“You have to understand, Marketa. I need you. You are the only one who can quiet the voices.”
“What voices?”
Don Julius shook his head and grimaced. “The ones that fill my ears, my head. All my life. To hurt, to rage...to...but you, you silence them, just as you did when I discovered you in the book as a young boy.”
“I do not understand.”
“You were the only one who could stand between my father and me, between the demons and me. As long as I could gaze upon you and search for the meaning of the secret language, the voices in my head were still.”
Marketa pressed her lips together firmly. His voice was sane; his words were tinged with madness. She would cure him with science and dispel his bizarre notions that she was somehow part of the world of his wild fantasies.
“Look at me, Marketa. Look at me. I love you with my heart and soul. Can you not see it in my eyes?”
Marketa closed her eyes. Just for a moment, but enough time for the spell of his words to lose their power and dispel like wisps of smoke. She took a breath.
“I must apply the leeches to your temples and forehead,” she said. “It will be best if you do not struggle.”
“I gave you my word as a Hapsburg,” he said.
He could not help but twitch when the sharp-tipped fleam pierced the skin on his forehead.
“I will not cut the skin on your temples,” said Marketa. “The blood is too close to the surface and too profuse. I will just hold the leech there until he takes hold.”
Her cool fingertips rested on his temples as she arched a tiny leech toward the blue veins. She thought about the tales that had been told, about how Hapsburg blood ran blue, not red. She pushed the notion out of her mind—tales for ignorant fools.
The leech’s mouth strayed here and there. The worm seemed to have no interest in sucking. She could feel Don Julius’s eyes study her face, her breasts, as she leaned over.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I will encourage it.”
She pulled out the little blade and pricked her own fingertip, and traced her bleeding finger lightly across his temple.
The leech, excited by the smell of fresh blood, bit into the vein. As the creature finally took hold, a languid drop of Don Julius’s blood stained her fingers. She watched it trickle into the cuticle of her fingernail as she held the little leech steady.
The prince looked up at her, his red lips parted. His eyes shone with emotion, and she felt light-headed, her knees suddenly untrustworthy. She moved her hand from his temple to his torso and leaned over to apply a leech to his abdomen.
The leech moved languidly over the muscles, toward his navel. As Marketa moved closer and bent over Don Julius, she could see the tight muscles expand and contract with his breath. His belly glistened with beads of sweat. The droplets slid down his wet skin, one merging with the next into rivulets.
She did not know how long he had been touching her.
His forearms were bound, but this did not stop his long fingers from gently probing under her apron. She gasped. She did not look at him.
She did not move away.
He stroked between her thighs, smooth gentle movements within the range of his strong fingers. She sighed at the soft touch and blotted out the world and reason. For a second she thought where this was taking her, the risk, the folly. She did not care.
His fingers moved to a rhythm now, harder and more forceful, more direct in purpose.
She did not heed reason. She succumbed to the urge of her body, its power obliterating everything else. Marketa had never been touched in a seductive way before, never touched by fingers intent on giving her pleasure, only groped savagely.
Don Julius lifted his head and met her eyes. This time she didn’t look away. The eyes of a sorcerer, she thought, as she stared back at him. The son of a king who could spin his spell while bound in ropes.
“Come to me, my angel,” he whispered. His lips strained up toward her own, his fingers still prowling under her skirts, his fingertips rubbing against her moist flesh.
To her amazement, she was kissing him. His mouth was wet and his lips seemed to reach everywhere, searching for her tongue. He tasted of apples and fine wine. The king’s son tasted of palaces and privilege, of possibility and love.
Of Prague.
The smell of his flesh intoxicated her. She felt her breast heaving as he kissed her neck.
“Untie me,” he said.
She leaned over him, and he kissed her harder. The taste and pressure of his mouth made her feel weak, and she steadied herself with one hand on the chair.
“Marketa, untie me. I will give you pleasure you will never know with these country rubes,” he said, biting her neck gently. “Just untie me, I will show you.”
Her heart beat in her temples, and it was harder to breathe.
“I cannot.”
She heard a low growl deep in his throat, as if it came from an animal and not a man.
“Come closer, my love, so I can feel your body close to mine.”
Marketa bent her torso closer to his body. His skin was warm and smelled of a rich life, with no trace of a workman’s dirt or toil. He smelled of fine milled soap and of foreign cologne, of royal privilege—of Prague.
“Straddle me, Marketa, so I can feel you close to me.”
“No, I cannot,” she whispered. “I cannot!”
“Untie me then,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Trust me.”
Again that intoxicating scent that pulled her close, emanating from his breath and skin.
“I cannot. You are my patient, Don Julius.”
Hurt registered in his eyes. He rolled his face away from her.
“I want to make love to you, not be pitied,” he said, his voice muffled. “I want to prove to you, I—” his voice cracked.
She touched his cheekbones and tried to turn his face toward her. He resisted and her hands came away wet with tears.
“I want to show everyone—but most of all you!” His words were muffled into his shoulder. Marketa realized he was ashamed of his tears and struggled to keep them back.
She stroked his face and rubbed his shoulder. His back heaved with silent sobs.
“Hush now, hush,” she said. She tried to slip her hand deeper behind his back, but the ropes left no room for soothing hands. She stroked his neck instead.
This was a boy, just a few years older than she. Yet sometimes he acted so much younger.
“Your hands remind me of my mother,” he said. “I miss my mother. She writes that she cries every night for me.”
Marketa worked her open palm down his back and pushed harder against the rope, feeling the tightness of the muscles between his shoulders. If she had a little more slack in the rope, she could knead them loose. He would feel comfort.
“My mother pleads with the king to release me. He will not listen to her.”
The rope cut against Marketa’s hand.
“But you,” he said, now turning his face toward her. “You understand, I know you do. You are my guardian angel. Together we could defeat the demon voices—we would be invincible!”
This wretched knot, thought Marketa. She picked at the end of the rope to loosen it, just enough to—
Don Julius felt the easing of the rope and wiggled one shoulder loose. As fast as a snake, he worked his other shoulder free. Now he bent forward and wrenched his arms from the ropes.
He seized Marketa and covered her mouth in kisses.
“Do not scream, please do not!” he pleaded. “Let me, let me, I beg you. I will prove that you can trust me, let me!”
His legs were free now—how had that happened? She couldn’t think. He cradled her in his arms and lowered her to the floor. He held her head in the crook of his elbow, and his tearstained face hovered over her.
“Shh, shh, hush now,” he said, his lips brushing hers. “I only want to feel you in my arms. I will not hurt you—I could never hurt you.”
As she l
ay quiet now in his arms, he drew back his head. His green eyes glistened above her, the black lashes still wet.
He stroked her face, and an errant tear dropped on her lips. He bent to kiss it from her mouth, and she closed her eyes, tasting the salt from his tear.
“You can trust me,” he said, his lips moving over hers. “I told you I could be honorable. There is nothing else I want in this world.”
He pulled her closer, and she could feel the warmth of his body. His hands moved over her breasts tentatively, gently.
“I want to make love to you,” he said. “Now.”
“No, I must—” she said, her mouth covered by his. “You must return to the chair. They will come in any moment!”
He groaned and pushed himself harder against her. She could feel his erection through her skirts.
“You must prove that I can trust you,” said Marketa, struggling up, her breath catching in her throat. “Prove it! Prove that you are honorable! Prove it before it is too late!”
Don Julius clenched his eyes shut and pushed himself away like a wounded man. He crawled to his feet, and before Marketa could stand, he had already slipped his feet back into the loosened knots and pivoted his shoulder under the ropes.
“Tie me up,” he said, his eyes open now, studying Marketa’s face above him. “Tie me tight for I do not think I can withstand my passion otherwise.”
Marketa tied the ropes tight against his flesh. His eyes drank in every movement she made, and his pulse quickened in his neck, making his flesh quiver.
“Tighter!” he urged. “Tighter still!”
Marketa pulled the ropes tighter, until they bit into his skin.
She straightened her blouse and kerchief. She felt a hot rush of blood flood her face, and she could not lift her eyes to meet his gaze.
She stepped away, her head still lowered.
“I do not know what came over me,” she said, her hands at her temples. “I—I beg your pardon, my lord. I—”
“How can you say that? How can you deny what just happened between us?” His gasps had eased, and he studied her as his lust cooled. He snorted in derision and lay back in his chair, in exhaustion.
“What came over you is love, fair lady. Love for me. You love me!”
Marketa looked at the closed door. Her face colored a deep scarlet. How could she love a madman?
“Do not worry,” he said, looking beyond her to the door. “Your secret is safe with me, my angel, if that is what you desire. And I have shown you the trust I merit. But I shall have you someday, I swear it.”
A leech fell, finally gorged. Another hit the floor beside it.
“Come now, Marketa. Let us keep up the pretense. Pick up the leeches and straighten your hair, my dear. You want to look tidy and in control when they come in to see the results. You are my doctor, my darling.”
She whirled around to look at him as he arched an eyebrow high. Was he mocking her? She needed to look in control, he said. Had she lost control and become as wild—as mad—as he was?
Once she had composed herself, Marketa called Doctor Mingonius and her father into the chamber, her hands holding a dozen gorged leeches.
Doctor Mingonius beamed at her, marveling at how much blood had been removed without a whisper of protest.
“Well now, Don Julius. How do you feel?”
“As if I have touched the heavens, kissed the stars, and fallen to earth. No, crashed to earth!”
Marketa turned away so that no one would see her blush. Her face throbbed, red-hot.
“Well, I want you to eat a bountiful meal and drink wine. You have to build up your strength.”
“Yes. Yes, I am feeling hungry,” he said, glancing at Marketa. “Some good country fare would appeal to me now. I think I have developed a taste for Bohemian delicacies.”
Marketa turned to go. She had to keep herself from running out the door.
“Oh, Doctor. Would you mind if I thank Marketa in private for a second? You do not have to leave, just allow her to approach me,” said Don Julius, nodding toward the girl. “Please do me this favor, good doctor.”
“Of course,” said Doctor Mingonius, rubbing his forehead again in wonder at these courteous words. What a change in demeanor this bathmaid has produced in my patient, he thought. He speaks with such gentle humility to me, and such deference to the girl.
Marketa approached the prince, her back stiff and her cheeks still flushed hot.
“It is a marvelous thing to be out of control,” Don Julius whispered, his voice hoarse. “Do not forget that. I await the moment when we can finish what we started, Marketa.”
CHAPTER 29
BELVEDERE’S SPELL
The summer palace of Belvedere was adorned in snow and frost, its green-domed copper roof coated in sheets of ice. The singing fountain sang no song, but the cold winds played a shrill whistle of winter against its bronze basins. A sculpted shepherd stood atop the fount, piping silently, glistening with hoarfrost.
Jakub approached the arcades, contemplating the grace of the Italian arches.
Glorious Belvedere was the closest neighbor to his own modest house, a wooden cottage in the far reaches of the hrad gardens. His journey from a scullion boy sleeping on the floor in a Jesuit monastery to a resident within the royal palace gardens seemed a miracle, and Jakub said a quiet prayer every morning as he woke, grateful for the beauty of his surroundings.
It was cold and drafty inside the summer palace, but Rudolf was insistent on spending more and more time in his garden refuge, despite the season. Jakub was certain that even with all the hearths and ceramic stoves ablaze, the king with his poor circulation would be chilled and uncomfortable.
And irritable.
Jakub lifted his eyes to the copper dome where a glint of light sparkled, reflecting the sun. Tycho Brahe’s observatory. Not only was Belvedere a royal residence, but the upper floors served as a platform to study the celestial heavens.
A guard stood before the filigreed portico. Jakub pulled down his woolen muffler to show his face. The guard nodded, and they walked to the west door and entered the palace. It was the first time Jakub had been invited to visit this royal retreat.
King Rudolf had moved many of his Kunstkammer treasures here. Jakub observed the collections of bezoar stones, said to have alchemic qualities—their strange mottled colors reflecting the bile of herbivorous animals in whose galls and intestines they had originally formed. Astrolabes, globes, clocks, quadrants, and mathematical instruments made of bronze and tin cluttered the corridors. A sculpture of Boreas, the north wind, abducting Orithyia, goddess of northern mountain winds, stood prominently in the great hall.
Jakub gazed about in wonder, turning slowly as he moved down the hall in a mesmerized waltz. The walls were packed, gilt frame jostling against gilt frame, portraits of naked gods entwined in passionate embrace. Dozens of seductions and ravishments illustrated with a leg slung over a lover’s limb were displayed one after another: Venus and Adonis, Bacchus and Ceres, Hermaphroditus and Salmacis, and many others he could not recognize, despite his classical education at university.
He stared wide-eyed at the god Vulcan pressing a naked goddess to his pelvis, his legs tangled in the bedsheets. His fingers toyed with her nipples, and he watched as her face transformed in ecstasy.
Further on, there was Odysseus and Circe, Eros and Psyche, all who loved and lusted through the passionate brushstrokes. Here and there, a lascivious Cupid spied on the lovers, grinning mischievously while dogs and other beasts looked on their coupling.
Despite the temptations of court life, Jakub had still remained chaste following the traditions of the Jesuit monastery, and now the sheer violence and passion of the art made his throat thicken and he swallowed hard. The erotica of Rudolf’s art riveted his attention, and the guard let the king’s visitor linger, gazing at the commingling of deities.
“Look at this one,” whispered the guard. He inclined his head to a painting of Hercules and Omphale wh
o were shown in reversed gender. Hercules wore a gauzy woman’s shift and grudgingly twisted a spindle under the watchful eye of a dominant Omphale. The earth goddess bore a heavy club on her shoulder, flaunting her muscular buttocks and dimpled back to the viewer.
Jakub stared wide-eyed at the garish shades of pink, purple, and green and the glowing ivory flesh of the two near-naked lovers.
“’Tis to the king’s taste,” said the guard, raising an eyebrow. “The palace is full of these.”
Jakub felt a quickening in his groin as he stared. He gritted his teeth and prayed fervently, determined to control himself.
A thought of Don Julius as a young boy shot through Jakub’s mind. He had been raised surrounded by this art from the day he was born, the nude lovers looming over him even as a toddler learning to walk, speaking his first words. What influence had these violent seductions had on his childhood dreams and on his formative years?
The guard motioned Jakub to follow him from the cold hall to the audience room where a fire blazed in the hearth. The king sat in a high-backed wooden chair, swaddled in furs. Before him was a table laden with food: a fat roasted duck, a stewed pig’s knuckle, pickled red cabbage, nuts, cake, ale, and wine.
“You may approach,” nodded the king. “I asked the cooks to bring you food from our royal kitchens.”
Even though the rich aromas of the roasted meat made his mouth water, Jakub bowed and politely refused.
“I could never eat before the king, Your Majesty. It would be wholly improper. Forgive me.”
“As you wish, Physician,” Rudolf said, moodily. “The servants will have it delivered to your house.”
He motioned for the food to be removed, all but the bowl of assorted nuts.
“Sit, Horcicky, sit. What do you think of my art?” asked the king.
“It is quite impressive, Your Majesty,” said Jakub diplomatically as he settled into a chair opposite the king. “I have never seen the like before.”
“Which means with a strict Jesuit upbringing, you find it vulgar,” said Rudolf, reaching for a nut on the table. He selected a walnut and handed it to his servant, who summarily cracked the shell and held it on a silver tray so that the king could pluck out its meat. “Pity. You probably judge it harshly, seeing only lascivious coupling. A tawdry display of copulation masquerading as art.”
The Bloodletter's Daughter Page 25