The Bloodletter's Daughter (45 page)

A
N
A
FTERNOON OF
L
OVE AND
B
LISS

The rest of the day was an all-encompassing embrace: an embrace of the body—chaste and adoring; an embrace of the spirit—the secrets of his soul that Don Julius bared only to Marketa. He did not attempt to take her, to force himself between her legs as she had feared. Instead it was his soul and mind, talk of love and devotion that he bestowed upon her. He held Marketa’s face between his hands and stared into her eyes.

“Tonight I shall take you as my lover, the way I should have before, when you released me from the ropes, when you gave me my chance and I betrayed you. You, the only one who trusted me, how could I have forsaken you? I shall make up for it tonight. You shall have lovemaking no woman has known. I shall make you swoon, I swear it!”

Then suddenly he began to weep. “How could I have treated you so cruelly, my angel? How can I make you understand, it is the voices that drive my very hands. The voices—”

His head was bent over her breast, and she felt the hot tears soak her blouse. Soon he was sobbing as a small child would, into the soft flesh just below Marketa’s shoulder.

Marketa wrapped her arms stiffly around him and let him cry. He cried for his betrayal, he said, for having injured her. He cried for the great loss he felt when he thought Marketa was dead.

His words were clear and made sense. Though they tumbled from his mouth with great force, a burst dam, it was not the incoherent babble of a lunatic. German, a brutal language to Krumlov ears, conveyed his passionate longing for Marketa’s return, the utter bleakness of his soul when he thought her dead. German conveyed the anguish of his solitude and inconsolable grief in a way Czech could not.

His words, his pleas, were not without effect. These were not the words of a madman, Marketa told herself as she held him to her heart and kissed his salty, burning tears, the tears of a feverish child. For a moment—for a long moment—she allowed herself to think perhaps she could still save his soul from the demons that tortured him. And perhaps she did deserve his love. Did she not have the heart of a woman, a woman who had never truly been loved? Her body had been traded for meat, salt, and beer into the hands of a fat, stinking brewer. Never had she known love or respect. Here before her was the son of a king, an emperor, proclaiming his love for her above all his possessions or kin. Love, wealth, life in Prague.

She longed to let herself believe his declarations of love, and she bathed in the adoration. She so desperately wanted Don Julius to be normal, a sane man. Just as desperately as he did.

And then she bit her lip and cleared her mind. She knew better. The moment would come when he would turn back into the monster. He was not a sane man and never would be. Behind the jewellike eyes lurked a demon, a demon who would strike when
she least expected. He had raped her, slashed her with a knife. He had attacked her best friend, a sweet, defenseless girl, in the woods beyond Krumlov.

She closed her eyes, hard. When she opened them again, she was strong, immune to his pleading—and too smart to let him see her strength. She was prepared to meet her fate and prepared to play her part until that final moment came.

The afternoon feast was laid in the crimson dining hall under the blazing chandeliers. Don Julius insisted Marketa sit at his side so that their elbows touched. He could not abide being apart from her.

He poured her wine, fed her with his own hands, licking his fingers after they touched her lips. He served her sweet oysters from the faraway seas, wrapped in sea grasses on ice shavings.

He squeezed lemons from Spain on the translucent flesh of the mollusks and asked her to let the flavors mingle on her tongue before she swallowed the essence of the sea, the clean salt taste of the ocean Marketa had never seen. They ate a fruit called an orange, which he peeled with a sharp knife in one long continuous coil. He fed her this with a devilish dark sweet that tantalized the girl’s mouth.

“Chocolate,” he said. “Brought from the Americas. A delicacy of my father’s court.”

Marketa licked her fingers, marveling at the rich taste. The wine had entered her veins and she smiled. If this was to be the end of her life, she thought she would enjoy every moment as best she could.

Don Julius indulged her until she could eat no more. He kissed the palms of her hands and gazed into her eyes. Then he excused himself for a moment. When he returned, he carried a book in his hands.

Through a haze of wine, Marketa thought,
At last I shall see the Coded Book and know the woman I resemble!

But it was not the Coded Book at all, but another. He opened it and the title page read,
Malleus Maleficarum, the Undoing of Witches’ Spells and Incantations
.

“What is this?” Marketa asked.

“Someone is practicing witchcraft,” he said, his voice low and secretive. “A witch has cast a spell on me, I am certain of it. I can feel the evil eye cast my way. And when I find her, I shall destroy her. She will be burned at the stake, and my demons shall go up in smoke, along with her flesh. Then we will leave for Prague and be wedded at the
hrad
, and live a happy life at last.”

Marketa’s mind reeled. She thought of Annabella and her dying aunt. She remembered how Annabella had demanded the prince’s hair clippings and recalled the potent reek of a boiling potion over the open fire as she left the house on Dlouha Street.

The castle’s vast dining table stretched into the distance. At the far end, she saw Jakub, watching intently from the dim hall. And she could see a portrait hanging just beyond him under the light of a flickering wall sconce. A woman dressed in white with a gray sash, with the palest skin she had ever seen.

Marketa set down her crystal wineglass and stared at the portrait. She recognized the woman immediately and studied her sad eyes, cast down at Jakub, standing in the shadows of the hall.

T
HE
L
AST
N
IGHT OF
M
ASOPUST

The sounds of the Masopust procession obliterated any other in the town of Krumlov. Perhaps that is why no one noticed the sudden absence of the Hapsburg wailing, now that he had been rejoined with the love of his life.

In the processions, the ratchets’ rattling whine competed with the enormous cowbells, drums, horns, and whistles. The ear-splitting cacophony shook the birds from the trees and drew cheers from the festive crowd. Almost everyone wore a disguise of some kind. Beaked birds and colorful clowns, men masked and horned as deer or bulls, others furred in bearskins and bear heads to frighten children. Some men hid under piebald cow skins, the heads laced with rawhide to wooden racks hung around their shoulders like yokes. The farmers wore traditional garb from centuries before, wooden clogs and white shirts, opennecked despite the cold, dragging their plows and scattering the streets with seeds for fecundity and good harvest. Their threepronged wooden pitchforks lifted women’s skirts and made them scream and giggle.

The parade lurched through the tight, winding streets of Krumlov to end as always at the first courtyard of Rozmberk Palace. Festivities had begun on Sunday night and by now, riotous Tuesday, there were Krumlovians everywhere with spittle and greasy food staining their disguises. The town was strewn with drunken bears, goats, sheep, dogs, and chickens who rolled in the snow, inebriated and thick-tongued, struggling to keep up with the clamorous procession.

Bruna, one of the most frightening beasts—an amalgam of a giraffe, goat, and camel—tipped over into a snowbank at the castle gate, weighed down by its own sodden costume and too much strong drink. Its many attendants dressed in ribboned hats, beaks, and pointed shoes wrestled the beast to its feet, heavy bells clanging at its waist. A jovial stablemaster whipped its flanks until the huge monster roared and leaped on its assailant—coming to blows, which did not last long with such cumbersome garb and drunken unsteadiness. Again the beribboned attendants pulled the beast to its feet, and the two combatants shared a flask and roared their eternal friendship, beast and master.

A horned devil pointed at the towers of the castle and spat copiously on the ale-splashed cobblestones, while a mare’s-head phantom tried to calm him. The devil shook off the cajoling arm and roared blasphemous insults through the cold winter air. Beaked and horned heads turned toward him, crying “
Ne, ne
,” for his words could cost him his head and bring the wrath of a Hapsburg down upon all of them.

A subdued blonde maiden, dressed in ribbons and jovial face paint that belied her mood, began to cry, her bright rouge smudged and streaked with tears. The devil came to comfort her, putting a black furred hoof around her heaving shoulders.

The seamstress measured Marketa, her speckled hands shaking, and then turned to her three helpers. She saw the puddle of fine blue silk that lay in their sewing basket, and she reached out to touch its coolness.

“For you,
slecna
. For tonight,” said one of the younger women. She met Marketa’s eyes and then turned away.

Following her glance, Marketa saw a thick black fur wrapped in damp sheets of linen.

She shuddered. “What is that?”

“The fine silk is to be trimmed in the bear the master killed on the hunt. It was the master’s order.”

The fur, in contrast to the luxurious silk, glistened ominously, raw and savage on the white sheet.

All four women looked away from Marketa now. They gathered up their fabric and hurried out the door to begin desperate work on the robe.

Jakub met Annabella at the servants’ doorway. His mouth brimmed with questions, but she shook him off with a hard cluck of her tongue.

“We have no time. We must bring in the crate. I have spoken to the kitchen women. They are to store it in the pantries, out of sight. They did not question me as to what it contains. They are terrified of Don Julius.”

Jakub nodded and directed the attendants to carry the wooden box to the cavernous kitchens, alive with preparations for the night’s feast.

“Now, find Marketa at once. She must come immediately.”

Jakub hesitated and his face twisted with jealousy, eyes narrowed to slits. “It may be difficult to pull her away from Don
Julius. He is like a drunkard in love with her, impossible to pry away from the liquor. I have never seen a more disgusting display of besotted love.”

Annabella studied his face, her mouth almost curving in a smile. Then she turned deadly serious, her eyes allowing no excuses.

“Find a way. Bring her to me. At once.”

Jakub mounted the carpeted stairs toward the drawing room where he had left Don Julius when Marketa had been whisked off to be measured for her robe. Now she was returning, escorted by a guard down the long hall toward the royal apartments again.

“I will escort Slecna Marketa to Don Julius. You are dismissed.”

The guard nodded and turned down the hall toward the servants’ steps. Jakub waited until he heard his footsteps diminish down the stairwell.

“Come quickly,” Jakub said, squeezing her arm. “Annabella waits for you.”

Then he stopped. His hand reached for the scarf around her neck. His fingertips toyed with the fabric and then stroked the soft flesh under her chin. She felt her neck and scalp tighten at his touch.

He pulled her tight to him, his lips covering hers.

She kissed him with a fervor that rivaled his own.

“Come away with me,” he begged, pulling his lips away only enough to look at her eyes. “I love you with all my heart. Come with me to Prague.”

“I cannot,” she said, through the kisses, her lips trembling over his. “He will murder the entire town in revenge if I should leave him now!”

“Marketa!” called Annabella from the lower steps. “Jakub, release her at once. We have no time to lose.”

Marketa and Jakub ran down the stairs to the kitchens. The cooks and attendants bowed and curtsied, their eyes soft in sympathy and respect.

Annabella waited with a gleaming pair of scissors.

“Sit,” she said. “I must cut your hair at once.”

“But, but—it’s my hair he loves the most!”

“He shall see it again, I promise,” Annabella answered, and cut the first swath of hair, before Marketa could protest or struggle.

Marketa’s face crumpled in despair. “If he sees I have cut my hair he will kill me in rage!”

“He will try to kill you anyway, no matter what you do,” the witch snapped. “Trust me, this is your only salvation.”

“I have no salvation, Annabella. Your potions will not cure his madness. I am doomed.”

Annabella cut deftly and quickly, shearing the brindled locks that fell into her open hand and were laid carefully on a linen sheet on the table. When she finished, the table was covered with glossy, thick strands of hair.

Marketa felt the cool, dank air of the castle on her bare neck. She shivered, her fingers touching the exposed skin that puckered with the cold.

She looked up at Annabella and Jakub, her eyes burning, fighting back tears.

Jakub put out his hand to touch her shoulder, but she shook it away.

“What have you done? You’ve destroyed me! You are both mad, as mad as he is!” Marketa shouted.

“You have to trust us,” insisted Jakub. “Annabella’s plan is your only hope.”

“I have no hope.” Marketa was suddenly calm again. She knew how all this was going to end, and she refused to be fooled
again. Not by Don Julius. Not by Jakub or Annabella. Not even by her own spirit. She had to be strong and confront her fate.

“I will pay for my sins with my life,” she whispered. “I will not live beyond tonight.”

“No!” roared Jakub, his hands seizing her shoulders and shaking her hard, as Annabella had once done. “Do not be a fool. Come with me!”

Annabella had remained silent, but now she spoke sharply.

“Enough, both of you!” she said. “Marketa, take this.”

Her hand dipped into her basket and retrieved a glittering jewel: a pearl-beaded snood of celestial blue silk and pure gold ribbon. The exquisite hair covering was befitting a queen. Marketa thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

“Put this on and tell him your hair is to be concealed until tonight, to heighten his pleasure,” she said.

“But once he sees I have been shorn...!”

“You must trust me. Put it on.”

Marketa’s hands shook as she adjusted the snood. Her fingers ran over the pearl strands and crisscrossed ribbons of pure hammered gold. How had Annabella ever procured such a treasure?

Annabella folded the linen carefully around the thick strands of hair and tucked it in her basket.

“Be ready tonight,” she whispered. “We will take care of the rest.”

Marketa drew in a breath and closed her eyes.

“Courage,” Annabella said. And with that she turned and disappeared into the dark recesses of the servants’ quarters.