The Bloodletter's Daughter (43 page)

Marketa watched as Annabella stared at the blood spots on Ludmilla’s lips and touched her finger to the red droplets. Annabella brought the blood to the candlelight to study it, turning her finger this way and that. Then she disappeared into the catacombs to rummage through the dried herbs, bones, roots, and talismans. Marketa stood over the passage, the trapdoor flung open against the stone floor. She could see the witch’s candlelight dancing against the walls.

Marketa turned away to stoke the fire under the cauldron. The water was boiling by the time Annabella emerged from the dark hole with a bundle wrapped in her apron. She spilled the ingredients out on the floor by the hearth.

Among the litter Marketa recognized a dried rat’s tail and a desiccated toad. There was a bulbous root much like the one Marketa had seen when she encountered Annabella that first time in the cemetery, digging by a child’s grave. The root had an uncanny resemblance to a tiny man, its tendrils reaching out in four limbs and its wrinkled face sneering at her with squinted eyes. There were two glass vials of black potions Annabella poured in the cauldron. They boiled up in a sulfurous cloud that made Marketa gag and turn away, coughing.

Annabella did not twitch, immune to the smell. She added the bones and skull of a small animal and some fresh organs, perhaps an animal heart. Then she asked for Ludmilla’s blood-soaked handkerchief and tossed it into the brew.

Finally she coated the inside of a mug with a thick black tar. “Essence of poppy oils,” she told Marketa. “The sweet oblivion of the magic flower.”

Marketa could not understand the murmurings and incantations. They were in a tongue she didn’t know—not Germanic or Latin or Slavic, for there was not a word she could decipher.

At last Annabella poured a dose from the cauldron into the mug and brought it to Ludmilla’s bedside.

“You will die soon,” she said, holding Ludmilla’s hand. “You know this, of course.”

Ludmilla nodded, and her white lips stretched into a peaceful smile.

“Annabella!” Marketa cried. “What of your potions, your cures?”

“There are some things a healer can do. But the others, the vast majority of life and death, we cannot pretend to tamper with, for there is a much higher spirit who determines our fate. Your aunt knows this, Marketa, the difference between our mortal world and the world beyond. That is why she has come to us.”

“But what of this brew?”

“It will bring her peace and strength for the brave deed she is about to perform.”

Marketa looked at her aunt Ludmilla, white as death’s own pallor. Then she turned to Annabella. “What deed can she possibly perform?” she whispered. “She is barely alive!”

“A deed of great nobility and sacrifice. I only give her this potion to carry her through these few remaining hours, without the torturing pain she endures now.”

Pichler dug his filthy knuckles into his eye sockets against the blinding light of day. He stumbled on the stairs to Don Julius’s apartments and was helped up by the two Krumlov guards who had known him since they were in Latin school together as children.

“The lunatic wants you to cut his hair,” Chaloupka whispered to him. “The stinking animal has finally bathed and wants to look presentable.”

“For whom?” asked Pichler quickly. “For my daughter?”

The other guard said nothing at first but then set his lips on the rim of the barber’s ear.

“Let the blade slip, Pichler. Save yourself, your daughter, and all of Bohemia from this devil!”

Jakub came out of Don Julius’s chambers, closing the door quietly.

“You are Barber Pichler?”

Pichler nodded, bowing to the well-dressed man.

“We must speak quickly. I am a friend of your daughter—”

“My Marketa! Oh, sir!” Pichler gasped. “How is she?”

“I saw her last night and she is in good health. She has just received a visitor at Annabella’s house, your sister Ludmilla, who is dying.”

“Ludmilla in the house of a witch?” The barber’s face stretched wide in astonishment, his eyes blinking. “I cannot believe it!”

“Annabella has hosted you, I understand,” said Jakub.

“Yes, but I am not mother superior of a convent! Why would she venture outside the confines of the nunnery?”

“They seem to have an understanding, your sister and Annabella. But Annabella needs something that only you can provide.”

“What could that possibly be?”

Jakub leaned closer, whispering in his ear.

“Hair clippings of Don Julius—from the crown of his head. You must procure them and give them to me to deliver to her hand, or all is lost.”

Pichler had no time to respond, for he was ushered into the apartments where a basin and barber set were laid on a table next to the freshly bathed Don Julius.

Don Julius studied himself in the polished looking glass, tilting his chin this way and that. He moved to the window where the winter light illuminated his newly shaved skin.

“You look particularly good from the right profile,” said Jakub, nodding surreptitiously at Pichler.

As Don Julius angled the mirror away from his barber, Pichler stooped and swept up strands of new-cut hair and stuffed them in the pocket of his coat.

“You are quite right,” pronounced Don Julius. “I shall remember to present that profile to Marketa when she arrives.” At this his lip curled down. “And she shall arrive by sunset, before my beard grows back, or you shall die, Barber.”

Pichler swallowed but otherwise said nothing. He had already resigned himself to this fate and only hoped that it would be a Krumlov guard who dispatched him mercifully and quickly rather than having to suffer death at the hand of the Hapsburg.

Before Don Julius could offer more threats, he was interrupted by Guard Chaloupka, who begged entrance.

“My lord, I bring urgent news,” he said, his eyes skipping nervously from the Hapsburg to Pichler. “The maiden Marketa sends word that she shall surrender herself this very day.”

Don Julius jumped up, his eyes bright and feverish.

Pichler buried his face in his hands.

“Miserable barber,” muttered Don Julius, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Guard, take this man out of my sight!”

As Chaloupka led Pichler away, Don Julius gave another order.

“Send for the seamstress at once. And bring me the skin of the bear I slayed on the hunt.”

A small box containing the royal hair clippings was delivered within an hour to the house on Dlouha Street. Wilhelm had been dispatched with the errand, and he ran barefooted through the frozen streets as fast as he could to Annabella’s door.

“Doctor Jakub Horcicky de Tenepec awaits instructions,” he said, panting. He rubbed his sore, cold feet. “What should I tell him is your reply?”

Annabella nodded curtly. “My work should not take long. Tell him to look for me at the castle by late afternoon.”

Marketa heard this exchange and the closing of the heavy door. She held her aunt’s hand and whispered her good-byes.

“I cannot let him kill my father,” Marketa said. “It was my folly to trust a madman. My father should not sacrifice his life for my horrid mistake.”

Aunt Ludmilla squeezed her niece’s hand with more strength than Marketa thought possible. Annabella’s potion was working.

“He will harm you if you return,” whispered Marketa’s aunt. “Do not go!”

“I have no choice. I am the only one he wants. He will kill my father. Good-bye, my beloved aunt.”

Marketa left her weeping against the bedsheets and walked across the room to stand beside Annabella.

“He intends to murder you.”

“Yes. Unless he falls in love with me again. I can at least try to make him remember. He thinks of me of as an angel.”

Annabella looked at Marketa, her eyes sad and hollow.

“Lunacy is fickle. He may believe you are an angel to love and then, in a blink of an eye, a demon to destroy.”

“What else can I do? Tell me!”

“You could refuse to return to him, Marketa,” said Annabella.

“What life would I have?” Marketa’s voice was suddenly strong with conviction. “He would always search for me, kill my loved ones to force me back. You can say I am foolish to return to him. But everyone I love is in danger from that madman! He is a Hapsburg who can kill, rape, and maim without fear of reprisal. The demonic voices have returned to seize his soul.”

Annabella drew a deep breath and let it escape slowly.

“You cannot silence the voices, Marketa. All your tenderness will not quell their screams.”

Marketa shook her head.

“What else can I do, Annabella?” she repeated. “What choice do I have? And if he kills me, his father will lock him up forever or even execute him, to save the throne from further disgrace. It will be the end of him and this nightmare.”

Annabella looked back in silence, Marketa’s words still ringing in the air. She took Marketa’s hand and kissed it, pressing it to her heart.

“That is why you saw the White Lady, Marketa. Ludmilla and your father as well. The three of you will make a sacrifice for the good of Krumlov. I do not argue with you. I question you only to be certain. I find great courage in your decision. I have anticipated it, my friend, and already made preparations. But now, as the critical moment draws near, you must know that there is a good man who loves you. The best man I could find,” the cunning woman said. “He loves you well and truly. But you must also know that I have chosen well in finding the father of the future Annabella.”

Marketa’s eyes flew to Annabella’s rounded belly. How could she have not noticed the bulge under her woolen skirts and apron?

Annabella smiled back at her bewildered stare.

“It was only one night. One night to ensure the birth of my child. You are the one he loves.”

Marketa stared again, stunned. She remembered the green scarf that Jakub had tied around her neck, his long fingers grazing her skin.

No! Her dear friend had made love to the doctor in Prague and now carried his baby. Marketa reeled as she imagined the two together, limbs entwined.

Marketa felt a quick flash of jealousy, sizzling like a drop of water in a pan of hot grease. Her breast tightened and bitterness filled her mouth.

Annabella saw the glint in Marketa’s eyes.

“Think now before you speak, Marketa. Heed me well,” she said, gently placing her hands on Marketa’s shoulders and shaking her once to break the spell of anger. “You are the one he loves. I swear it is true!”

Marketa looked into Annabella’s face and saw the love that shone there.

This was no rival. The woman who stood before her was her true friend.

Marketa’s chest released and drew in a deep breath. She closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

Now there was no time to think of Jakub. Marketa’s dreams of the handsome, gentle physician and the great city of Prague receded, like sunlight disappearing behind a bank of clouds. She had to think only of what she must do to atone for the sin of believing a madman capable of love.

Annabella turned and scattered the hair clippings into a boiling cauldron of calf’s blood she had procured from the Jewish butcher outside the walls of Krumlov. She watched as Don
Julius’s hair mingled with the liquid and the rolling boil sucked the strands down, into the depths.