The Bloodletter's Daughter (20 page)

“My Marketa is not a common prostitute. He shall not have her!”

Marketa took a deep breath, savoring his words. How long she had yearned to hear him take a stand for her.

Lucie approached her husband, her eyes lit up in fury.

“You fool! You are the doctor who is supposed to heal him. Why not believe in your own skills—and in your daughter. It is your job to save that poor young man from the demons who torment him. And then our daughter’s charms will soothe his injured soul. Why can we not believe that? And if we do, well then, think what a Hapsburg’s attentions could win this family. We could have a life you could never dream of. Perhaps Marketa would move to Prague to be near him, maybe in the palace itself. She would be dressed in fine silks and furs, walk the streets of Prague on the arm of the king’s son. And she would not forget us. Think of her influence at court and what wealth those ties could bring us!”

Pichler stared at his wife as if she were a stranger. Then he rose to his feet slowly, looking at Marketa and saying, “Meet me on the bridge at three o’clock. We shall go together to the palace.”

“Yes, Father.”

Neither one of them looked at Lucie Pichlerova.

As Pichler prepared to leave the bathhouse, there was a knock on the door.

He opened the door to see the red-haired cunning woman, Annabella, standing outside, a basket in her hand.

“
Dobre den, slecna
,” he said. “May I help you?”

“I have come to visit with your daughter and to bring your good wife mushrooms gathered from the mountainside,” she said.

Pichler escorted her into the bathhouse and called for his daughter.

“Marketa, you have a visitor.”

Marketa, who never had visitors other than Katarina, smiled to see the healer at the door. Annabella winked at her. Marketa was puzzled for only a moment and then thought,
Ah! She brings correspondence from Prague!

“Thank you, Father,” she said hurriedly. “And I will see you on the bridge at three o’clock.”

“Be punctual daughter.”

“Of course, Papa.”

He kissed her on the cheek, a preoccupied look on his face. He nodded and bid Annabella good afternoon.

As soon as he had closed the door, Marketa asked eagerly, “Is it news from Prague? Oh, tell me!”

Annabella smiled and retrieved a letter from her basket.

Dearest Slecna Marketa:

I thank you profoundly for your correspondence and, most of all, your agreement to write of Don Julius’s progress.

I was amazed to hear that you are in the position to actually witness the bleedings. While it is a perfect arrangement to observe and document the treatment, I have grave concerns.

You must not feel sorry for the patient. Don Julius is a very dangerous young man, ruled by his madness. He stabbed one of his servants and has committed the most sordid acts. It is for this reason he was sent so far away from Prague for treatment—and confinement.

I have struggled with the idea of writing Mingonius to remove you from Don Julius’s presence to protect your innocence. He might break his restraints and hurt you!

But I also will not break our confidence by letting Mingonius know that we have been in communication. Still, this is no place for a young woman to tread. It is simply too dangerous.

Meanwhile, even as I write, Doctor Jan Jesenius prepares for the public autopsy. Physicians from across Europe have expressed interest in attending. There may be hundreds in attendance, convening not only to see the dissection, but to discuss and share medical discoveries from other lands.

The king is pleased with the attention as the eyes of Europe, Africa, and Asia turn toward Prague. He feels it is only fitting that the seat and capital of the Holy Roman Empire is recognized for its accomplishments. His mood has been one of elation and pride lately.

One thing more. This book that you allude to, with maidens in water. It sounds as if this might be the king’s great treasure, the Coded Book of Wonder.

I look forward to your next report. I trust you are still in possession of the green scarf and wear it in good health. It gives me great pleasure to think of its silk caressing your soft throat, especially as the days grow cold and bitter.

Your colleague in service to His Majesty, I bid you good health and caution you to keep safe.

Jakub Horcicky

“Is it the news you hoped for?” asked Annabella, studying Marketa’s face.

“I am not sure,” said Marketa. “He fears for me. Annabella, I must tell you a secret that you cannot divulge to anyone.”

And so Marketa told the healer how the king’s son had appeared bewitched by her presence. It was a secret in equal measure terrifying and entrancing, though it made Annabella unusually quiet and contemplative for the remainder of the day.

T
HE
P
OOR
C
LARES
C
ONVENT

Marketa wondered why her father wanted to meet her so early on the bridge. The castle was only minutes from their house, up the steep cobblestone road.

She lingered on the bridge, watching the ripples of the Vltava below her and the dark shadows of the trout under the bridge.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and Marketa turned to see who it was. High above she could see Don Julius waving a white cloth from his window. When she looked up, he stopped waving and pointed directly at her.

She hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she curtsy, should she incline her head in deference? Perhaps she should wave back to him—or would that be an affront to his royal status, an impertinence?

He let the cloth fall from his grasp, and it fluttered down to the banks of the river, settling on a heap of rubbish from the castle.

Don Julius looked down at her and began to laugh, pointing at the white cloth on the small hill of waste, where food and slops
mounded against the castle wall. His cackle echoed across the valley.

Marketa turned her back to him and watched the trout, holding steady against the current. Her heart thumped hard against her chest, so hard she could feel it in her throat.

She heard her father’s voice calling her from the Latran side. He walked briskly to where she was standing.

Marketa tried to calm herself, not let him see her flustered. He seemed unnaturally grim. Had he seen the exchange between Don Julius and her?

“I am pleased you are so punctual, Daughter. Let us hurry. There is someone I want you to meet before we go to the palace.”

He took her arm, and they hastened back across the bridge. Marketa looked up and saw Don Julius still staring at her, silently.

The Poor Clares convent stood alongside the Franciscan monastery on the banks of the Vltava, only a few hundred paces from the cemetery where Annabella dug for mushrooms.

The heavy wooden door creaked open and the two—father and daughter—entered. The smell of an open hearth and stale air rushed into Marketa’s nostrils. The heat of the fire pressed against her skin like an insistent cat. She could barely breathe.

The nun who opened the door seemed to know her father.

“Sir, you will be kind enough to wait outside? I will take your daughter to her.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why are we here?” Marketa whispered to her father as the nun took her arm and ushered her into the dark hall.

“You must speak with your aunt,” he said, his face dissolving for an instant, then steadying. He composed himself, straightening
his back and firming his jaw in determination. “She will give you courage and guidance that I cannot.”

The old nun at the door smiled, but her dull brown eyes were studying Marketa as if she were a curiosity, an interesting trinket in a peddler’s bag.

“Yes, you have some of the mother superior in your countenance,” she murmured. “I can see more than a little resemblance, especially when she was young.”

They came to an ancient door, worm-riddled beneath the thick coats of beeswax. The nun knocked and lifted the creaking latch as she pushed a palm against the door.

“Mother, I have brought your visitor.”

At a small desk near the lone window of the room sat Marketa’s aunt. Marketa had never seen her before—only a drawing that her father kept safe in his room. Marketa had thought of her aunt as dead to her, enclosed forever in the convent.

The nun struggled to her feet. Her wimple framed a sweet, albeit aged, face, the kindness Marketa knew in her father’s eyes. They were sadder, though, as if they had known great tragedy.

“My dearest niece!” she said, her voice collapsing into a cry. “Marketa, come to me!”

Marketa was embraced in her arms and drank in her scent—smoke from the fire and incense that infused her clothes. She did not bathe as often as they, but how could she, confined to a convent? Still, her smell was comforting, and Marketa thought of how dogs knew the scent of a family member. Yes, they were flesh and blood, she could sense it.

The mother superior held her niece for a long time until she finally pushed herself away, swallowing tears.

“Sit, please,” she said, gesturing to a wooden stool. “We do not have much time. Sister Milana, please wait with my brother and send for Marketa when he indicates it is time.”

Despite the fact that it was broad daylight outside, little light entered the room. Ludmilla lit another candle and studied her niece’s face as if it were a familiar map she was eager to trace.

“Now, my child. My brother has told me of your trouble. It seems that you have captured the eye of a Hapsburg, be it an illegitimate one.”

“Yes, madam. Don Julius has given me unwanted attention.”

“Unwanted. I see.”

Marketa shifted uncomfortably on the little stool. It was barely wide enough to support her.

“I was only to hold the tray for the bleeding.”

“And you spoke to him, I understand. Even though you were told not to utter a word.”

Marketa drew a quick breath.

“Yes, but only to encourage treatment. He refused to be leeched. The only way to cure him is to balance his humors.”

The nun leaned back a bit in her straight-back chair. Marketa noticed her breathing was irregular and she cleared her throat often.

“The only way, you say—your father has told me of your great interest in medicine.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And you are quite sure that this—bloodletting—is the cure for the king’s son?”

“Yes, quite sure. He is clearly unbalanced—the yellow choler is overflowing.”

“And this yellow choler—the symptoms are?”

“Rage. Violence. Cruelty. Unsound mind.”

“And lechery? Your Hapsburg is hardly a gentleman.”

Marketa felt her back tense.

“He is not my suitor. He is my father’s patient. He is—mad. Surely you have heard his wails from the castle above?”

Ludmilla looked around the room, contemplating Marketa’s answer.

“Niece, do you have any other gifts?”

Marketa stared back at her in the dim light.

“I do not understand.”

“Have you ever had a calling from—another form, another world? Dreams that follow you throughout the day? Voices?”

“I am afraid I do not have your spiritual calling.”

Her aunt raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together tightly.

“Do not be so sure, Marketa. You can sense an imbalance in the humors. Perhaps you can perceive other things ordinary people cannot.”

Marketa listened to the faint sound of a girl’s voice singing, penetrating the walls. It reminded her of her mother’s finch, chirping behind the wooden bars of its cage.

She shook her head.

“I am not so gifted,” Marketa muttered. “I am merely my father’s assistant.”

Ludmilla reached out and held Marketa’s chin squarely in the palm of her hand. She studied the girl’s eyes, making Marketa look at her own.

“You are very stubborn,” she said, finally dropping her hand to her lap. “Your father has told me you have seen the White Lady.”

Marketa could see she was watching her reaction.

“He has told you that?”

“My brother and I are very close. Would it surprise you if I were to tell you that I have seen her as well?”

“When? Where?”

“She appeared to me when I was your age. In the same place—above the river in the palace corridor window. She was beckoning to me.”

Marketa asked the question her mother had asked her.

“What color gloves was she wearing?”

“Gloves? No, that time she was bare-handed as a maiden. But I speak of this only to open your eyes to your gifts. The woman you saw was the ghost of Perchta of Rozmberk, Bílá paní. She was a kindhearted woman who gave porridge and bread to the poor of Krumlov. Then her father married her off to a wealthy land baron, Jan von Lichtenstein, who severely mistreated her. He beat her when he found that her dowry was not sufficient, and the other women of his family made her work as a maid. She was beaten and abused. When her husband was on his deathbed, he asked her to forgive him for making her life a misery.”

“And she did?”

“No,” said her aunt, slowly. “She refused. Her husband then cursed her with his dying breath. When she died herself, she was destined to walk Rozmberk Castle.”

Ludmilla studied her niece with her clear blue eyes.

“There are many who see her shadow or smell her scent on the air. Very few have the gift to see her. You and I, Marketa, share that gift.”

Marketa supposed she should have bowed her head. She should have thanked her for her compliment, for saying they were alike and shared the ability to see spirits from the other world.

She did none of this.

“Why?” Marketa asked, setting her chin rigid in a challenge. Had her mother been there, she would have pinched it, calling her daughter rude and stubborn.

“Why what, my daughter?”

“Why do I have this gift? Why can I see spirits—the White Lady? Why can you?”

Her aunt looked away, at the cross fixed above the door.

“She has come to warn you. And because you have not made a decision, she appeared bare-handed. Once you have made a decision, she will choose the color of her gloves, white for good fortune or black for bad fate.”

Marketa sat in silence, pondering her words. She remembered the White Lady’s bare hands.

“Come, my child. Think. You have a gift and the blessing of the spirit. Make your decision wisely.”

“What decision is that?”

Her aunt’s eyes stared at her piercingly. Marketa thought indeed she and her aunt looked much alike, even now, despite the difference in their ages. Rarely seeing the sun, Ludmilla’s skin was still fair as hers, and she had Marketa’s nose and chin. Marketa wondered if she once had the same brindled hair.

“You can seek sanctuary here. You will develop your spiritual devotion and join the Clares. We have sisters who have the ability to see beyond, and they use their powers to serve God.”

Marketa jumped off her stool, shocked by her aunt’s earnest invitation, for even thinking she would consent. Had her father planned this? He had—he must have!

Realizing her rudeness, she curtsied and then took her aunt’s hand and kissed it.

“Forgive me, dear Aunt. I could never become a Poor Clare!”

Her aunt nodded sadly and sighed. She looked away from her niece and up at the figure of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross.

“I can see that. No, the convent would not endure your obstinate nature and impulsiveness. You are too ambitious to marry Jesus in spiritual vows. To worship God, you must be humble. You, despite your simple upbringing, are not humble at all.”

Humble. Why
should
she be?

“You, my dear niece, look to something else. Science has taken you as a devotee, regrettably. The worship of God and
his son, Jesus Christ, is all-consuming. You cannot follow both paths, I am afraid. You have missed the all-important call of God, of saving your soul and praying for the souls of others.”

Marketa stared at her. Her aunt’s chin was raised and sharp with conviction, condemning her niece for not following in her footsteps. Marketa was filled with fury. Ludmilla’s words were an accusation, a declaration that Marketa was spiritually starved because she was dedicated to science.

Marketa bit back, not caring how she hurt her aunt.

“Aunt Ludmilla, how many people have you helped while locked away in this dark convent for so many years? It is safe to worship and to serve God in the darkness, but in the light, people suffer and we bear witness to that suffering. At least we try to offer more help than posing on our knees, hands clasped and useless.”

Ludmilla’s face mirrored Marketa’s own defiance.

“How dare you speak to me so! I am mother superior of this convent, and we serve God in our simplicity, poverty, and devotion.”

“Better not to dirty your hands with the suffering of the outside world where you could truly make a difference.”

Marketa stood up, knowing how rude she had been and not caring. As she reached the door, she spun around to ask a last question.

She had to know.

“Did my father ask you to invite me into the convent?”

“Yes. He saw the White Lady, too.”

At this, she bit her lip and turned her back on her niece. But Marketa could hear her sobs.

The girl ran down the hall, her feet slapping the old wooden floorboards and sending an echo through the convent.