The Bloodletter's Daughter (17 page)

Marketa nodded her head. She no longer felt the pinch and prick of their sharp teeth. Instead there was a strange numbness, and her skin no longer felt so cold in the water. She felt as if her legs were drunk on mead.

Marketa’s mind raced to the thought of the leeches as they fastened to the king’s son’s skin. Would they be as eager to sup
on a Hapsburg’s royal blood, her blood mingling with his in the worms’ bellies?

The idea made her shiver, and she crossed her arms over her heart.

“Everything all right here, now?” said Old Petr, limping down to the water’s edge.

He saw Marketa in the reeds and his face went white.

Marketa looked down. At the mid-shin she could see the water churning with shiny brown leeches, twisting against each other as they vied for her blood.

“Get that girl out of the water,” he roared, his bleary eyes watering. He raised his fist in the air. “You get her out of the water, Zigmund, or I’ll carry her out myself!”

Marketa’s father looked at him and then at her.

“Slowly, Marketa. Don’t disturb them from their feeding. Walk back to the grass and I’ll harvest them.”

As she walked through the reeds the water became more and more shallow. In the frigid sunrise, she could see a dozen or more glistening bodies drape down her leg, no longer buoyed up by the water.

Petr cursed as if he were warding off the devil himself. He used words in a Moravian dialect the Pichlers could not understand.

Marketa’s father’s eyes shone as if she had brought him gold from the center of the earth. He carefully applied a grain of salt to each wet mouth, and one by one they dropped into the grass.

He greedily snatched them up and placed them into the buckets.

“Aren’t you going to attend to your daughter’s wounds, Barber?” growled Old Petr.

The barber looked up as he picked up the last leech, still sucking, and dropped it into the bucket.

“Her wounds are what anyone will get in a leeching. There may have been many at once, but they have stolen little blood from her in those few minutes.”

Petr approached the shivering girl and kissed her head like a doting grandfather.

“God bless you and protect you from this wickedness,” he said, his red eyes brimming with tears. “This is the devil’s business. No angel such as you should be mixed up in such a thing.”

“Calm down, Petr,” said Pichler. “It’s not the devil’s business at all. It’s science.”

“It’s all the same,” said Petr sadly, crossing himself with his gnarled right hand. “There are some matters better left to God, and not to the meddling of men.”

He blew his nose into his rough-skinned fingers and slid his sleeve against his face. Marketa could see he was crying. She had never seen a man cry before. Without warning he kissed her cold hands and then embraced her, mumbling a prayer to the Holy Virgin.

Marketa stood as still as a stone in his embrace, not knowing what to say.

K
ATARINA’S
W
ARNING

Katarina’s eyes grew wide when she heard how Marketa had harvested the leeches. They were sitting in the kitchen of the Pichler house, enjoying the warmth from the stove. A sudden cold spell had brought a reminder that winter was lurking not that far in the future.

“Marketa! Were you not afraid? To think of those horrid worms fastening their teeth to your flesh and drinking your blood!”

She flung her hands to her face in disgust and shivered in horror. Marketa tried to calm her, but she begged to see the wounds.

“See, they are but a prick,” Marketa said, rubbing her thumb across the small red marks. “My father treated me like a princess afterward. He had the twins bathe me and wait on me hand and foot while I sipped Uncle Radek’s best dark ale. I soaked in a barrel scented with lavender for almost an hour.”

Katarina again wrinkled her beautiful face, the skin on her nose folding up tight like an accordion. Marketa could see she was thinking of something more sinister.

“There is much evil in it. I feel the touch of the devil. Remember the fairies and the tales of the Water Demon.”

She raised her finger in warning, for she was a deep believer in the ancient Czech tales.

“Those worms are the Water Demon’s pets,” she pronounced, nodding her head at Marketa’s pricked skin. “You are lucky the demon himself did not pull you down with his gnarled claws to his cave at the bottom of the lake.”

Marketa laughed. Katarina’s fears were based on nonsense and fairy tales. Marketa’s own mind was shaped by science, she thought. It was as if the two girls were speaking different languages.

Katarina narrowed her eyes at Marketa.

“You know the story of Lidushka,” she said, murmuring. “It’s a warning, Marketa.”

Everyone knew the ancient tale of Lidushka. One day while she was washing her clothes in the river, a frog had begged the young girl to become godmother of her children. Lidushka followed the frog down a crystal staircase, transparent as layers of water, until they reached a sparkling room, where Lidushka blessed the tadpoles. As she wandered through the cavernous palace, she came across a room lined with shelves. On the shelves were glass jars upside down. When she lifted one, a dove flew out. She realized that these were trapped souls, and one by one, she let them loose.

Marketa thought silently about Lidushka.

“What silly ideas stuff your head?” she said. “What does Lidushka have to do with a bleeding?”

“These Water Demon pups were sucking at your soul, Marketa. Evil times lie ahead.”

Marketa laughed at her friend, until Katarina’s lovely face pinched together so tight that Marketa realized she was crying. She reached out for Katarina’s hair. Katarina tried at first to
shrug off her friend’s touch, but then finally she allowed Marketa to smooth her sugar-dusted locks. To make her laugh, Marketa tasted her fingers, and indeed they were sweet like a Christmas candy.

“These leeches are medicinal,” Marketa explained to her. “They have nothing to do with fairy tales. Their tiny mouths do not suck at your soul. They release the bad humors from the body. Think of the four humors draining away from the body, just the way Lidushka freed the doves from the jars. They free the good spirit inside.”

Katarina furrowed her forehead and then quickly released it again.

“I prefer to think of the white doves rather than those evil brown worms!”

Just then, Pichler entered the room. He seemed ill at ease and his movements were fidgety.

“Yes, Father?”

He looked at his daughter and then Katarina.

His wife appeared and pushed him closer.

“Tell her,” Lucie said.

Marketa could see from her mother’s sudden color and dancing eyes that she was as excited—and as happy—as Marketa had ever seen her.

“Don Julius has insisted I bring you as my assistant to the bleeding,” he said. “He has refused the bleeding entirely if you do not accompany me today.”

Marketa dropped her hand from her friend’s sticky locks and stared openmouthed.

Her mother’s normally creased face suddenly released into a laugh. It was a rich rumble in her throat that startled her daughter, for it was so rare.

She rubbed her hands together and twisted her fingers, fidgeting with pleasure.

“The son of King Rudolf himself requests my daughter at his castle! Is this not the most fortunate day of our lives?”

Marketa watched Katarina and her father exchange a look that belied any happiness.

“Come, my girl, I will bathe you myself,” said Lucie, shooing away her daughter’s friend. “So much preparation, so little time!”

Katarina stood motionless, her fingers plunged into her mouth like a child.

“A Hapsburg,” she said, pulling her fingers away from her mouth. “My God in heaven!”

Marketa waved a good-bye to her astonished friend and allowed herself to be led to the bathhouse by her mother’s eager hands, with no chance to question her father for more details.

Marketa’s mother dressed her in a treasured Bohemian
kroj
, the jewel of Lucie Pichlerova’s possessions. The
kroje
represented her identity—it was sewn according to the Krumlov traditions and embroidered intricately by her own hand.

Marketa’s hosiery was held up with ribbons, and the starched skirts stood out as if they had legs of their own. The
halenka
, the blouse she wore on feast days, was embroidered with elaborate stitching, as was the laced bodice that just barely skimmed the girl’s slim hips.

After Lucie brushed her daughter’s hair until it gleamed, she twisted it up in a tight knot. Then she tied on the white embroidered cap, the black velvet ribbon stretching across her forehead to keep it centered.

Her eyes gleamed as she stepped back to inspect her work.

“You look like I did as a girl,” she murmured. Marketa could see by the wistful look in her eyes that she was lost in the past.

Marketa could smell the faint odor of her mother deep in the fabric, though Lucie had washed the material fastidiously. She had been a maiden in this dress, as well as a matron, for this was part of her dowry. The costume was only worn on special occasions: feasts, Christmas, baptisms. But in recent years, Marketa’s mother had grown too stout to wear it.

The final piece, a white starched apron, was embroidered with dark red cotton thread and colored sequins. The sequins were the scales of carp, dyed a myriad of colors.

Marketa stared down at herself, at the fine clothes, and suddenly felt silly.

“But I am attending a bleeding,” she said. “Why do I wear a costume meant for a celebration?”

Her mother sniffed at her ignorance.

“And what else would you dare wear in the presence of the king’s son? Your old woolen shawl and linen bathmaid shift? You are ignorant of the ways of nobility—they would not let you enter their grand palace dressed like a peasant.”

“But what if Don Julius’s blood stains your fine white blouse? The blood splatters against the tray and often paints my clothes.”

Her mother smiled.

“I shall peddle a look at it for a koruna apiece. The fabric merchant’s wife would give her eyeteeth on a plate to see the bloodstain of a prince.”

Marketa shuddered.

“He’s not a prince,” Marketa said in a low voice. She watched her mother’s eyes flash, but went on. “He’s the king’s bastard son.”

Marketa’s mother grabbed her daughter’s ears, scratching them with her broken nails, and shook the girl’s face.

“Never utter that insolence again!” Lucie hissed, her face close to her daughter’s. “He is—and will always be—the king’s eldest son. He has the blood of an emperor flowing in his veins.”

She looked at her hands and must have realized she was crushing the white dove-cap. Her fingers released their grip and she smoothed the material, trying to erase the creases.

“You must remember that you are blessed with opportunity. Do not waste what God has given you. Don Julius is the Lord of Krumlov now, the same as the Rozmberks were.”

As she tightened the bodice with black ribbons, Marketa wondered exactly what her mother was referring to when she spoke of opportunity. Was it Marketa’s able assistance in her father’s practice of medicine or was it something else she had in mind?

Pichler and his daughter heard the howls of Don Julius as they entered the courtyard of the palace. Marketa listened as her father conversed in German with the royal guards and one left to give notice to the priest and Doctor Mingonius.

Her father’s eyes scanned the second floor of the palace, his face alert, his eyes nervous.

“Is he up there in that room?” Marketa asked, motioning with her chin in the direction of his focus.

“Yes,” he said. Then his face narrowed again, as if he were worried.

“What troubles you so, Father?” she asked. “You have bled hundreds of people—surely a Hapsburg has the same blood and courses as we of lesser birth.”

“It’s not that, Marketa,” he said. “If I told you what I saw just yesterday morning, you would think me—unsound.”

“Tell me, Father,” she said, finding his hand and squeezing it. “Nothing could ever inspire an ill opinion of you.”

He cast a look over his shoulder toward the one guard.

He lowered his voice.

“It was still black with night. As I waited for the guard to announce my arrival, I looked up at that corridor and I saw...”

“Her!” Marketa said without thinking, her heart leaping inside her chest. She felt an insatiable thirst for his words. “You saw the White Lady, didn’t you?”

She grabbed both his hands, joyous that he had shared the same vision as she had. Now he would never doubt her, she thought.

He looked at the buckle on his boot and nodded his head.

“I think I must have. They said there were no women in the palace except in the kitchens by the stables. Doctor Mingonius has forbidden any womankind near the prince. But you must swear never to tell anyone, especially your mother.”

“It is our secret.” Marketa took a deep breath. “Father, why am I here?”

He gripped her hand now.

“I already told you, Marketa. He will not consent to a bleeding unless you accompany me. Unless you are there, he will not allow Doctor Mingonius near him. As the moon waxes, his behavior becomes more and more erratic, Doctor Mingonius says.”

It was Marketa’s turn to look at the ground and study her hosiery.

“It is not because...because I know something of the science you perform that you bring me?”

Marketa realized as soon as she said the words aloud, they were foolish.

Her father squeezed his lips together and shook his head.

“Marketa! We have discussed this matter, and nothing will change. You are a girl.”

“Of course,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning.

“Listen to me. This man is unsound in his body and soul. He has no appreciation for science, no respect for woman, man, or beast. Forgive me, he is—”

“Barber Pichler!” shouted the guard.

“Come, Marketa. You are to remain quiet and assist as you always do. Speak your best German to Doctor Mingonius—he will see what an educated girl you are. Hold the trays and replace them as needed. Neither look at Don Julius, nor speak, nor encourage him in any way.”