Mingonius took a long draught of ale. He stared at the little priest whose face was a map of angry wrinkles, like creases on parchment that had traveled hand to hand for months.
“You forget the weeks of hell and torment you endured before we began the bleedings, the rotting carcasses of animals and the screams that haunted this castle and all Krumlov,” said the doctor. “If you push him too far, he will fight back. You know this as well as you know the scriptures. If we let a week go by without a bleeding to purge his choleric humors, you will be shaken from your prayers by his raving screams. Priest, he will not kneel beside you like a lamb without the suck of the leech. And it will be you and you alone responsible for his lunacy.”
“How dare you accuse me of anything, Mingonius! I have the backing of the Jesuits, of the pope, and of the king.”
“You forgot to mention the backing of God himself. And I doubt the king will back you if his son begins raving again. Everyone knows that King Rudolf is not particularly fond of the Catholic Church. His melancholy nature was born in the dark days at the court of his uncle, King Felipe. The Spanish corrupted his sanguine nature, something that even the great physician Jan Jesenius himself cannot correct. A happy boy in the Viennese court returned as a melancholy prince after too many years in El Escorial and Madrid.”
“King Felipe taught him discipline and God’s word,” hissed the priest.
“It does not matter what you think, Priest,” said Mingonius, nibbling on a piece of cheese. “If you and I do battle for Don Julius’s well-being, I am certain our good king will come down on my side and not that of a Spaniard who wears his son’s knees to bone, praying on cold granite.”
“Let me know when you have finished with him,” the priest said acidly. “Send a page to the chapel. I shall be praying for his soul. I have written that the bleedings must cease, and the king will hear my word from the archbishop of Prague himself. It shall not be long before you are called back to Prague, Herr Doctor Mingonius.”
As the priest slammed the heavy wooden door, Mingonius smiled and helped himself to another tankard of ale.
“I believe he forgot to mention that he would be praying for my eternal salvation, as well as the bastard’s,” said the doctor, smiling. “An oversight, I am sure.”
Mingonius planned to spend as much time as possible with Don Julius without applying a leech or blade. He hoped that the prince would become convinced that he and Pichler were to be trusted, and so wean the bastard from Marketa’s care. The girl would be used as a bribe to buy time with the afflicted man.
For now, Don Julius seemed addicted to Marketa as if she were opium.
“Good morning, Don Julius,” boomed Doctor Mingonius, his voice scaring the pigeons off the thick stone windowsill. The room filled with the sound of beating wings as the birds took flight over Krumlov.
Don Julius turned languidly from the window, and seeing only the two men, turned his back on them. His movements were slow and uneven, and his hand trembled slightly.
“What are you doing?” asked Mingonius as he approached.
“I am feeding the birds,” the prince said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I like to watch them eat and then fly to freedom.”
Mingonius noticed the utter lack of color in the young man’s face.
“Have you eaten today, Don Julius?”
“No,” he said, slowly lowering himself into a cushioned chair. “I have no appetite.”
Mingonius considered this. No appetite in a man who once demanded twelve or more meals a day was certainly a significant change, but not one that was necessarily beneficial. Balance, he thought. We must balance the humors in his body and foster new vital blood.
“I must prescribe that you eat a hearty breakfast and two more meals this day. You will have to consume a full bottle of red wine as well to bolster the new blood in your veins.”
“I am not hungry,” said the prince. “I want nothing but to be allowed my privacy.”
“Nonsense,” said the doctor. “What if I were to permit Marketa to enter and to feed you with her own hand?”
Julius sat up from his slouch, and his left eye began to blink.
“She is with you? Am I to be bled once more?”
“No, no. You aren’t to be bled for at least another day. The new blood must course strong within your veins before we attempt to purge you again. And by that time, the new bleeding chair will be delivered by the carpenter. I have a mind to copy its design and introduce it at court. Ingenious!”
“That was Marketa’s idea,” said Don Julius. “You should name it after her.”
Mingonius frowned.
“Send for her, Doctor. I should like to gaze upon her again.” Don Julius laid a finger on the doctor’s sleeve. Then he wrapped his finger around the silk fabric of the doublet, like a child pleading. “She is the only one who understands my torment. I can see it in her eyes, I can feel it in her hands. Pray, good physician, send for her.”
“She is here, my lord,” the doctor said, “and I could arrange for her to sit by you as you eat and drink as I prescribe. But only if you promise to be an absolute gentleman to her and permit us to remain in the room.”
“She will dine with me?”
“Yes, if you agree to my conditions.”
Within a half hour, Marketa sat at one end of a long table, opposite Don Julius. He stared at her intently as she pretended to eat, though in fact she merely pushed the food around her plate.
“Your manners would appall the court,” mocked Don Julius, a bright tone to his strengthening voice. “Look how you grasp your fork like a peasant does a pitchfork!”
He sat back in his chair and laughed, a tinny clatter that sounded inhuman.
Marketa set her fork down and blushed. “We do not use forks at home. I have never used anything but a spoon and knife.”
What little blood colored Don Julius’s complexion drained, leaving his face a mask of stony white.
“Now I have embarrassed you, my sweet. You come from an ancient book, long before forks and other inventions of the court.”
“What is he talking about?” whispered Pichler.
Mingonius shook his head. His attention was focused entirely on Don Julius and Marketa, trying to understand what was happening between them.
“What a fool I am!” Don Julius said. He rose to his feet, shuffling to her side.
The two guards approached the table from the wall and blocked his passage.
“Stand aside! I wish to apologize in person to the fair lady.”
“Sit down,” said Mingonius. “You must sit and finish your repast as we agreed. You can make your apology from your own chair. She can hear you.”
“But I have wounded her,” Don Julius said, trembling, his knees sagging as he tried to hold himself upright. “She will vanish into the pages once more!”
Mingonius nodded to the guards, and they took the weakened prince back to his chair.
Marketa was amazed at the thought that this Hapsburg cared about her, afraid that she had been offended by his words. The people of Krumlov never concerned themselves with hurting her, calling her “Musle” at every turn, snickering. Certainly the old brewer never worried about her sentiments, he only thought of himself, feasting his eyes on her body.
“Do not fear, Prince,” said Marketa. “I am not offended in any way. You are right. I know not the ways of the court. You must teach me.”
She stood and motioned to a guard to carry her chair closer to Don Julius.
“If you will behave, I shall sit beside you and you will teach me how a prince eats. Then even the king will not know that I am a simple girl from Krumlov.”
Mingonius cautiously nodded. Clever girl in her diversions, he thought. Where has she learned such shrewdness?
“I give my word, O Fair Maiden. Only approach and I shall teach you and harm you not. Approach, I beseech you!”
The guards stood on either side of Don Julius as Marketa settled into the chai
r just beyond his reach.
For the remainder of the morning, Don Julius showed Marketa how to hold her fork, how to reach for her wine, how to drink like a lady of the court in Prague.
If I should ever reach Prague, thought Marketa, I will amaze Physician Horcicky with my newfound etiquette. He will look upon me in amazement and ask me how I learned such courtly manners. Ha! From the king’s son, himself, I will reply.
She smiled at Don Julius, thinking of Prague. He gazed back at her, his face stunned with joy, eager to teach her more.
Marketa learned how to dab her lips and fingers with a napkin. And, finally, she learned to peel fruit and offer it to her host, briefly touching the thick lower lip that had retained a reddish tinge, despite the blood worm’s bite.
Her touch sent a tremble down Don Julius’s spine that he could not conceal.
“You bewitch me,” he whispered. “If they were not present, I would commit such acts with you.”
The smile slipped from Marketa’s face. She straightened her back in the chair and pushed herself away from him.
“I will not endure such vile manners,” she said. “You shall apologize or I shall leave at once.”
“You dare demand an apology from a Hapsburg?” Don Julius roared, his manner shifting in an instant.
Marketa leaped to her feet and moved a few steps away. She smoothed her skirt and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.
“I think I shall go now. Good day, Doctor Mingonius. Good day, Don Julius.”
“No!” cried Don Julius, struggling to rise. “Do not go, Marketa. I—I apologize. There! You have what you wished for, an apology from a king’s son. Promise me now, you will sit beside me.”
Marketa lifted her chin and pressed her lips together in contemplation.
“I do accept your apology for such a vulgar proposition used in my presence. But I will let you have your afternoon to consider how you will keep such foul thoughts from emerging in my presence in the future. Until another day, Don Julius.”
“Marketa! Come back! Guards, you fools, stop her at once! She is my heart, my soul. My salvation!”
“She isn’t coming back, Julius. You have offended her,” said Doctor Mingonius.
Don Julius began to sob.
He covered his face with his hands as Doctor Mingonius and Pichler retreated into the dark hall and left the young man his privacy.
CHAPTER 24
DREAMS OF PRAGUE
The Spanish priest was right about King Rudolf’s summons. Within three days, a message came by rider, mud-stained and exhausted from galloping along the half-frozen road from Prague. In his pouch was a letter with the royal seal of the Holy Roman emperor, to be hand-delivered to Doctor Mingonius at Rozmberk Castle.
In the scribed parchment, the king rejoiced at the marked change in his son, sending his congratulations and a guarantee of a generous reward for Doctor Mingonius.
But there was indication that the Jesuits had also conferred with the king. He had called Mingonius back to the court within a fortnight, to leave his son Julius solely in the hands of the Spanish priest.
One more bleeding, commanded King Rudolf. One more bleeding and you shall be compensated upon your arrival in Prague. I await your full report on my son with eagerness.
Doctor Mingonius had already imagined his reward—a vast tract of fertile land east of Prague, with a new manor house. The estate had rich soil, producing round, green cabbages and tender baby carrots, yellow-orange with earthy sweetness, like the ones the tenant farmers sold at the Prague market on Saturdays. The farmers also sold eggs, fresh from the landowners’ speckled chickens, with downy feathers still clinging to their delicate shells, a lingering gift from the hen who had laid them, just hours before. Yes, he would have dozens of laying hens, squat and plump, pecking at worms in the yard.
But the best would be the cows’ milk, so full of fat it was tinged pale yellow, frothy and fresh.
No—no, the best would be the plump red hams studded with fragrant cloves and caraway, cured in his own smokehouse. Cats would gather under the hanging meat, licking the thick drops of fat that speckled the stone floor.
Mingonius had already pictured his son and his pretty new wife settled in the estate and begun planning his visits to them on feast days.
Cesky Krumlov had ears at every door and eyes that stared from every window. As the citizens learned that Pichler and Mingonius had successfully treated the mad prince, more and more patients made a pilgrimage to the Pichler bathhouse for bleedings. It was now deep November, and though the transitional seasons of autumn and spring always brought more clientele for the balancing of humors, Pichler was barely able to keep up with the new crowd of eager patients.
“I’ll have the same treatment as the Hapsburg prince,” said the butcher, winking at Pichler. “Good enough for the son of King Rudolf, it will do for me as well.”
“You mean the Mad Bastard of Cesky Krumlov,” suggested a tanner, his voice low so as not to carry beyond the intended listeners.
The butcher chuckled, but wished the tanner had bathed before coming to see Pichler. He reeked of the urine and feces of the tanning vats. An hour’s soak in hot water and lavender would do him and the rest of Krumlov a world of good. Whenever he did come, Lucie had to warn the regular clients, who refused to bathe at the same time as a tanner. She kept a separate barrel for him, for no one would pay to be bathed in a barrel that had once held the stinking water of Pan Ruzicka.
One by one, the townspeople came to feed the leeches with their blood, trying to pry details from Pichler about his royal patient. But Pichler would not divulge any significant information about the prince.
“How about you, Marketa? Tell us what it is like to hold a basin for the son of Rudolf II. Is he as mad as they say? Does he ask for a kiss from your sweet lips?” asked the butcher, pinching her cheek, a leech wiggling on his forearm.
“Surely he must be struck with the girl,” agreed the tailor, looking her up and down. “She’s far more comely than the girls up north. If only you would eat more, Marketa, and put some fat on your hips, you would be a true Bohemian beauty.”
“Enough about my daughter,” insisted Pichler, suddenly irritated. “Hold still and let the leeches take hold—you are making them dizzy with your gyrations. Marketa! Wash the trays and see if you can help your mother in the bathhouse. That is enough for today!”
Marketa nodded to the three patients, who blithely smiled and bid her good-bye, their limbs, torsos, and heads sporting small dark leeches. The butcher looked like a strange version of a unicorn, a water worm protruding from his marble-white forehead.
The cold waters of the Vltava numbed Marketa’s fingers as she scrubbed the porcelain trays. She watched as the blood stained the coursing waters red and then dissipated in swirls, washed clean in the flow of the Vltava.
She heard a cry above her.
Looking up, she saw Don Julius staring down from the window of the castle. She stood and dried her hands on her apron. Don Julius leaned precariously out the window. She saw Doctor Mingonius at the prince’s shoulder. Don Julius shoved him away and called down to her.
“Marketa! Marketa, soul of my soul. Come to me!”
The birds took flight, frightened by his voice and wild gesticulations. The guards pulled him from the window, and Doctor Mingonius reached out to pull the shutters closed. His face was riven with creases of consternation, not lost to the sharp eyes of the sixteen-year-old girl.
Marketa knew that this was the time to strike the bargain she had been planning. She set the trays in the sun to dry and hurried across the bridge toward the castle.
Mingonius seemed not at all surprised to see her as one of the servants accompanied her to the parlor where he was waiting.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Fräulein Pichlerova?” he asked, pulling out a chair for her by the fire. “Have Don Julius’s entreaties finally convinced you to take him as a lover?” he joked. “Such a pass
ionate suitor, so demonstrative in his love.”
“I want to accompany you to Prague,” she said without hesitation. “I want to see Doctor Jan Jesenius perform the autopsy.”
Mingonius, for once, stood silent. He stared at her as if she were mad. His hands fumbled for his chair, and he eased himself down.
“Doctor Mingonius, you must take me!”
After a moment to gather his thoughts, he answered, “Do you really think that your mother and father would approve of your traveling to Prague unchaperoned? To observe a dissection of a human body? You are a young lady, and the women of Prague do not interest themselves in the business of medicine. It is unnatural, a woman witnessing such indelicate spectacles.”
“Do not concern yourself with my delicacy, Doctor Mingonius,” she said. “I am sure there is nothing I will see that will not educate and intrigue me thoroughly.”
Mingonius rubbed his chin. “Well then, if we are not to be concerned with you, I will have to consider myself. What makes you think that I will risk my own reputation by consenting to your mad request?”
“Because if you do not, I shall not assist you in bleeding Don Julius again. You know he will never permit you to approach him with leeches unless I am there. The cure will be halted.”
Mingonius sat still, his eyes scrutinizing the girl. He had underestimated her. He wondered if Don Julius, in his madness, had sensed qualities in this girl that he could not. Why else would the son of a king be so love-struck by a commoner? Mingonius had attributed it to madness, but now he wondered if there might be something more to the girl.
He thought of the reward that King Rudolf II had promised him. If the girl started trouble, if she spoke outside the castle where the servants and guards were sworn to secrecy, the gossip would soon travel beyond Krumlov. Many of the merchants served the other Rozmberk castles of Bohemia, and the true story of the bleedings would certainly reach Petr Rozmberk himself. How gleeful he would be to share with the king the story of how a simple country girl of Krumlov could accomplish what the great Doctor Mingonius could not. Why, Don Julius had actually ordered him out of the room; he had not even been present for the bleeding!
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