“No Hungarian would ever swear allegiance to Rudolf now! They need a true soldier, a leader in battle against the Turks. They will follow you, Matthias. And His Holiness believes many more Catholic kingdoms will demand your strong hand leading their destiny, rather than a deranged fool who dabbles in the black arts.”
The bishop leaned closer to Matthias. “But His Holiness must know how we can take power from your brother without bloodshed. The Protestants are too numerous—indeed, the vast majority in the Bohemian states—and can turn against us, should we move too quickly. Rudolf has indulged them in his court, including that Lutheran Johannes Kepler and physician Jan Jesenius.”
“Brilliant men, these Protestant heretics. Or so I am told,” said Matthias. His eyes twinkled as he watched Melchior’s face redden again.
“The pope wished to know how we can bring Rudolf down without war, sire.”
“With patience, good bishop. With time.” Matthias stared north, toward the distant borders of Bohemia. “My brother Rudolf digs his grave with his own hands. My sources in Prague tell me there is a storm brewing now in the town of Cesky Krumlov that may bring matters to a head. My bastard nephew Giuglio may be the unlikely key to our triumph. The reign of my brother Rudolf rests in the balance, if I am right. All we have to do is wait...patiently.”
The bishop nodded solemnly to the younger Hapsburg and bid him adieu. He was anxious to begin his journey back to Vienna, far from this savage Ottoman border, as soon as possible.
Matthias watched as the pope’s emissary swept out of the room, his black robes flowing behind him above the gray stone.
SUMMER 1606
CHAPTER 10
A STRICT REGIMEN
King Rudolf II did not talk to his son before he left Vienna. That duty, among so many others, was left to Minister Rumpf. Preparations were made for Don Julius’s imprisonment in Cesky Krumlov, though Rumpf was careful not to speak of it until the last possible moment.
In his hands Minister Rumpf had official orders from the king, affixed with the Hapsburg seal. He looked out the window for the last time at the waiting coach and swallowed. He beckoned to the guards to accompany him as he entered Don Julius’s chambers.
“Cesky what?” Don Julius roared in response to the minister’s announcement, rubbing his aching head, throbbing with the excess of strong spirits that still poisoned his blood, as they did almost every morning. “You mock me, and I have no stomach for it.”
Minister Rumpf sighed. Among the many tasks distasteful to him as Rudolf’s chief minister, dealing with his bastard son was the worst.
“Don Julius, I neither mock you nor jest. My orders come from your father, His Majesty, the king. I shall follow them faithfully. You shall leave for southern Bohemia with utmost haste.”
“Shut up, you miserable little German! Your voice is splitting my head like a hatchet.”
The king’s minister longed to spit on this surly son of the king, but he wisely sucked the juices to the back of his mouth and swallowed. He studied the youth’s face, and despite the flabby countenance and fleshy body of his overindulgence, he recognized the traces of Anna Maria da Strada, the king’s mistress. Don Julius had inherited her fine skin and high cheekbones, and his blue-green eyes, buried in the fat of his round face, were unique and brilliant as jewels. Were he not so bloated with excess drink and food, he would be quite handsome.
The only features he seemed to inherit from his father were the pendulous lips of a Hapsburg, red and full as if he had just been eating bloody meat.
Minister Rumpf interrupted his contemplation to duck as a porcelain vase came flying toward his head. It shattered in shards against the wall.
“To hell with you!” roared Don Julius. “As if could I survive in a godforsaken Czech town where they probably do not even know how to speak proper German and their wenches grow hair out of their bumpkin ears. Go away, Rumpf. It is time for my breakfast, and your prattle spoils my appetite.”
“That is another thing, Don Julius.” Rumpf took special pleasure in this. “Your father has given strict orders that your meals are to be no more than three a day. You are to learn the life of the ascetic as he did in Spain with his uncle, Felipe II, when he was your age.”
“God damn you and your presumptions!” shouted Don Julius, scratching at his groin. He motioned to a guard. “You, wretched man, fetch the cook’s assistant to serve me.”
The guard hesitated and looked at Rumpf, who twitched his mouth in impatience.
“Don Julius, you are under guard. There is no special cook, no valet, no attendant to serve you. You will reduce your meals from twelve to three, you will have no contact with women, and a priest will travel with you and be installed in the chapel at Cesky Krumlov to hear your confession.”
“Confession!” Don Julius focused his bloodshot eyes on Minister Rumpf. “I will confess nothing to some Papist!” The aroma of bacon wafted through the air.
“See! When Don Julius commands, the servants leap to please me, as they should for the eldest son of their king. Bring me my breakfast, you miserable dung beetle!”
Rumpf stood aside as a guard laid a plate with lean bacon and coarse black bread at the little table.
Don Julius twisted his face in disgust.
“What meager rations are these? Where are the cheeses, the chicken, the herring? Where is my ale, damn it! My head aches for it.”
“Sit and eat, Don Julius,” said Minister Rumpf, looking at his pocket watch. “It will be hours before luncheon, and we have many preparations to make. The guards will escort you to the coach once you have finished your repast. I bid you farewell, my lord.”
The outraged howling of Don Julius could be heard across the fields as the royal coach rattled along the old road to Bohemia. He was tied with soft linen gauze, in an attempt to reduce the injury to his limbs and flaccid skin as he thrashed within the carriage.
Men spat in the dust of the road as he passed, and the women crossed themselves behind lace-curtained windows.
Minister Rumpf was not able to accompany him as he was occupied with more serious matters of state, running an empire while the king danced with his court in Prague. Instead, the Jesuit priest, Don Carlos Felipe, escorted the young bastard prince. Carlos Felipe had been raised in Madrid, the youngest son of a noble family of Ronda. He was a confessor to some of the most influential families at the Spanish king’s court, although not to the royal family itself.
He had helped tutor King Rudolf II and his brother Ernst when they were sent to their Spanish uncle’s court as young boys. He understood the erratic behavior that was a trait of the Hapsburgs, but this bastard son, this Don Julius, was far worse than any he had seen. True, the bastard’s first cousin Don Carlos, son of King Felipe II, was known to spend hours lying in the family vaults of El Escorial, preferring the company of his dead ancestors to the living. But the Spanish prince’s madness was of a morbid nature; he did not lash out violently as did Don Julius.
With a shudder, the priest thought of the legends of Juana La Loca and her love for the corpse of her dead husband, Felipe the Handsome. Juana was great-great-grandmother to both boys.
Don Carlos Felipe knew that Don Julius must be possessed by the same demons as his Spanish relatives and posed a danger not only to himself, but to the entire Hapsburg dynasty. The priest passionately swore an oath to the king that he would do everything he could to purge the devil that inhabited this young man’s soul.
“You know, of course, of the Jesuit monastery in Cesky Krumlov,” Minister Rumpf had said when explaining the mission to the priest. “Perhaps you could entreat some other Jesuit brothers to aid you in your mission. I fear Don Julius will not be an easy convert.”
Carlos Felipe looked down at his black wool robe and fiddled with the hemp rope that encircled his thin waist. He had dealt with the strange habits of Don Julius’s great-uncle, Felipe II, and his feebleminded son, Carlos.
The priest felt certain he could deal with this bas
tard son, Don Julius. The Eastern branch of the Hapsburg dynasty had become soft. Their precious Austrian manners were too indulgent—they needed the rigor and discipline of the Spanish court.
As if reading the priest’s thoughts, Minister Rumpf said, “I fear he will not be an easy patient, but he shall not be indulged.”
“Indulging gross habits only encourages new ones,” the priest said, bowing his head. “Yes, I shall inquire of my brothers to see if there are some willing and suitable to assist me in our work.”
As Rumpf dismissed him, he warned, “See to it that Don Julius is not unbound until he is safely ensconced in a secured palace room. But he is to be allowed exercise at least three days a week. The king suggests you let him hunt in the hills above Cesky Krumlov, to improve his health and stamina. He should be encircled by mounted guards—no fewer than half a dozen—to see that he does not escape or stray into the town.”
The thin priest nodded. The rigor of riding and pursuing the hounds would be good discipline for Don Julius’s mind and body.
“One more thing. As King Rudolf is a patron of the sciences, he feels it is necessary to send along a physician. I have received word that a highly esteemed member of Prague’s barber and surgeon guild will join you soon in Cesky Krumlov. He has strict instructions to monitor the king’s son’s health and report back to Prague as to his diagnosis. The king forbids bloodletting at this time unless Don Julius agrees, but he thinks this surgeon, Mingonius, could bring his observations to court and prescribe treatment.”
“God’s judgment alone would be treatment for this royal sinner,” remarked the priest dryly.
“Perhaps you are correct. But never forget that this young man is our emperor’s eldest son, bastard though he may be. The king would not tolerate any—shall we say—untoward treatment suffered by his favorite son. He has ordered that you keep your diaries legible and send the entries by courier to Prague.”
Minister Rumpf bowed in respect—and relief—as he dismissed the priest to make the journey to Cesky Krumlov.
Don Julius still howled in pain, not at the bite of the gauze fetters, but at the gnawing hunger in his belly. For years now he had shown no restraint in his gluttonous habits. Excesses of sex, food, and violence were his steady diet, and he knew no limits.
The coach made a stop at midday at a small town in Bohemia. The innkeeper could not speak German and was so astonished to see the royal coach that he could barely manage to serve a welcoming ale to his clients. The driver ordered everyone out of the establishment to make way for Don Julius and his entourage. The townspeople gathered dumbfounded in the dusty street outside the tavern, trying to catch a glimpse of the king’s son.
Don Julius was unbound, although the priest and two guards stood by his side, alert to his every move. The innkeeper’s wife struggled out with trays heaping with stews and roasted chops, sauerkraut, and fat, oozing sausages.
Don Julius’s eyes gleamed at the sight.
“Wait,” said Carlos Felipe, holding up his hand. “We must test the food.”
Don Julius salivated at the smell of the good Bohemian cooking.
“Hurry up, then,” he growled. “If there is poison in the stew, may you die a quick death!”
Don Julius often went without a taster, in order to speed the act of moving food to his eager mouth. He watched as the first guard warily took a taste of the stew.
“And the millet pancakes. Don’t forget them. The duck and the sausage,” instructed Carlos Felipe.
“Enough,” roared Don Julius, pounding his open hand on the wooden table. “Serve me, I command you.”
But Carlos Felipe was not done yet.
“You must learn patience, Don Julius. Your father has asked that I teach you many virtues, and patience and abstinence are among them. He learned such lessons at the court of your greatuncle Felipe II.”
The guard hesitated, but he remembered Rumpf’s strict instruction, which came from King Rudolf II himself: take your orders from the priest.
Looking eagerly at the food, he took his place at the table and gorged himself.
Don Julius stared slack-jawed.
“Away, you vultures! This is no tasting—you feast on my dinner!”
“Ignore him,” ordered the priest.
Don Julius jumped from his chair and overturned the table, spilling pitchers of foamy beer and hot food over the earthen floor. The tavern-keeper’s wife shuddered and called to her husband. He appeared moist with sweat from the kitchen and gasped at the scene.
“My lord, was the food not good? We are but humble people and served the best we could! Take mercy upon us!”
“The food was splendid,” said the priest. “Was it not?”
He looked at the astonished guards and frightened footmen, who sheepishly nodded. A poor groom was brazen enough to take a goose leg from the floor and start gnawing at it.
“We will pay you amply for your cooking and service. One thing, before we depart. Do you have some good coarse bread to serve to our king’s son? He would do best with that, I should think.”
Don Julius clenched his fists and raised them toward the rafters.
“Brown bread? I shall dine, you demon!”
The priest took out a purse of gold coins given to him by Minister Rumpf.
“Here, take this,” he said, putting a pair of coins in the hand of the bewildered woman. “And fetch us a cool draught of well water in a jug. We will take both the bread and the water with us.” He motioned to the guard to bind the prisoner again.
And so began the new life of Don Julius.
CHAPTER 11
THE ARRIVAL
Saturdays were always the busiest for the bathhouse. The people of Cesky Krumlov wanted to be bathed and shaved before Sunday prayers.
“It is the clean-faced man who can receive the Holy Spirit,” said Pan Mann. “To approach God with a four-day growth of beard is blasphemy.”
When Marketa asked how Jews were so pious and yet so hairy, her father signaled to her to be silent with a wave of his hand.
“Marketa! What do you know of Jews?” said Pan Mann, turning to the girl in astonishment, his face creamy with soap.
“I see them in the marketplace during the day, peddling their wares. And I watch them retreat at sunset, outside the city walls. My mother told me they were Jews. They wear tight caps and have long beards. They look pious and humble.”
“Even if they were to pluck each cursed hair from their puckered skin so they looked like a Sunday roasting chicken, they could not purge their sin.”
“Marketa, fetch me the long razor,” said the barber.
“But Pan Mann,” Marketa insisted, “some of them are the most skillful surgeons, they say. Isn’t it so, Father, for you have told me so?”
“The razor, Marketa. Pan Mann’s face is drying. I do not want to cut his fine skin.”
The man in the chair screwed up his mouth and stabbed a pudgy finger at Marketa. “This is what happens when you expose a girl to the world of men. They begin arguing with you about Jews! Next thing you know, she will be arguing to become a bloodletter and inherit your practice.”
Marketa’s father laid a hand on her shoulder, and she remained silent.
She trembled in anger under his touch, but in deference to him, she said no more. She found herself thinking of the young physician Jakub Horcicky and how they had spoken so freely of medicine. And how he had kissed her.
“Go help your mother in the baths,” said Pichler.
Marketa nodded, bidding farewell to Pan Mann.
As the steam of the bathroom hit her face, she heard her mother call.
“Ah, good! I was about to send Kate to fetch you. Please help Miklos into a barrel and put a plank across the rim so I can serve him ale and sausage.”
As Marketa helped a young farmer into the barrel, her eyes were drawn to his anatomy. From hard work with the hoe and shovel, scythe and pitchfork, his veins stood clearly defined and blue against his skin, espec
ially that skin that was normally protected from the sun by clothing. Marketa traced the blue threads eagerly in her mind, trying to commit them to memory.
She felt her mother’s quick cuff on her ear and her admonishment.
“Avert your eyes!”
Marketa blushed red and realized that the farmer had mistaken her study of his veins for admiration of his body. Already his penis had begun to thicken and was levitating, swaying this way and that, to the bawdy guffaws of the other bathers.
“Miklos, submerge yourself this minute,” shouted his mother, embarrassed, although secretly proud of her son’s prowess.
“Musle,” Miklos whispered to Marketa. “I would love to discover your pearls.”
“Fetch water, Marketa!” ordered her mother, her face reddening. “Now!”
Miklos smiled at Marketa in a way that made her skin crawl. Another boy who would pester her.
When the men were safely submerged in their barrels where Marketa’s curious eyes could not study their anatomy, she was allowed back in the bathhouse, to the snickers and loud whispering of the bathers.
Still, this was a good night, for Pan Brewer was sick at home with a cold and Marketa was not forced to attend him.
She struggled with the heavy buckets of hot water from the cauldron. Her younger sister Kate followed with baskets of wild thyme she tossed into the water to make it sweet. Marketa returned with a poker, hot from the coals, and plunged it into the water, watching it sizzle as the bubbles tossed the dried herbs across the surface.
Before the bathers soaked in the barrels, the girls scrubbed them clean with brushes of reeds, gathered at the shores of the Rozmberk carp ponds. Marketa’s sisters harvested them, while Marketa tended the cow, tethered deep in the reed bed. The cow attracted the leeches Barber Pichler used in his practice, and when they had attached, Marketa led the beast out of the water onto the surrounding meadow. When the leeches were gorged, they dropped one by one, onto the green grass where they were easily gathered.
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