The Bloodletter's Daughter

by Linda Lafferty

As he stepped on the bridge he saw a girl wading into the river on the Latran side. She was barefooted and was drawing two buckets of water. Her hair looked shiny and clean, and she was taking pains not to get her shift dirty on the rocks.

  Jakub watched the girl in the glittering water and rubbed his fingertips over the welts on his ankles. The girl’s tunic was wet with perspiration and steam from the bathhouse, and her skin was mottled with red as the cold water of the Vltava stung a blush on her flesh. As she leaned over to dip her bucket, the sunlight caught her hair and he saw the flickering highlights—flame red, sunny blonde—blended among the strands of black and chestnut.

  Just then a flea skipped over his silk doublet. A bath! He would drown the cursed vermin in a hot soak and end this infernal itching.

  “Marketa,” called her mother from the entrance of the bathhouse. “Marketa, come here right away!”

  The young bathmaid was carrying a bucket of water from the river toward the hearth, but set it down and rubbed her sore back, kneading the strained muscles with her long fingers. She turned toward her mother, who stood at the doorway, welcoming a tall man with fine clothes who pulled off his gloves as he addressed Lucie Pichlerova.

  The sight of this handsome, well-dressed man stopped her short, as she wondered how he had found his way into a simple village bathhouse.

  “I have traveled for five days from Prague,” he said. “I am aching and in need of a bath and a good soak. And I...I have fleas.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Lucie said, curtsying and showing him her gap-toothed smile. It amused her that a rich man would complain with such shame of what all the poor of Bohemia endured as a natural course.

  “We run a good bathhouse here, clean and savory. Would you like some sweet herbs in your bath, sir? I will have my daughters prepare the barrel for you, and Marketa here will tend to your scrubbing.”

  Marketa swallowed. There was something about the man—more than his fine clothes and bearing—that made her heart race. She stared at him, scanning his face. He smiled and she ducked her head, her cheeks burning.

  “Marketa!” said her mother, nudging her with an elbow. “Where are your manners? Take this good gentleman to the bathing quarters and give him a good scrub.”

  Marketa bobbed her head and helped the visitor take off his coat, hanging it on a peg near the front door. She gave a little gasp as she took his scarf, an exquisite garment that seemed made of spun cobwebs, the color of the forest canopy when the morning sun shone through its leaves.

  “Do you like it, slecna?” asked the stranger, watching her hands delicately handling the silk scarf.

  “I have never seen anything as beautiful, not even the priest’s vestments,” she said, staring at the scarf in her hand.

  Marketa turned to hang the bather’s clothes on the wooden pegs by the door.

  “No,” said Lucie, grabbing the cloak in her hand. “Garments as fine as these, we will put in a special place for safekeeping. And this bewitching scarf, it is made from worm spit—silk you call it? It won’t do to leave such a rare treasure in plain view. Excuse us, sir, I will just show Marketa where to store it, among our valuables. It won’t do to have them hang next to the door where a thief might snatch the lot. Please wait, it won’t be a moment.”

  Lucie folded the coat and scarf over her arm and arched an eyebrow at Marketa to follow her into the recesses of the house.

  “Here is your chance, girl!” said Lucie to her daughter, laying the coat on the straw pallet bed and standing back to admire it. “You wanted to get away from the brewer! The greedy bastard is haggling over the supplement he is paying, saying it is too much just to look, not touch. This is a chance to make him realize what a prize he has in you.”

  The color that had flooded Marketa’s face just minutes before drained.

  “What are you saying, Mother?”

  “This man is ten times as rich as the brewer—maybe a hundred times! Do you see the cut of his coat, the richness of the material? He is from the king’s court, I swear it!”

  “And?”

  “Give the man pleasure, Marketa. Good hands in the right place and we will let Pan Brewer know what price he ought to pay for a bathmaid who entertains visitors from Prague!”

  “But Mother!” she protested. “You told me if I submitted to Pan Brewer, it would be enough to feed the family. I did what I promised to do.”

  Lucie hugged her daughter, pulling her close. She whispered in her ear. “We could triple our payment with some rivalry. If he hears that you have touched a nobleman and given him pleasure, who knows what price he might one day pay for taking your virginity? Come, Daughter. Just slide your hands in the right place when you soap him. Enough to make him moan so the gossips will carry the news to Pan Brewer that you are servicing a member of the king’s court. And what a handsome man he is!”

  Lucie did not wait to hear Marketa’s response but hurried back to the gentleman waiting at the entrance, beaming her splittoothed smile.

  “My comely daughter, Marketa, will escort you to the bathing area. I will see to it personally that the barrel is a perfect temperature. Do you like it warm or hot so the water is nearly quivering on the surface?”

  “Warm to the touch but pleasant. I do not want to stew, please, pani,” he said, laughing at her. “Just water to drown these damnable fleas.”

  He looked at Marketa, his eyes still dancing with amusement.

  “I am Jakub Horcicky,” he said. “Court physician to King Rudolf II. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Slecna Marketa.”

  Marketa accepted his hand and shook it formally. Then she curtsied because she was not sure what manners were appropriate with a physician of the Prague court.

  “Please, come with me, Herr Horcicky.”

  “Pan Horcicky,” he corrected her. “Or Jakub would be more suitable as you are about to bathe me. But I have not addressed you in German, so ‘Herr’ is not appropriate.”

  “But all those from Prague speak German.”

  “I speak German, of course, but in my hometown, I prefer to speak my native language.”

  Marketa realized now that he had, all along, been speaking colloquial Czech with a Krumlov accent. And he was a physician, one who distilled medicines from herbs, just as Annabella did. But she had never seen this man before.

  She showed him to the stool where she would bathe him with soap and a reed brush. She helped him remove his finely cobbled shoes and his dark blue doublet.

  “You are a physician!” she said, trying to contain the excitement in her voice. “Galen or Paracelsus?” She was suddenly eager to show him she was not just another bathmaid.

  Jakub stopped his hand on the lacings of his britches. He cocked his head at her.

  “What does a bathmaid know of Galen, much less Paracelsus?”

  Marketa jerked her chin up at the insult.

  “I happen to be studying his methods of distillations and recognition of medicinal herbs and plants, Herr Doctor.”

  “Jakub, please—you can read?”

  Marketa chewed the inside of her mouth in irritation. But of course he would be surprised that a bathmaid could read.

  “Yes, I can read, and yes, I know about Paracelsus and his methods, and Galen’s four humors as well.”

  A slow smile spread over Jakub’s face.

  “Ah, so you must be the bloodletter’s daughter!”

  Marketa was not certain how he could come so quickly to this conclusion, but a spark of pride ignited in her breast.

  “Yes,” she said, wiping her wet hands on a bath sheet. “My father is Barber-Surgeon Pichler. I am his assistant.”

  She noticed that her bemused client was picking clumsily at the knot in the laces of his breeches, and she approached him out of habit, shooing away his hands and working at the knot with her fingernail.

  “I have a friend who has the Book of Paracelsus, and I devote hours each week to studying his methods. You see, I want to learn. I want to know. I want
to—”

  “Marketa!” interrupted her mother, peering around the wall to the soaking area. “The bathwater is hot and you have not yet begun to bathe the gentleman!”

  “I am sorry, Mother, we were just talking—”

  “Cease talking and let the poor man relax. He did not come here to listen to a bathmaid chatter on!”

  “Mother, we—”

  “Give the man his bath, Marketa. And remember what I told you.”

  Marketa unraveled the knot to Jakub’s breeches, and suddenly she felt the heat rise to her face. She helped him to the bathing stool and bade him sit. The girl kept her eyes averted as she pulled off his pants and folded them on a bench. She knew the man sat before her naked now, like hundreds of men before, but she could not look him in the eye.

  Then she caught sight of a little silver cross on a chain around his neck. It stopped her short, and she drew in a sharp breath.

  “Would you like me to remove your chain?” she asked. “It might tarnish in the soapy water.”

  “No thank you, slecna. I never take it off,” he said. “Some clean water and soap will do it good.”

  He sensed that something was wrong. He said, “I am not a priest, slecna. Treat me as you would any man in the village who has come for a bath.”

  Marketa nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  She approached him from behind, bending down to retrieve a warm bucket of water and a flat bar of soap. She was determined to treat him like anyone from Krumlov.

  “Close your eyes, sir,” she said.

  She poured water over his head. Then she slipped the bar of potash soap through the warm water and worked up a good head of lather.

  Her expert hands massaged his head, working the suds through his dark wavy hair. She pulled the lather away from his eyes with her fingertips, molding the whitecap of foam where she wanted it, like a sculptor working wet clay. His shoulders relaxed as his muscles melted under her fingers.

  “What hands you have,” he sighed. “Truly you have a gift.”

  As he exhaled, she drew in his breath. She leaned closer to him. When he blinked open his eyes and smiled up at her, she snapped back her head, mortified.

  “Do not be frightened, my little bathmaid,” he said, tilting his head back and gazing at her. “See, I shall close my eyes again, but please do not stop your hands from their miracles.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut but could not hide a smile.

  Marketa worked the lather longer than she normally would and listened to his sighs of pleasure. She, too, did not want to stop.

  Finally came the time when she needed to work the lather around the front of his torso. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother motion to her, urging her on. A patron called from his barrel for more ale, and Lucie disappeared to fill his stein.

  Marketa swallowed hard and reached her hands around Jakub’s stomach, his chest, rubbing the lather in wide circles.

  “Ahh,” he moaned.

  She moved around the stool and faced him. She stared down between his legs, his penis slightly aroused. The dark pubic hair stretched to his navel in a thicket of tangled hair.

  She raised her eyes and stared hard at the little silver cross, sparkling through the suds.

  Marketa swallowed hard and reached for his groin.

  But her hands betrayed her. Instead of the assurance and deft touch she had working his muscles, her fingers froze, numb and useless.

  She moved closer to him and reached again for him, determined to complete the bath. But her hands merely hovered, paralyzed.

  Jakub opened his eyes and saw the girl frozen before him, her face stricken with fear. He reached out gently toward her shaking hands, soapy and wet. He held them in his own and looked up at her terrified eyes.

  “You do not have to touch me, slecna,” he said quietly. “I’ll wash myself there.”

  Marketa’s eyes filled with tears, and she tried to wipe them away, but the man held her hands like trapped birds.

  “All right,” she whispered. “But please do not tell my mother. Promise me you won’t.”

  “I promise,” he said. Then he realized what had transpired and looked in her blue-gray eyes. “Your mother was looking for a supplement, was she?”

  Marketa nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Well, she shall have it,” he said gently. “Bring me water to rinse.”

  At last her hands were released, and they flew back to her sides.

  “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will fetch the rinsing bucket.”

  As Marketa returned to the bathing stool with a bucketful of water, she saw Jakub’s lips moving, his head bowed. Then he quickly kissed the cross around his neck. As he let it go from his hand, it bounced on his chest and swung like a pendulum, in a little arc.

  “Doctor Horcicky, I fetched your rinse water if you are ready.”

  “Yes, yes, by all means before the soap dries. Thank you.”

  She poured the warm water over his head and back, and he took the bucket from her and finished rinsing the rest of his body.

  “Are you preparing to take the orders, sir?” she asked him as he shook the water from his face.

  “No, not at all. I am the king’s imperial chemist and physician,” he said. “Do not allow this cross to confuse you. I was raised in a Jesuit monastery. I have had it since I was a boy. But again, I have not the virtues of a priest, I assure you.”

  She gave a curt nod and handed him the bath sheet. She did not look up at his eyes or down at his groin. Her eyes were fixed on his chest and the cross.

  Jakub wrapped the coarse sheet tight around his waist. He saw Marketa’s eyes were fighting back tears and she bit her lower lip.

  Jakub reached his hand out and tilted her chin up, urging her to look into his eyes.

  “You have done nothing wrong, slecna. I will not tell your mother, I promise.”

  Her eyes sought his, begging for confirmation of his promise.

  “Come here,” he whispered, looking into her eyes.

  Jakub’s lips met hers, warm and moist. It was a kiss as surprising as it was brief. Without thinking, she stepped closer and for a moment their bodies were pressed together and Marketa drank in the smell of his clean skin and hair.

  At the sound of Lucie’s booming voice from the next room, Marketa jumped back. She straightened her kerchief, her cheeks aflame.

  “Come, slecna,” he said, his hand still resting gently on her shoulder. “Show me the barrel.”

  As Marketa accompanied the physician to the soaking barrel, all the other bathers’ heads pivoted toward the tall, well-muscled man. He walked with a posture and grace that spoke of his years at the Prague court.

  No one recognized him as the poor, awkward boy raised within the walls of the Jesuit monastery, just a quarter mile from the bathhouse.

  As was the custom throughout southern Bohemia, bathers at the Pichlerova bathhouse were not segregated by sex; men and women were set in wooden barrels side by side. Instead, they were grouped according to their choice of conversation. The brewers would often prefer to soak next to the tavern-keeper to discuss ale and beer and conduct business. The shopkeepers were placed near the purveyors, the greengrocers alongside the farmers, who enjoyed a nice soak after hour upon hour toiling over their crops.

  And on this day, the bloodletter’s daughter and the elegant young man from the royal court formed a group of their own.

  Marketa moved the stool over so that he could climb into the barrel and submerge himself.

  “Ahhh!” he sighed, closing his eyes as the herbed water lapped over his shoulders.

  “Marketa!”

  Lucie came bustling toward them, a bucket in her hand.

  “How have you bathed our guest with such haste,” she said, her voice cross. “Have you made the gentleman—comfortable?”

  Marketa’s lips moved to utter an answer, but a reply came from the gentleman himself.

  “Your daughter has greatly pleased
me, pani. Far greater than the bathmaids in Prague—she has the hands of a goddess. The only thing that would please me more would be for her to sup with me. Bring cheese, bread, and ale for us both. I should like to finish my conversation with Marketa.”

  Lucie bobbed her head, staring openmouthed and gaptoothed at the stranger.

  “Yes, my lord,” she stammered. “And cake, I will bring you cake.”

  Marketa stared at the man in the barrel.

  “I cannot take food and drink with you,” she whispered. “I am working.”

  “I will pay for your daughter’s time,” called Jakub from his bath. “I will pay you well, pani.”

  “Just to talk?” said Lucie, her hands on her stout hips.

  “My bath is losing heat. Fetch a warm stone, pani. And then bring the refreshments for the two of us.”

  Marketa sat down on the stool, not knowing what else to do. She studied the old tarred wood of the barrels, splintered on the outside from decades of use. The wet wood smelled of fresh lavender and river water.

  “You must know Annabella,” said the voice from the barrel.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Marketa. “Do you know her as well?”

  “Ah, yes, the good healer of Krumlov,” he chuckled. “She has a superior knowledge of herbs and medicines. I have known her most of my life.”

  “She has the Book of Paracelsus,” said Marketa.

  “I know,” he said, and his voice was obscured by the splashing of his arm adjusting to more comfortable position.

  Marketa looked up as her sisters, Dana and Kate, brought a plank to place across the barrel. Lucie followed carrying heavy platters of food and two steins of ale, her sweaty cheeks puffing with effort.

  “And that hot stone, pani,” said Jakub as the plank creaked with the weight of the food.

  Lucie motioned to Marketa, out of habit.

  “No,” said Jakub. “She is my guest. She shall remain at my side. And do not worry, pani. I shall pay you handsomely for her—services.”

  Marketa smiled into her hand. She looked around the bathhouse where every face was staring at her.

  For the next hour, no one spoke a word in the bathhouse but the physician and the bathmaid, who chatted on about medicines, herbs, bloodletting, and other cures. They spoke of the impending public dissection of a human body to be performed in Prague by Jan Jesenius himself.