Bohemian Gospel

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “He implied that it fell outside your purview as it was a matter of interest to Rome.” She waited.

  “What matter? Not just Houska?”

  “It seems not.”

  “I will make inquiries, Lady Emma.” He bowed and went back to the fight.

  Mouse couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that had settled in her skin. She had not been Lady Emma to him for a long time.

  Ottakar had no answers for her when she saw him at mealtime in the Great Hall—and apparently no time for her, either. She still sat to his right at table, but his attentions were focused on the noblemen on his other side. Not long after the third round of food was served, she stood, meaning to slip off to her room, but Ottakar, whom she had thought was engrossed with some baron’s land dispute, reached his hand out to stop her. She liked that he was still tuned to her presence, connected even if he had other obligations to manage.

  She stepped closer to his chair, and he turned to her once the baron finished airing his grievance.

  “Ah, I have missed you today,” he said.

  “I have missed you, too, my Lord.” The formality hung between them for a moment.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To bed. I am tired from yesterday’s ride and more accustomed to our hours at Hluboka.” She saw the memory of their dawn rides and early evening walks play across his face.

  “Are you too tired to go see my father? I told him we might pay him a visit this evening.”

  It wasn’t what she wanted; she wanted to slide into bed, where she could worry over Father Lucas and the changes already happening to Ottakar and then cry herself to sleep. But as she looked down at his face, softened by the candlelight, all she felt for him surged, burning her inside; she had given herself to him that first day at Teplá, woven her life with his for good or ill. However he might change, despite her responsibilities to Father Lucas, regardless of the circumstances, she was anchored to him. She could feel the tether as it stretched between them; she closed her eyes and could see it sunk deep in Ottakar’s glowing soul, and though she could see no light in herself, her end of the binding must be attached to something, too, because it held fast, unmovable. It gave her hope that she had a soul, even if she could not see it.

  “I am yours to command,” she said playfully as she pulled Ottakar up with her.

  As they climbed the stairs together, Ottakar kept stopping to pull her to him, kissing her. In the dim corridor leading to Vaclav’s room, he stopped suddenly, tugged her into an alcove and pushed her up against the wall, his lips finding hers in the dark. One arm wrapped around her waist, pressing her hips against his, while the other moved slowly up her side until it cupped her breast. His kisses were gentle but when his knee slipped between her legs, his hand pulling hungrily at her skirts, she pushed softly against his chest, and he stopped. He laid his forehead against the wall next to her ear.

  “I would have you, Mouse.”

  “But for how long?”

  “What do you mean? I want you. What do you want?”

  “I want you, Ottakar. It is just—” She took a breath trying to push down the knot in her throat. “Despite having no name, no mother, no father, no family that wants me, even knowing that the Church does not want me, I—” Her voice broke. “No matter how many times someone bows and calls me Lady, I am nobody and I have nothing. But that makes it even more important that I value myself. Because no one else does.” She was shaking. “I want to be with you. In every way, but—”

  “You want a promise.”

  “I have no future, Ottakar, except the one I make.”

  He sighed. “And mine was laid out for me the moment my brother died.” He looked at her sadly before taking her hand and leading her back down the hall. A quiet somberness had settled on them by the time they entered Vaclav’s sickroom.

  “My Lord,” Mouse said, bowing as she neared the bed where Vaclav sat propped against pillows.

  He looked a different man, gaunt and pale, but his eye still blazed and his voice was still sharp. “Have you come to work your magic on me?”

  Father Lucas’s warnings and Bishop Miklaus’s insinuations left Mouse wary of the perception about what she could do. “I have no magic, my Lord, only the skills Mother Kazi taught me at the abbey. I hope they may be of service to you.”

  “To hear my son speak, you have the skills of Raphael himself. Turn around. Show me your angel wings.”

  Mouse felt the barb, but she spun playfully, refusing to do battle. “No wings, you see. Just a girl.”

  “You said that to me the night you saved my life. The first time.” Ottakar’s voice was thick with remembering. “And you are more than just a girl.”

  Mouse was anxious to be done and gone. “Shall I examine you, my Lord?”

  At Vaclav’s nod, she bent to listen to his breathing. She already heard the rapid, irregular beat of his heart.

  “Have you thought more about Austria, son?” Vaclav asked.

  “Austria?” Mouse looked over her shoulder at Ottakar.

  “They are without a clear line of succession. Some of them have asked that I come for a visit. My father wishes it as well.”

  “It is our best chance for a foothold there. Imagine Bohemia with Austria under its heel! And Styria would surely follow. We could rival the Holy Roman Emperor himself.”

  “It will take more than a visit from me for us to find ourselves rulers of Austria, Father, and I am not interested in leading us to war.”

  “As I already told you, there are more ways to acquire what you want than force, but, yes, it will take more than your charm. That is just the key that opens the door. Find the right—”

  “And I told you I do not want to discuss it.” Ottakar cut his eyes toward Mouse.

  “But duty must come before your wants, and, besides, you can have both. Eventually.”

  Mouse interrupted. “Have your physicians made a diagnosis, my Lord?”

  “Not really. Just one sickness after another. One in the gut, the next in my chest.”

  “They have been letting blood?” She ran her hands along the grisly scars at his wrist and elbow.

  “Regularly.”

  Mouse turned to Ottakar. “They must stop. They have taken too much and made him weak. He needs—”

  “No.” Vaclav cut her off. “They bled out the ill humors in my mind. I will not lose myself again. Not even if it means I must die.”

  Mouse felt sorry for the pain she heard in him. “My Lord,” she said gently, “rest and quiet and prayer have helped ease the sickness in your mind, not the bloodletting. Have you tested yourself? Have the bells rung since Christmas?”

  He held his lips in a tight line.

  Mouse shrugged her shoulders and turned back to Ottakar. “I would have him out walking in the sunlight and clean air. I would have him eating more eggs and fish, more grain. There are herb teas I could make or a poultice—he has some tightness in his chest when he breathes. I would burn coltsfoot at night. I would take no more blood. And I would be sure to shelter his mind—nothing demanding, no decisions to make, no plots to hatch, no lands to conquer. Let him read books.”

  Vaclav hissed. “She would have me dead, if she could, and you under her foot.”

  “You are wrong on both counts. I wish you well and I want nothing from your son except his happiness.” The last was not fully true. She wanted his love and to give him hers, openly; she hoped that would make him happy.

  Ottakar stared down at his father, his face unreadable, even to her. “Thank you, Lady Emma. We will consider your advice. You may leave.”

  As the heavy wooden doors closed behind her, anger chased embarrassment, searing Mouse’s face and waking the power that had slept during their months at Hluboka. She spun, laying her hand on the door’s pull, wanting to go back in and demand an apology, wanting to let her fierce will humble their own petty ambitions. But as the feel of her power, fueled by righteous indignation, filled her, she remembered the d
emons feasting on the hollow-eyed children in the pit, their faces distorted by hunger; she imagined her own visage looked much the same—hungry for something and powerful enough to get it.

  She took a deep breath and walked to her room, but the thought of what she could do, of what she wanted to do, squirmed in her chest. When she was a child and had wrestled with temper or desire, Father Lucas taught her patience and control. He busied her hands and mind until the anger abated, the power quieted. Once, when she was particularly angry, he had had her count the petals of a meadow full of hyacinths; another time, he had scattered a sack of grain in the herb garden and asked her to gather each kernel, one by one.

  But now, Mouse could think of nothing ample enough to count her way to calm. She took a piece of wood she had brought with her from Hluboka, running her fingers along the grain, and then, eyes closed, she took her knife and began to carve. The sharp jaw first, the nose, the deep-set eyes; she imagined the color of the wood would be a good match for his hair as she cut swirls of curls into the grain. As she carved, she saw Ottakar in her mind as they had been that spring.

  It was hours later, the sculpture nearly done, when the scream rang down the hall. The blade sliced her thumb as she jerked at the sound, but she was out the door before it had begun to sting.

  He had stifled the cry as soon as it woke him, so Mouse was not surprised to find him sitting up in bed, arm wrapped around his bent leg, head hanging. The candle had been lit, but his servant was gone. Ottakar must have sent him away.

  Mouse eased herself onto the bed beside him. He turned, grabbing her around the waist, and buried his head against her; it was wet with sweat. She held him and sang until he was calmer.

  “I am not fit to rule, afraid of the dark like a child.”

  “You are not frightened of the dark, Ottakar.” Mouse leaned over and blew out the candle on the table beside the bed. He sucked in a sharp breath. She took his hand, working to keep her own steady and her voice free of the fear that also consumed her.

  “Here. Feel. No metal coffin.” And no demons, she said to herself.

  “Just dark,” she said. Just dark.

  “You are not afraid of this.” I am not afraid of this.

  They sat there, Ottakar gripping her hand, using the other to reach out and touch the open air. Mouse strained her eyes to find the faintest sliver of starlight on the windowsill, willing the visions of the demons away.

  “I am sorry,” he said finally.

  “For what?”

  “My father.” He was quiet for a moment. “I hate him, Mouse, but I am scared for him to die.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not ready.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Eventually, Mouse had gone back to her own bed and lay there past morning, leaving Mass to the faithful and the Great Hall to those who belonged. In the afternoon, she went to gather herbs and made a tea and poultice for Vaclav. She gave it to Gitta to take to the King’s chamberlain, not wanting another awkward encounter—not with Vaclav or his son. She waited to see if Ottakar would come seek her out. He didn’t. Reluctantly, Mouse went down for supper, but when she saw that Ottakar was not there—a delegation of Austrian nobles had come to Prague and they were deep in council—she walked in the solitude of the night woods and then went to bed.

  And so she passed each day, mostly alone, often in the Queen’s garden pulling weeds and cutting back dead things, nursing her hurt feelings and loneliness. It was here one day after a few weeks that Ottakar finally came to her.

  She was singing softly as she pulled at the dead stalks of the moon daisies that had been left to run wild in the garden.

  “I have missed that,” he said, smiling at her song.

  “And I have missed you,” she said as she turned. He looked tired, his face taut. She regretted having left him alone so long.

  He lowered himself to sit on the path beside her, careless of his fine silk mantle. “Caught you hiding in your Mouse-hole, did I?”

  “I did not realize I was hiding,” she lied. “I have been tending your mother’s garden.”

  “I see that you have.” He looked around at her work, his face softening.

  “I am getting it ready for the winter. It looks barren and butchered now, but it will be beautiful come spring. I have only pruned and cleared, not planted anything new, so it will be your mother’s garden again.” She looked down at the brown, curled petals of the daisies. “I thought you might like to have a place to come to, quiet and simple, some place where you might feel closer to her, to draw strength from her.”

  “And from you.”

  He sounded sad. Mouse studied him, trying to understand.

  “These past weeks, I thought you were cloistering yourself like some pious nun, angry with me because I asked for something I had no right to. And you were right, I was arrogant. Too much like my father, thinking that just because I wanted something I should claim it.” He laid his hand on hers; she had been running her finger along the embroidery of hounds and horses on the hem of his cloak. “But here you have been working still to heal me of my grief and my fear. You always surprise me. You shame me and teach me.”

  “You think too much of me,” Mouse said, leaning into him playfully and using his own words against him. “I was hurt and feeling sorry for myself.” She shrugged. “But no matter our differences, no matter what you do, I am always on your side, Ottakar. I will always be ready to do anything to help you.” She pressed her lips together quickly to keep from telling him that she loved him. He didn’t need to hear it to know it, and she couldn’t afford the gamble of what he might say, or not say, in turn.

  “Always saving me, you are.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “And now my father owes you his life, too. Your teas and poultices have worked magic. Even he is convinced enough of your skills that he has stopped the bloodletting for a while. Thank you.”

  “I am glad he is better. But you seem very tired.”

  “As I suspected, playing courtly games with Rome and the rest of the world is far more demanding than managing affairs at home. The Austrians want much and offer little.” He ran his hands through his hair. “But that is not why I sought you out. I wanted to ask you, as a personal favor, to attend the feast in the hall tomorrow.”

  It took Mouse a moment to realize which feast it was; she had been measuring her time in tasks, not days, and had lost track of where they were in the calendar. She shuddered as she thought about the last Hallows’ Eve.

  She didn’t want to spend her birthday overwhelmed with the bitter gossip of the lords and ladies in the Great Hall. She had grown accustomed to solitude again, days spent interacting with only Gitta. But she could not deny him and so gave him a nod.

  “Have you heard anything about Father Lucas?” she asked hesitantly. Her daily visits to see the bishop always ended in closed doors and no answers, and, despite her constant worry, she had been too proud to seek out Ottakar’s help again. But now that he had come to her . . .

  “I wrote to Bishop Bansca myself and am waiting for a reply. I will tell you as soon as I learn something.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, throwing her arms around him in relief and kissing him.

  She could still feel the warmth of his breath on her face when she turned back to the dead flowers after he left.

  Gitta had a new gown for her when it came time to dress for the feast—a deep red silk covered in gold sparrows, the colors and sigil of the house of Aragon. Ottakar had ordered it made for her. Her bracelet was back, too. Mouse felt odd in the new clothes, as if she wore a mask like the mummers in the Church plays, another uncomfortable reminder of last year’s haunting of the hollow-eyed children on All Hallows’.

  But Ottakar thought her beautiful when he came to take her down to the hall. “All you need is a crown, for you are every part a queen.”

  “I doubt—”

  He laid his finger on her lips. “I will al
low no argument this night. I mean to compliment at will and you must simply suffer in silence. Am I understood?”

  She nodded, but when he gave his next gift—a round brooch made of delicate gold leaves and a vine with a mouse, standing on its hind legs, engraved in the center, its emerald eyes looking out on the world—she laid her hand on his, stopping him from pinning the brooch in the fabric gathered at the hollow of her neck.

  “I do not deserve this, Ottakar.”

  “You promised no argument.” And he kissed her.

  “But you know what people will think.” It’s what she also secretly hoped—that the brooch was a promise of more promises to come—and even though his behavior since they’d come back to Prague made such hopes seem foolish, she could not let them go.

  “By the saints, I care nothing of what other people think! Not tonight.” His eyes narrowed. “And I will not let you worry about it, either. We are going to have a good time, free of the burden of state and futures. We will be like we were at Hluboka. Will that suit you, my little Mouse?”

  “It will make me very happy.”

  They entered the hall side by side, and all the people stood. The minnesingers played the songs Mouse loved. She and Ottakar danced the carols together. They spent most of their time talking despite the hovering presence of the Austrian nobles. When it was almost time to leave for the vigil at St. George’s, Ottakar stood, waiting patiently until the Great Hall grew silent.

  “Many of us find ourselves wrestling with ghosts on this All Hallows’ Eve as we think about this time last year, about those dark days in Prague, days plagued by torment and cruelty and illnesses of the mind,” Ottakar began. “I am sad for what we all suffered, but we should keep those days as a talisman to strengthen our resolve to do right even when it demands that we stand against those above us or those close to us.” He pulled himself up straighter. “There were three here who did just that, who did not cower in the shadows from fear. They used their wits and courage instead of swords or battleaxes, but they fought as soldiers all the same, and they led us back into the light with a father and son reconciled, both healing from injuries or illness.”