Suddenly a scream pierced the air.
“Ah, I see that our charge has awakened.”
The priest rose to his feet. “I will lead him in prayers,” he said.
“You will not lead him anywhere,” smiled the doctor. “Any more than I can.”
The shrieking came again, and then a low moaning wail.
“God is with me,” pronounced the Jesuit. “And I can see the devil is with you both.”
Pichler shuddered as Mingonius knocked on the door. He could hear the shattering of crockery and the ranting of Don Julius.
“I trust you have quick enough wits to jump away from him should he attack,” said Mingonius, studying Pichler’s sturdy build. “He is quite agile, though the guards seem to anticipate his moves. But with your beard you would be an easy target.”
Pichler stroked his beard with an open hand and nodded, his eyes registering Mingonius’s concern.
The guard standing beside them turned the key in the great lock and opened the door slightly. A hand reached out, fingers curled, seeking something to grasp. The fingernails were broken and dirty, the fingers without rings or adornment. Nevertheless, Pichler could see by the smoothness of the skin that it was the hand of an aristocrat.
“Come back, I pray you, Don Julius,” said one of the guards inside. “Come and sit in your chair while we welcome the good doctor.”
“Fie and dog’s dung on the doctor! He and the priest hold me prisoner.”
Pichler slipped into the room, standing well behind Doctor Mingonius.
He looked around. A canopy bed of stained mahogany was still unmade, and the red jacquard bedspread lay twisted in a heap. The porcelain washing basin was overturned on the floor, and the jug had been shattered. Shards littered the floor.
The disheveled Hapsburg allowed the guards to lead him back to his chair. Carlos Felipe stood off to one side. The sour expression on the Jesuit’s face was hardly that of a man who had led another in a moment of satisfying sacred prayer.
“Approach,” Don Julius commanded Mingonius. “Who is this peasant you bring here?”
“He is a fellow guild member, the barber-surgeon of Cesky Krumlov, Don Julius.”
Pichler removed his cap and bowed to the king’s son.
“At least he has manners and recognizes me for who I am,” mumbled Don Julius. “You there, Barber. Why do you not apply your profession to your own face?”
“I prefer my beard,” said Pichler quietly. He looked up as far as Don Julius’s knees. “My wife and daughter like it.”
“You mustn’t trust women, especially in matters of men,” pronounced the pendulous Hapsburg lips. “Look at me, Barber.”
Pichler looked up.
“I know you,” said Don Julius, stabbing his finger at the barber. “I have seen you from my window there. You live and work in that house just below.”
Pichler could not answer. He wondered how much Don Julius knew about him and his household.
“Oh, yes, I know you. I watch your family. There is one, a wild-haired girl. She rinses crockery in the river every night.”
Pichler lifted his chin. The horror of Don Julius’s knowledge of his family could not interfere with his duties as assistant to Mingonius. He was here in a professional capacity.
“Yes. She rinses the bloodletting bowls and cupping glasses. She is my assistant.”
Mingonius interrupted. “Which is why the good Barber Pichler is here today. We are awaiting permission from your father to bleed you. It is high time—the cusp of the season. It will do your body good to have—”
“Barbaric fiends!” cried Don Julius. “Is it not enough that you have kept me under lock and key for months? My father told me that I would be free to walk the streets. This place is my kingdom, I am Lord of Krumlov!”
The barber’s forehead wrinkled as he thought of the madman let free.
“That is impossible in your present condition,” said Mingonius. “Perhaps after a bleeding or two, when the humors are vanquished—”
There was a knock at the door. The guards tensed, ready to grab Don Julius if need be. The door opened and a dusty messenger with a leather pouch slipped in. The door was closed behind him and the lock snapped shut.
“Let me see the letter,” said Mingonius.
The messenger hesitated.
“Ah, it is addressed to me,” said Carlos Felipe as the man bowed and delivered the envelope with the red royal seal to the priest.
No one spoke as the priest opened the letter.
“Come, Jesuit,” shouted Don Julius. He suddenly sprang toward the priest and snatched the letter from his hand.
He bent over it and read to himself. There was a slight wrinkle in his forehead of concern, but then the forehead released and his face buckled and twisted in mirth.
“Ah, yes, Mingonius. You can bleed me. What are a few leeches sucking at my body when I am to be a free man in the near future!”
“What?” gasped Pichler.
Mingonius bowed and requested permission to read the letter. Don Julius flung it in his face.
“Read, good doctor. Bleed me and set me free in health. That is my father’s compromise. He seems to be having second thoughts about locking me up in this godforsaken castle.”
Carlos Felipe crossed himself and kissed his fingertips.
“It cannot be,” he whispered.
Mingonius read the letter, his brow knitting tight in consternation. He passed it back to the priest.
“I am afraid so. Once we have completed a two-moon course of bleedings, he is to be set free to be Lord of Krumlov.”
Pichler did not say anything. He was thinking of his daughters.
“Yes, let your leeches have at my veins,” crowed Don Julius. “But only if you bring your comely daughter with the wild brindled hair to attend me, Herr Barber-Surgeon. I should like to see her close up.”
Then he turned to Doctor Mingonius, and a palsy tremor ran up the left side of his face. When the physician reached out to inspect the spasm, Don Julius swatted his hand away.
“And what about the Coded Book of Wonder?” he demanded, his voice cold and distant. “The letter mentions it. Why have you not told me it is in your possession?”
Doctor Mingonius had the book hidden in his room. He played Don Julius as carefully as he would an opponent in game of cards with a huge wager at stake. Now was the time to deal the first hand.
“It will be yours to decode, Don Julius, but only after the Jesuit priest and I determine you are cured and can be trusted with such a great treasure. It is the king’s command.”
Don Julius looked away. When he turned back to face the men again, his face was composed and there was no trace of the spasm.
“Bring your leeches. And bring the girl as well.”
CHAPTER 13
A LETTER FOR MARKETA
A weary rider in rumpled clothes and mud-stained boots approached the bathhouse. He was a stranger to Cesky Krumlov, his accent indicating he was from the northern reaches of the empire. Across his saddle was a thick leather bag, weathered and battered.
He dismounted and banged his reddened knuckles against the door.
Lucie Pichlerova opened it a crack and eyed the stranger.
“Is this the residence of Slecna Marketa Pichlerova?” he asked, wiping his sweaty face on the sleeve of his shirt. The gesture left a smear across his right cheek.
Lucie nodded.
“Yes, I am her mother. What would you want with her?”
The man opened the leather bag and withdrew a letter, a large red seal of wax stamping the vellum folds closed.
“I must deliver this to her.”
Lucie opened the door wider and stretched out her hand. “You can give it to me. She is down tending the baths.”
The rider shook his head. “The gentleman who penned the letter and paid for its delivery said I must give it to her in person.”
Lucie frowned. “Marketa!” she bellowed back into the house. “Com
e here!”
“Coming, Mother.”
While the two waited, Lucie crossed her arms over her bosom and looked the rider up and down. She took in his travelworn appearance—his dirt-streaked face and neck; his tired, puffy eyes; and the stiffness in his back as he bent over toward the cobblestones in a long, wincing stretch.
“You look in need of a good soak, Pan Courier. Why not let our stable lad take your horse for a feed and rubdown. Then let my daughters bathe you. My Marketa has the hands of an angel. She will melt those knots in your aching back and render you a new man.”
The rider shook his head, for he was in the habit of hoarding every coin he possessed. He knew the cost of a bath in Krumlov would be a fraction of what it was in Prague, but he was loathe to part with any pennies. He was determined to buy a more comfortable saddle for the long rides that were his livelihood.
But when Marketa emerged, drying her hands on her white apron, he reconsidered. The dirty skin on his face creased in a smile.
“This gentleman says he has a letter for you,” Lucie said, pointing her chin toward the rider.
Marketa’s eyes widened. She had never received a letter before.
The courier placed the large folded parchment in her hand, nodding to her. Marketa’s fingers cradled the fine vellum as if she were receiving the host in mass.
“Well, open it, girl. Who is it from?” asked Lucie.
“I have no idea.”
“Open it!”
Marketa shook her head. “I need a proper blade to break the seal. I will ask Papa for a good knife.”
The rider watched her as she hurried away from her mother. Then he turned to Lucie.
“Good pani, I think I will take the bath after all.”
“Humph! Smart man.” Lucie whistled for the stable boy. “You won’t be sorry.”
Lucie’s curiosity about the letter was replaced by her immense satisfaction of attracting a new client to the baths and coins to her pocket.
The stable boy Vaclav had taken the reins of the horse and was leading him toward the feeding shed.
“You will be back to bathe me, won’t you, slecna?” called the rider to Marketa’s back.
Barber Pichler was not in the bleeding room. He was still at Rozmberk Castle with Doctor Mingonius. Marketa hesitated. She was forbidden to touch his instruments without supervision. But she couldn’t wait for his return. She opened the oak trunk and reached for the case that held the bloodletting fleams and blades, her hand trembling. She opened the leather flap and pulled out a sharp knife. Its short iron blade shimmered darkly, honed to an exquisite edge.
Marketa slipped the blade under the seal with the same care as if the parchment were live flesh. Her hand worked the blade with precision, careful not to nick or tear the vellum.
She unfolded the document. Two silver thalers dropped to the floor, ringing brightly against the floor stones. Marketa stooped to pick them up, her mouth dropped open in amazement. The figure of Jachymov, the Virgin Mary’s father, gleamed in the dim light from the face of the coin.
My Dear Slecna Marketa:
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I remember my exquisite bath at your establishment and your capable hands, easing my tired muscles. I remember much more detail of our brief encounter, but I will not digress as this letter is of an urgent and professional nature.
You professed an ability to read, so I have decided to exercise that ability with this missive. I am intrigued with your curiosity in the matters of science and medicine—perhaps we could discuss these matters in correspondence.
I understand that Doctor Mingonius has contracted the services of your father in the attempt to bleed Don Julius. You told me that you often serve as your father’s assistant, though I am quite certain that he would not let you near such a dangerous patient. Still, you may be in a position to learn how the patient is progressing. This information is of the utmost importance to the king.
The priest who accompanies Don Julius prepares a weekly report, as will Doctor Mingonius. However, the casual comments and observations your father may relate to you could be crucial to our understanding of Don Julius’s progress. What you overhear may serve our purposes more than any formal report.
As I related to you, I am not a believer in Galen’s humors but a follower of Paracelsus and the chemistry of the human body. Doctor Mingonius has persuaded the king that this should be the course of treatment. His Majesty does, however, want me to monitor the reports from both Mingonius and the priest. He also seeks reliable eyes and ears in Krumlov to gather information.
I would be most appreciative if you would serve in this role. In return, I can offer you reports of medical progress, scientific discoveries, and new experiments here in Prague. You will be in service to the king, His Majesty Rudolf II.
It is necessary that this correspondence remain strictly confidential, as it relates to royal matters. The king will know only that there is an impartial informant who reports to me.
Would you consent to this arrangement?
I will wait for your reply. Obviously you will need time to consider and to compose a letter. Please know that if I write to you again, in order to avoid arousing suspicion I will send my letters through our mutual friend, Annabella, who I know can be trusted.
I enclose reimbursement for the purchase of ink and parchment.
And a little extra for curing me of my damnable fleas!
Your companion in service of our King Rudolf II, I wish you good health.
Jakub Horcicky de Tenepec
Marketa’s hand cupped her throat, and she realized she had stopped breathing. A letter, news from Prague! Reports of scientific progress and communication with a physician of the Imperial Court. She fingered the thalers in her hands and made up her mind immediately.
One thing she knew was how to keep a secret. Especially for a man as handsome and learned as Doctor Jakub Horcicky, a man whose lips had touched hers and whose gentle hands had lingered on her skin as he tied a scarf around her neck.
Throwing her shawl over her shoulders, she hurried off to the market to buy parchment from the tanner, forgetting all about bathing the courier.
CHAPTER 14
LEECHES FOR A HAPSBURG
Pichler came home from the palace that night and would hardly touch his supper. He held his head in his interlocked fingers, thumbs pressed against his temples.
He poked at the sausage and peevishly nibbled on the cabbage, complaining there was not enough caraway in the dish and it tasted bland. Marketa knew some trouble was brewing, because it was rare for him to complain about her mother’s cooking. And even more rare for her not to bristle at such an insult.
“Marketa, I must ask you a favor,” he said finally, dropping his knife on his plate, surrendering to a force stronger than his appetite.
“Anything, Father.”
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then rubbed his temples. He did not return her look but studied the glistening fat oozing from the sausage on his plate.
“You will need to go to the ponds tomorrow and fetch some leeches. I shall accompany you.”
Marketa cocked her head in puzzlement.
“Do you not trust me with Pan Brener’s cow? How many times have I led her to the pond to harvest leeches? Have I ever failed? And we have a goodly supply already. We must have over thirty lean ones in the barrels of the cellar.”
Her father looked away and scanned his wife’s face. She jutted her chin out at him, a stubborn gesture urging him on.
“Tell her, Husband,” she said folding her arms across her stomach.
The barber drew a great breath.
“The leeches we are gathering cannot be harvested in our usual manner. They must be attracted to human flesh, not an animal’s. I have strict orders, Daughter. Otherwise I would not ask you.”
It took Marketa a few seconds to understand his meaning.
“I need you to wade into the pond, Marketa. Your tender skin and blood m
ust be their bait, pure as you are. These leeches will be for a bloodletting for the king’s son, Don Julius.”
Marketa shuddered. She wondered if it was the idea of the leeches waiting under the muddy waters of the pond or the idea that her blood would be in some way mixed with that of the madman in the castle.
“Don Julius? The howling prince?”
Her father looked at her with a dull reluctance in his eyes.
“I am sorry, my daughter. But it is for the king’s son’s health... and science.”
Marketa nodded her head. “Of course, Father. For science. I will be ready in the morning.”
Pichler nodded with satisfaction. Then his eyes grew serious.
“I want you to go now and see why the twins are tarrying so long at the tavern fetching the ale. Your uncle has probably set them to work scouring pots.”
“Yes, Father.”
Marketa pulled her cloak off the hook and wrapped a wool scarf over her head and neck.
“Tell him to send them home immediately,” he called to her as she shut the door. A gust of autumn wind blew in a spray of brown leaves, littering the stone floor.
“Wife, I must talk to you,” Pichler said, his jaw working over the gristly meat in the sausage. “Of a matter of great importance.”
“Yes, what is it, Husband?” said Lucie, sitting at his side. “Tell me.”
“Marketa—is she—”
“What is it?”
“Is she still a virgin?”
Lucie’s eyes dropped to her plate.
“I know I said when we married that I would leave the business of the bathhouse to you, but this is information that is of importance to the king.”
“The king!” cried his wife, looking up at him, her hand flying to her throat.
“It must be a virgin who harvests the leeches. If Marketa has already lost her virtue, you must tell me at once.”
Lucie’s mouth dropped open in a gasp.
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