,” said the novice, a reluctant hand pushing the massive door closed.

Marketa looked back at the convent as the heavy door shut. She spun around, running toward her father, who stood waiting on the bridge.

“Why did you send me to see my aunt?” she demanded. “Why, Father?”

He turned away from her gaze and looked down into the waters of the Vltava.

“I fear for you,” he said quietly. “I have seen the power of the Hapsburgs. Even a mad Hapsburg has power. You cannot imagine. The convent would keep you safe and pure.”

“Pure? Safe? Is that that all you can wish for me in my life?” she said, her fingers tight in fists at her side. She thought of the brewer, and her eyes stung.

Her father met her eyes, and his shoulders sagged.

“You are but a girl,” he began. “A gifted girl, but still a girl. We cannot change that fact. Your knowledge of medicine must remain a secret or you will be regarded as a freak. Or worse, a witch.”

The words stung Marketa as if a swarm of bees had smothered her. She stared at him openmouthed. He suddenly looked old and frail to her, though he was still a robust man in his thirties.

“Oh, Marketa, if anything should happen to you, I don’t know what I would do,” he said.

She noticed his nose was running, and he wiped his eyes with the cracked red skin of his knuckles and then looked down at the river, so she couldn’t see his face. She swallowed hard and put a soft hand on his wrist.

“Father! Nothing is going to happen to me. I will learn from Herr Doctor Mingonius and from you. I will stand no closer to Don Julius than you say.”

“You do not understand, Marketa! King Rudolf will not allow his son to be fettered for long. It is a blow to his pride. He wants
to believe that his son is sane, that he is worthy of the Hapsburg name. A king’s pride is a dangerous thing; it consumes like fire all that it touches.”

Marketa looked up to the castle, looming above them. She heard the hollow cry of the crow circling above.

“And the moment Don Julius is free, he will come for you.”

Marketa swallowed hard. “Then I shall run away, Father. I shall run away to Prague.”

Her father shook his head. “No, Daughter. You do not understand the determination of a Hapsburg.”

Marketa fidgeted with her apron, twirling the fabric round and round. “No, Father. You do not understand my determination. He shall not have me. No man shall have me without my consent.”

Her father did not answer.

“Come, it is getting late,” her father finally said. “We must walk up to the castle now.”

Don Julius was far calmer this time. When he saw Marketa, his thick lower lip firmed up in a smile, a smile that would have been dazzlingly handsome on a man whose sanity was not so utterly compromised. But Marketa thought of what her father had said, and she kept her distance, giving him only furtive glances so as not to attract his attention.

Besides
, thought Marketa,
Don Julius is far too stout, though he is slimmer than when he first arrived in Krumlov. He must be greedy at the dinner table, feasting on butter, cakes, and ale. I could never find such a fat man attractive, especially after the jowly brewer and his fleshy hands, grabbing for me. Men who have such appetites must be stingy in their love, feeding only themselves like the big-bellied men who sweat hunched over their dinners at
Uncle’s tavern, sucking the meat bones dry of marrow and casting them into the hearth’s fire to crackle and burn. A gentle man who can give of himself in love must have discipline and satiate his appetite slowly, savoring the flavors shared with his lover.

She found herself remembering the lean physique of Jakub Horcicky and the feel of the soapy water slick on her hands as she massaged his taut muscles. A man with disciplined tastes, a man of rational thought. And a generous heart.

It was of no use. Don Julius did not care whether Marketa fancied him or not. He was obsessed with her, and his obsession would not be diminished by her lack of interest.

“Fair Marketa,” he said as he stretched out his left arm and leg to the surgeons who applied the leeches. “See how the worms linger on my flesh, looking for yours instead. How proud and particular they are to hesitate at a Hapsburg’s blood once they have tasted your own sweet nectar. You have spoiled the creatures, my darling.”

Pichler flicked an eye up at his daughter and then back at the particularly large leech he held. He pricked a hole in Don Julius’s flesh with a lancet to excite the sucking mouth. Marketa held the white porcelain tray under the incision and watched as thick drops of blood splashed into the basin.

Finally the leech bit hard at the small wound, and Don Julius rolled back his eyes in ecstasy.

“We are united at last, fair angel!”

Marketa noticed a bulge in the king’s son’s breeches, straining at the leather laces. He saw her eyes travel to his erection and leered at her, the tip of his tongue sweeping around his mouth, his breathing hoarse and erratic.

This was not the innocent, bewildered boy she had seen at the end of her last visit. Nor the eloquent gentleman of just the moment before. She gasped.

Fury sparked in Marketa’s father’s eyes, and his hand let go of the next leech. It slipped with a splash back into the murky water of the bucket.

“Work more quickly,” Mingonius said under his breath, his own hands attaching the leeches to the patient’s torso. “Pay no attention to what he says or does. You know his condition.”

But Pichler would bear no more.

“Marketa, leave at once!” he ordered.

“No!” shouted Don Julius, wrenching at the ties. “If she leaves, you will pull all these worms from my flesh!”

“Come now, Don Julius,” said Doctor Mingonius. “Surely, you can do without the girl’s presence. We are half finished as it is.”

“No! No!” he roared. He threw his body side to side until the chair tilted and crashed to the ground, splintering the armrest. Don Julius groaned, his cheek already bruising from the fall.

He heaved and struggled against the two burly guards who restrained him. They untied him from the broken chair, brought him across the room, and tied him in an ornately carved chair, its armrests wrought as lion paws.

Mingonius stooped to the patient’s ear and whispered to him.

“Calm yourself, man. Let the leeches do their work. They will drink up your rage and purge the ill humors.”

Don Julius looked at him, his eyes narrowing in rage.

“You will obey the rules of this sordid game, Mingonius,” he hissed. “You agreed to let me see her, for her to hold the pans of my blood. That was the condition, or you may go to the devil!”

Mingonius glared back at the bastard prince, the muscles of his face stiff and cold. He nodded.

“She stays,” he said.

“But, Herr Doctor—” protested Pichler.

“Enough!” said Mingonius. “This is a Hapsburg, Herr Pichler! You do not want King Rudolf as an enemy.”

Pichler had no answer to that.

“Come here, girl,” said Doctor Mingonius.

Marketa approached, her hands trembling on the pan, making the blood creep from one edge to another.

“Do you have the will to stay, Marketa?” Mingonius asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

She looked at the wild-eyed prince.

“Yes, of course,” she said, swallowing hard. “He is our patient.” Then she added, “Just do not untie him and I will remain.”

Mingonius nodded. He glanced down at the enormous erection of the young prince, the head of his penis peeking crimson over the rim of his laced breeches. He threw a white linen cloth over the sight.

“Control yourself, man,” Mingonius said, disgusted. “Have you no shame at all?”

“Pichler,” Mingonius said, “I think I can apply the rest of the leeches without assistance. Would you be so good as to wait in the hall?”

Pichler stared at the doctor.

“But—”

“I think I can finish this best if you leave,” Mingonius said coolly. “Marketa will remain here to assist me and finish the treatment.”

“But, Herr Doctor—”

“Please,” he implored. “Trust me. I will let no harm come to your daughter. But I need her and it will be easier for all if you wait outside.”

Pichler looked from Mingonius to Marketa and back again. He nodded curtly and left the room.

“So we are almost alone at last,” sighed Don Julius. “Your père is gone.”

“And her guardian is here, may I remind you, sir,” said the doctor.

Julius’s lips pressed together in scorn. He snarled.

“Then you must leave as well—and let her apply the worms,” he cried. “Let her hands touch those eager mouths that suck at my flesh, seeking her own.”

“That is out of the question,” said Mingonius.

Once again the chair lurched.

“Guards!” shouted Mingonius.

“Let her! Let her!” cried Don Julius, twisting in the chair and making it rock wildly.

“What is the matter?” cried Pichler from the hall, trying to push past the sentry. “Marketa! Come here at once!”

Marketa looked coolly from her struggling father to Mingonius to Don Julius. She thought of the lonely darkness of the convent, the oppressive incense, and the sad look of the young novice. Her father had wanted her to stay there, to become one of them. He was ready to trade away her life, her hope, in order to keep her from witnessing the raging of an insane man. It was as if his lessons in science and reason meant nothing.

Then she thought of how her virginity would one day be traded to the fat old brewer.

And now, here was the great Doctor Mingonius, known throughout the Holy Roman Empire, who pleaded for her help, who needed her help to treat the king’s son.

It was the first time in her life she had a taste of power. She was the one Don Julius wanted. She was the one who could finish the treatment and please the great Mingonius. Her father should be proud of her because she could accomplish what no one else could.

“Leave us,” she said, lifting her chin. “Both of you. I will finish the treatment.”

“Marketa! You will leave with me this minute!”

“No,” she replied calmly. “I shan’t. I know exactly where to apply the creatures. Leave me alone with him. The guards shall
stand by and protect me. Please, Father.” She thought, for an instant, of Jakub Horcicky. Now she would truly be a doctor, like him.

Mingonius studied her, listening as if hearing her for the first time.

“Is it true she knows the system of veins and the points of application?”

“As well as I,” replied her father, grudgingly.

“Then let her, Pichler,” said Mingonius quietly. “She is right.”

“But his behavior, his intentions—”

“I know men’s intentions, Father,” said Marketa, her voice strong and clear. “I was raised in the baths. I know men’s urges, their bodies, their nakedness. Nothing he can say will shock me. And he cannot touch me, no matter how hard he tries. Unlike the bathhouse, I have control now.”

Pichler dropped his gaze. It had not occurred to him that his wife’s bathhouse had so educated his daughter. He had taught her science, literacy, anatomy. The bathhouse had taught her other subjects he could only guess at.

The thought made him suddenly sad.

“She’s right,” said Mingonius. “And he must be bled, at all costs! We can wait in the hall. We will hear any screams for help should he frighten her.”

“He will not frighten me,” Marketa said, looking calmly at both of them. “He is my patient. And if he does not comport himself properly, I shall leave immediately.” Looking into Don Julius’s eyes. “Is that understood, Your Highness?”

The young Hapsburg nodded acquiescence, eyes round with wonder.

“Leave us, I command you!” he ordered suddenly. He sat up in his chair and straightened his back. “As son of King Rudolf II, I command you to leave at once!”

Marketa turned her back on the two older men, knelt down next to the bucket, and fished out another leech, firm and meaty
between her finger and thumb. It wriggled wet and cold in her grasp, its mouth already open to suck.

“Recline your head, Don Julius. I will apply a worm to your forehead to drain the bad humors and make you rest in peace from your anguish. You are my patient, and I will care for you.”