The Bloodletter's Daughter (11 page)

A H
OLY
C
ONSPIRACY IN
H
UNGARY

The freshly minted coin winked up at him, silver glinting in his hand. Engraved on the thaler was the image of his older brother, King Rudolf II.

“You say the pope himself has protested?” said Matthias, turning the coin over in his palm.

The pope’s emissary, Melchior Klesl, bishop of Vienna, raised his chin in confirmation.

Klesl had voyaged down the Danube on a merchant’s barge, from Vienna to this outpost at the edge of the Royal Hungarian city of Esztergom on the violent border where the Holy Roman Empire battled the Turks. The thud of an Ottoman kettledrum drifted up from beyond the gates below, and Klesl shivered with apprehension. His mission was crucial to the pope and to the empire, but the borderlands were still scorched and smoking, the Ottoman frontier lined with rotting heads impaled upon bloody stakes.

There was never true peace with the Ottomans. Ever.

The old stone fortress above Esztergom looked down upon the embattled city, a strategic stronghold recaptured from the Turks in 1595 by Matthias’s armies. The Ottomans camped within sight of Esztergom’s walls, like snarling wolves, encircling their prey.

Klesl imagined the flashing yataghans of the bloodthirsty Saracens who had spread the word of the Prophet Mohammed into the heart of Europe. The pope’s blessing must be brought to Matthias far from the luxuries and safety of Vienna. As his coach had rattled up the hill away from the Danube, the bishop kissed the gold crucifix around his neck. But this was God’s work, and he would bring the pope’s word directly to the younger brother of Rudolf II.

This Matthias, unlike his brother, was a man of few words, a soldier who never shirked from a battle. He spent much of his time here on the frontier, on the long, narrow tongue of Hungarian land that still belonged to the Holy Roman Empire.

The bishop mopped his temples with a white kerchief, attempting to compose himself. “Our Gracious Holiness has denounced King Rudolf’s image on the coin as an alchemist, an adeptus. No mortal, certainly no Catholic, should aspire to communicate with the dark spirits of the netherworld. Now the entire Holy Roman Empire shall be reminded of his dalliance with the evil spirits and the Jews each time a merchant draws a coin from his purse.”

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Matthias’s mouth and widened the breadth of his close-clipped beard. He flipped the shining coin into the air and caught it as if it were deciding a bet.

The bishop lowered his voice, though they were alone in the drafty castle chamber. The acrid scent of gunpowder wafted in through the high windows, and he could hear the not-so-distant sound of cannons, thundering.

“Rudolf is said to converse on a regular basis with Jews. Rabbi Lowe is admitted to court and lingers in the king’s presence to discuss the Kabbalah and the Elixir of Life.”

“Hardly a Catholic notion, is it?” said Matthias. His eyes twinkled with conspiracy.

The bishop sniffed, indignant. “The elixir of everlasting life is our Lord, Jesus Christ, that God sent down from heaven to save us from eternal damnation!”

“Yet as Holy Roman emperor, Rudolf is the guardian and moral authority of the Catholic Church.”

The bishop winced.

“Pity,” said Matthias, studying the image of his brother in the robes of an alchemist. “Good likeness, though—finely minted. Indeed, it will remind everyone in Europe of the alchemists’ quest. And silver finds converts...”

Melchior Klesl’s face grew red as the Turkish paprika the Hungarians used to flavor their stews. He looked about the room, devoid of furnishings except a tattered tapestry, a few roughhewn chairs, and a straw pallet.

The clergyman whispered, “He must be stopped, Matthias. I bring word from the pope in the most confidential manner that should you as a good Catholic succeed him—in a most timely manner—you would have the pope’s blessing and the full support of the Church.”

“These are the pope’s own words?” said Matthias.

“From his holy lips. King Rudolf must be stopped. His conduct is intolerable.”

Matthias smiled and pinched the silver coin tight between his finger and thumb.

“I shall keep this, good bishop,” he said, pocketing the coin. “As a token of the promise and good will of His Holiness.”

Bishop Klesl leaned closer to Matthias. “His Holiness has confidence in you as a staunch defender of the Catholic faith. He
trusts you to lead our flock away from this blasphemy. Protestants infest the Bohemian states like maggots on a rotted corpse.”

“His Holiness overlooks the sin I commit by having Lutheran advisors at my side, trusted friends who practice their damnable faith? He condones my siding with William of Orange and the Netherlands at the age of twenty?”

The bishop folded his hands over his robe. “He believes these are the follies of youth, and as a Hapsburg you will find your way back to the True Faith.”

“That is a risk,” said Matthias, his voice blunt. “I am the least Catholic of all Hapsburgs.”

The bishop sighed and opened his hands, his palms facing Matthias. “His Holiness believes you will bring peace to the empire and stop the encroachment of the Ottomans, before they besiege Vienna and overrun the remainder of Europe. Then you will lead the vermin back to the Truth Faith.”

Matthias walked to the window and looked down at the waters of the Danube, sparkling below. Beyond the walls of Esztergom, in the grassy fields he could see the corrals of Ottoman warhorses, painted red or green up to their bellies, the colors fading slowly in the rain and sun.

Facing the window he sighed. “They are not maggots, these Protestants, but men who hunger for freedom to practice their faith. This is their land, my good bishop.”

He turned to the pope’s emissary. “Has His Holiness’s opinion been swayed by the Ottoman armies’ proximity to Vienna? Perhaps the unrest has benefited my standing.”

“Your brother’s inept handling of the Turkish campaign has made all of Europe anxious,” said the bishop. “We are certain you will be declared king of Royal Hungary.”

The bishop approached Matthias, who stood in the small pool of sunlight that stole across the stones.
How fine this younger
Hapsburg would look with the gold crown of the Holy Roman Empire upon his noble—and Catholic—head
, thought Klesl.

“No Hungarian would ever swear allegiance to Rudolf now! They need a true soldier, a leader in battle against the Turks. They will follow you, Matthias. And His Holiness believes many more Catholic kingdoms will demand your strong hand leading their destiny, rather than a deranged fool who dabbles in the black arts.”

The bishop leaned closer to Matthias. “But His Holiness must know how we can take power from your brother without bloodshed. The Protestants are too numerous—indeed, the vast majority in the Bohemian states—and can turn against us, should we move too quickly. Rudolf has indulged them in his court, including that Lutheran Johannes Kepler and physician Jan Jesenius.”

“Brilliant men, these Protestant heretics. Or so I am told,” said Matthias. His eyes twinkled as he watched Melchior’s face redden again.

“The pope wished to know how we can bring Rudolf down without war, sire.”

“With patience, good bishop. With time.” Matthias stared north, toward the distant borders of Bohemia. “My brother Rudolf digs his grave with his own hands. My sources in Prague tell me there is a storm brewing now in the town of Cesky Krumlov that may bring matters to a head. My bastard nephew Giuglio may be the unlikely key to our triumph. The reign of my brother Rudolf rests in the balance, if I am right. All we have to do is wait...patiently.”

The bishop nodded solemnly to the younger Hapsburg and bid him adieu. He was anxious to begin his journey back to Vienna, far from this savage Ottoman border, as soon as possible.

Matthias watched as the pope’s emissary swept out of the room, his black robes flowing behind him above the gray stone.

A S
TRICT
R
EGIMEN

King Rudolf II did not talk to his son before he left Vienna. That duty, among so many others, was left to Minister Rumpf. Preparations were made for Don Julius’s imprisonment in Cesky Krumlov, though Rumpf was careful not to speak of it until the last possible moment.

In his hands Minister Rumpf had official orders from the king, affixed with the Hapsburg seal. He looked out the window for the last time at the waiting coach and swallowed. He beckoned to the guards to accompany him as he entered Don Julius’s chambers.

“Cesky what?” Don Julius roared in response to the minister’s announcement, rubbing his aching head, throbbing with the excess of strong spirits that still poisoned his blood, as they did almost every morning. “You mock me, and I have no stomach for it.”

Minister Rumpf sighed. Among the many tasks distasteful to him as Rudolf’s chief minister, dealing with his bastard son was the worst.

“Don Julius, I neither mock you nor jest. My orders come from your father, His Majesty, the king. I shall follow them faithfully. You shall leave for southern Bohemia with utmost haste.”

“Shut up, you miserable little German! Your voice is splitting my head like a hatchet.”

The king’s minister longed to spit on this surly son of the king, but he wisely sucked the juices to the back of his mouth and swallowed. He studied the youth’s face, and despite the flabby countenance and fleshy body of his overindulgence, he recognized the traces of Anna Maria da Strada, the king’s mistress. Don Julius had inherited her fine skin and high cheekbones, and his blue-green eyes, buried in the fat of his round face, were unique and brilliant as jewels. Were he not so bloated with excess drink and food, he would be quite handsome.

The only features he seemed to inherit from his father were the pendulous lips of a Hapsburg, red and full as if he had just been eating bloody meat.

Minister Rumpf interrupted his contemplation to duck as a porcelain vase came flying toward his head. It shattered in shards against the wall.

“To hell with you!” roared Don Julius. “As if could I survive in a godforsaken Czech town where they probably do not even know how to speak proper German and their wenches grow hair out of their bumpkin ears. Go away, Rumpf. It is time for my breakfast, and your prattle spoils my appetite.”

“That is another thing, Don Julius.” Rumpf took special pleasure in this. “Your father has given strict orders that your meals are to be no more than three a day. You are to learn the life of the ascetic as he did in Spain with his uncle, Felipe II, when he was your age.”

“God damn you and your presumptions!” shouted Don Julius, scratching at his groin. He motioned to a guard. “You, wretched man, fetch the cook’s assistant to serve me.”

The guard hesitated and looked at Rumpf, who twitched his mouth in impatience.

“Don Julius, you are under guard. There is no special cook, no valet, no attendant to serve you. You will reduce your meals from twelve to three, you will have no contact with women, and a priest will travel with you and be installed in the chapel at Cesky Krumlov to hear your confession.”

“Confession!” Don Julius focused his bloodshot eyes on Minister Rumpf. “I will confess nothing to some Papist!” The aroma of bacon wafted through the air.

“See! When Don Julius commands, the servants leap to please me, as they should for the eldest son of their king. Bring me my breakfast, you miserable dung beetle!”

Rumpf stood aside as a guard laid a plate with lean bacon and coarse black bread at the little table.

Don Julius twisted his face in disgust.

“What meager rations are these? Where are the cheeses, the chicken, the herring? Where is my ale, damn it! My head aches for it.”

“Sit and eat, Don Julius,” said Minister Rumpf, looking at his pocket watch. “It will be hours before luncheon, and we have many preparations to make. The guards will escort you to the coach once you have finished your repast. I bid you farewell, my lord.”

The outraged howling of Don Julius could be heard across the fields as the royal coach rattled along the old road to Bohemia. He was tied with soft linen gauze, in an attempt to reduce the injury to his limbs and flaccid skin as he thrashed within the carriage.

Men spat in the dust of the road as he passed, and the women crossed themselves behind lace-curtained windows.

Minister Rumpf was not able to accompany him as he was occupied with more serious matters of state, running an empire while the king danced with his court in Prague. Instead, the Jesuit priest, Don Carlos Felipe, escorted the young bastard prince. Carlos Felipe had been raised in Madrid, the youngest son of a noble family of Ronda. He was a confessor to some of the most influential families at the Spanish king’s court, although not to the royal family itself.

He had helped tutor King Rudolf II and his brother Ernst when they were sent to their Spanish uncle’s court as young boys. He understood the erratic behavior that was a trait of the Hapsburgs, but this bastard son, this Don Julius, was far worse than any he had seen. True, the bastard’s first cousin Don Carlos, son of King Felipe II, was known to spend hours lying in the family vaults of El Escorial, preferring the company of his dead ancestors to the living. But the Spanish prince’s madness was of a morbid nature; he did not lash out violently as did Don Julius.

With a shudder, the priest thought of the legends of Juana La Loca and her love for the corpse of her dead husband, Felipe the Handsome. Juana was great-great-grandmother to both boys.

Don Carlos Felipe knew that Don Julius must be possessed by the same demons as his Spanish relatives and posed a danger not only to himself, but to the entire Hapsburg dynasty. The priest passionately swore an oath to the king that he would do everything he could to purge the devil that inhabited this young man’s soul.

“You know, of course, of the Jesuit monastery in Cesky Krumlov,” Minister Rumpf had said when explaining the mission to the priest. “Perhaps you could entreat some other Jesuit brothers to aid you in your mission. I fear Don Julius will not be an easy convert.”

Carlos Felipe looked down at his black wool robe and fiddled with the hemp rope that encircled his thin waist. He had dealt with the strange habits of Don Julius’s great-uncle, Felipe II, and his feebleminded son, Carlos.

The priest felt certain he could deal with this bastard son, Don Julius. The Eastern branch of the Hapsburg dynasty had become soft. Their precious Austrian manners were too indulgent—they needed the rigor and discipline of the Spanish court.

As if reading the priest’s thoughts, Minister Rumpf said, “I fear he will not be an easy patient, but he shall not be indulged.”

“Indulging gross habits only encourages new ones,” the priest said, bowing his head. “Yes, I shall inquire of my brothers to see if there are some willing and suitable to assist me in our work.”

As Rumpf dismissed him, he warned, “See to it that Don Julius is not unbound until he is safely ensconced in a secured palace room. But he is to be allowed exercise at least three days a week. The king suggests you let him hunt in the hills above Cesky Krumlov, to improve his health and stamina. He should be encircled by mounted guards—no fewer than half a dozen—to see that he does not escape or stray into the town.”

The thin priest nodded. The rigor of riding and pursuing the hounds would be good discipline for Don Julius’s mind and body.

“One more thing. As King Rudolf is a patron of the sciences, he feels it is necessary to send along a physician. I have received word that a highly esteemed member of Prague’s barber and surgeon guild will join you soon in Cesky Krumlov. He has strict instructions to monitor the king’s son’s health and report back to Prague as to his diagnosis. The king forbids bloodletting at this time unless Don Julius agrees, but he thinks this surgeon, Mingonius, could bring his observations to court and prescribe treatment.”

“God’s judgment alone would be treatment for this royal sinner,” remarked the priest dryly.

“Perhaps you are correct. But never forget that this young man is our emperor’s eldest son, bastard though he may be. The king would not tolerate any—shall we say—untoward treatment suffered by his favorite son. He has ordered that you keep your diaries legible and send the entries by courier to Prague.”

Minister Rumpf bowed in respect—and relief—as he dismissed the priest to make the journey to Cesky Krumlov.

Don Julius still howled in pain, not at the bite of the gauze fetters, but at the gnawing hunger in his belly. For years now he had shown no restraint in his gluttonous habits. Excesses of sex, food, and violence were his steady diet, and he knew no limits.

The coach made a stop at midday at a small town in Bohemia. The innkeeper could not speak German and was so astonished to see the royal coach that he could barely manage to serve a welcoming ale to his clients. The driver ordered everyone out of the establishment to make way for Don Julius and his entourage. The townspeople gathered dumbfounded in the dusty street outside the tavern, trying to catch a glimpse of the king’s son.

Don Julius was unbound, although the priest and two guards stood by his side, alert to his every move. The innkeeper’s wife struggled out with trays heaping with stews and roasted chops, sauerkraut, and fat, oozing sausages.

Don Julius’s eyes gleamed at the sight.

“Wait,” said Carlos Felipe, holding up his hand. “We must test the food.”

Don Julius salivated at the smell of the good Bohemian cooking.

“Hurry up, then,” he growled. “If there is poison in the stew, may you die a quick death!”

Don Julius often went without a taster, in order to speed the act of moving food to his eager mouth. He watched as the first guard warily took a taste of the stew.

“And the millet pancakes. Don’t forget them. The duck and the sausage,” instructed Carlos Felipe.

“Enough,” roared Don Julius, pounding his open hand on the wooden table. “Serve me, I command you.”

But Carlos Felipe was not done yet.

“You must learn patience, Don Julius. Your father has asked that I teach you many virtues, and patience and abstinence are among them. He learned such lessons at the court of your greatuncle Felipe II.”

The guard hesitated, but he remembered Rumpf’s strict instruction, which came from King Rudolf II himself: take your orders from the priest.

Looking eagerly at the food, he took his place at the table and gorged himself.

Don Julius stared slack-jawed.

“Away, you vultures! This is no tasting—you feast on my dinner!”

“Ignore him,” ordered the priest.

Don Julius jumped from his chair and overturned the table, spilling pitchers of foamy beer and hot food over the earthen floor. The tavern-keeper’s wife shuddered and called to her husband. He appeared moist with sweat from the kitchen and gasped at the scene.

“My lord, was the food not good? We are but humble people and served the best we could! Take mercy upon us!”

“The food was splendid,” said the priest. “Was it not?”

He looked at the astonished guards and frightened footmen, who sheepishly nodded. A poor groom was brazen enough to take a goose leg from the floor and start gnawing at it.

“We will pay you amply for your cooking and service. One thing, before we depart. Do you have some good coarse bread to serve to our king’s son? He would do best with that, I should think.”

Don Julius clenched his fists and raised them toward the rafters.

“Brown bread? I shall dine, you demon!”

The priest took out a purse of gold coins given to him by Minister Rumpf.

“Here, take this,” he said, putting a pair of coins in the hand of the bewildered woman. “And fetch us a cool draught of well water in a jug. We will take both the bread and the water with us.” He motioned to the guard to bind the prisoner again.

And so began the new life of Don Julius.