The Bloodletter's Daughter (44 page)

Marketa shivered but gave her friend a long embrace.

“You have given my aunt and me protection. I do not know why your heart is so generous and why you have risked so much. But it is my time now to give.”

Annabella nodded. “Since you have decided this is your destiny, I will now help you, if I can. You must be ready tonight. Jakub will help me execute my plan, but you must find a way to be alone in Don Julius’s room tonight. We will meet once more, and I will take a prized possession from you.”

“Anything! Take it now!”

“No, the time is not right. We will take care of the rest when the moment is ripe.”

Annabella walked to the door and pulled the green scarf from the peg.

“Wear this. It will remind you of the true course,” she said, placing the scarf around Marketa’s neck. Her hands lingered on her friend’s shoulders and she closed her eyes, whispering an incantation.

Then Annabella abruptly turned away to stir the potion. She wore the faraway look she possessed when engrossed in her spells.

As Marketa left, she realized she had not asked for whom this sorcery was made.

As Marketa walked past the bathhouse, her mother ran out into the street. Lucie Pichlerova’s hair was untidy and her dress tattered. Under her eyes, dark pools cupped her tired skin.

“You will surrender to him and save your father?” she pleaded, her eyes white-ringed in frenzy. “Tell me you will save
my husband and bring him home to me before we all starve to death!”

Marketa said nothing, but her mother followed like a stray dog up the winding cobblestone to the castle.

“I knew you could not let him die, the good man, the good father he is!” she said, dancing like a wild woman beside her daughter. She knew better than to embrace Marketa or take her hand, but she rushed from one side of her to the other, just beyond striking distance.

“You can charm the Hapsburg prince, you can subdue his choler!” she chanted. By now there were other curious citizens following the two up the cobblestone street. By the time Marketa looked around for one last sight of the Vltava, there were easily a score of people following her solemnly up the hill, like a crowd of mourners.

“Do not enter the castle!” shouted a voice, choked with sobs.

Marketa turned to see the bruised face, the eyes only slits in purpled flesh. It took Marketa a second to recognize her friend Katarina.

“I beg you, Marketa! He will kill you. Look what he did to me,” she said, clasping her friend’s hand.

Marketa stared in horror. Her other hand reached out to trace her friend’s swollen face.

“Leave her alone, Katarina,” said Lucie, pushing the girl away. “She must save her father!”

Katarina was held back by the crowd as Lucie pulled her daughter by her arm.

They trudged up the steep hill to the first courtyard, the crowd pressing close behind.

As Marketa approached the door to the Rozmberk apartments, she drew a deep breath. The guards who accompanied her murmured in Czech.

“You sacrifice yourself to save your father—may God’s salvation be yours, faithful daughter!” said one.

The other whispered, “You do this to save all Krumlov.” He crossed himself and kissed Marketa’s hand. “Your sacrifice will put an end to this fiend.”

“God bless you, Slecna Marketa,” the guards both whispered as they approached the threshold of the apartments.

Neither of them addressed her as Musle.

The seamstress curtsied and curtsied again. She had been frightened to the cold bone of her skull by the summons, knowing the stories of Don Julius’s brutal outrages. She hoped that her faded looks and buckteeth would prevent rape, but she worried that her thin neck would be too easily broken by the force of his cruel hands.

Jakub whispered to her. “Do not be afraid, just do as he asks.”

She nodded nervously, swallowing hard the fear that had lodged in the back of her throat.

“Seamstress—what silk can you procure today?” said Don Julius.

The old woman looked at Jakub and then answered. “Any fine fabric you desire, sir.”

“Blue. I want blue silk, the blue of a pool of fresh water. No, the blue of a lake, placid and generous. I want it to be so cool and light that it washes over a maiden’s skin, refreshing her as if she were swimming naked in the moonlight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And,” he said, pointing at the blood-encrusted bearskin in the corner of the room, “I want you to trim the robe with that. Clean it until it shines, like the living bear it once was. Fierce and proud.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, staring in horror at the bloody, matted hair.

“And it must be ready tonight.”

“Tonight, sir?”

“Are you deaf, old woman? Yes, before the moon rises or your scrawny neck shall be on the chopping block along with the chickens come morning.”

“Yes, sir. It shall be finished tonight. I will have my daughter and daughters-in-law all help me, but it shall be finished tonight, I swear it.”

“It must be beautiful. Befitting a princess—no, a goddess!”

“Yes, sir.”

Don Julius waved her away.

“Right profile, is that what you said, Jakub?”

Jakub sucked in his breath, knowing that Marketa was waiting just beyond the door.

“Yes, Don Julius. The right profile is your best.”

“Send her in. I am ready to greet my angel.”

Marketa had imagined the moment many times, the moment she was to again see her patient, her lover. The man who had raped her. The man who had nearly killed her. She had wondered how she would greet him, whether she would cry, whether she would attack him, whether she would beg for mercy.

Now she simply worked to steel herself, to summon the courage to face him. She knew that sooner or later he would decide to kill her. She bent her head in a silent prayer, her hands clasped
in front of her. The fringe of the green silk scarf entwined in her fingers as she pressed them, pleading.

“Dear God! Give me the courage to do what I must,” she whispered. She thought about running down the corridor, out of the castle to hide in the depths of the catacombs forever.

“Give me courage,” she repeated. “Oh God, please!”

An errant ray of sun pierced the clouds and illuminated her clasped hands in prayer through the leaded windows. Gentle steps sounded in the corridor. Marketa turned her head. The guards did not react at all.

A woman dressed in a long white gown made her way down the hall.

She walked toward Marketa, her chin held high. She smiled down at the girl, for this noblewoman was quite tall. She took Marketa’s hand.

“Be not afraid,” was all that the woman in white said.

Together they approached the door. Then she kissed Marketa on the top of her head. “Heed my promise. I shall never leave you.”

Without another word, she walked away, down the long hall of the castle.

The door swung open.

“Bid her enter!” shouted Don Julius.

Marketa thought of the touch of the stranger’s hand, the feel of the satin gloves. For an instant she struggled to remember, what color were those gloves? But in her shock she hadn’t noticed and now it was too late.

She approached Don Julius silently and noticed a spot of blood on his neck where he had been nicked in shaving. She watched the drop work its way slowly down his throat, his skin still brown from the days on the hunt.

He looked at Marketa with his right eye, his head cocked at a curious angle as if he could not shift his gaze to see her. He looked like a rooster eyeing a worm, ready to peck. She could avoid his
eyes as he posed in this curious position, and she focused her attention on the blood as it stained his skin. She remembered the leeches. She remembered too much.

Then, as Marketa removed her kerchief, he saw her hair, and his strange posture vanished. He reached for her, stifling a sob. He pulled her tight against his chest, one hand knotted in her hair, the other embracing her.

Marketa stiffened. She fought to control herself as his lips covered her mouth, her face, her throat. He tore the green scarf away from her neck, letting it fall to the floor, his lips working over her skin. He groaned and grew unsteady on his feet. He fell to his knees, worshipping her with kisses.

“My angel! You have returned to me,” he cried. “I thought you dead!”

She said nothing, but bent to retrieve her scarf from the floor. It was her talisman now, a source of strength, a reminder of love and sanity. She stood again, looking down in disbelief at the man whose arms encircled her knees. His breath was warm on her skin.

Finally, he rose, taking her face in his hands with tenderness and care. Marketa looked into his eyes. The madness had retreated into the depths of green, and what she saw was love, pure and clear.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marketa saw Jakub staring intently at her.

“Prepare a feast!” ordered Don Julius, his voice full of joy. “My woman looks wan and pale. We must fatten her up before she returns with me to Prague my princess!” He kissed Marketa’s hands, and then kissed them again, his eyes drinking in her presence as if he were a holy man at the altar of Christ.

He led her to a chair and bid her to sit down and sip wine. He removed her slippers and massaged her feet, looking up into her face like an adoring child. His lips, ardent and wet, kissed her toes and ankles, purring endearments.

“A feast, I said, Horcicky!” ordered Marketa’s lover. “Why do you stand there?”

Jakub signaled to the page at the door to convey Don Julius’s orders to the kitchen. Marketa did not notice when the page returned with another message just for Jakub. A special crate, carried in the alchemist’s carriage, had been delivered to the castle, accompanied by the witch Annabella.

While Annabella waited in the courtyards, she comforted Abbot Bedrich of the Jesuit monastery, who appeared unaccountably distressed.