‘The sad thing is, my brothers died anyway. We went back to Madrid and we hadn’t been there three weeks when they caught the smallpox.’
She looked distant and a little sad. ‘So, anyway, there’s just me left now.’ Lukas felt for her.
‘I had a younger sister,’ he said. ‘I’d feed her bread and milk in front of the fire. I don’t know why she died – I was still very young – but I remember the funeral on a freezing winter’s day, and the tiny coffin, and feeling it was wrong to place her in the cold earth when what she loved most was to play close to the hearth.’
It was a painful memory. For the rest of his childhood Lukas had felt an emptiness, especially when he lay awake at night in his room, listening to the children in the house next door running around in their excitement and roaring with laughter.
She reached over and squeezed his arm. Then she gave him a cheery smile. ‘It’s so nice to be speaking Flemish again,’ she said. ‘When we left the Low Countries I thought I might forget it. But we had a neighbour in Madrid who had a Flemish wife, and she and I would talk together when she was homesick. So I haven’t forgotten.’
‘So you don’t like it here?’ said Lukas. He was surprised by how easy it was to talk to her.
‘Don’t like the food, don’t like the people, don’t like the weather, don’t like the clothes, don’t like our rooms. Can’t understand a word of their wretched language. Even when I say “yes” or “no” in Bohemian they look at me blankly – I might as well be snorting like a pig or braying like a donkey . . .’
‘I can teach you a bit of Bohemian,’ said Lukas, rather too eagerly. She ignored his suggestion and carried on talking.
‘. . . and I get so lonely here now my mother has departed this life. All I have is my little dog, Chico. He keeps me company. What about you? How did you get here? Do you like it?’
Lukas wanted to tell her how his father had been killed by the Inquisition, but he remembered Anselmus’s warning and bit his tongue. ‘My uncle offered to take me on as his apprentice. How could I refuse?’ He whispered, ‘He’s a bit serious, but he’s been very kind to me.’ Then he worried that Krohl would overhear him and changed the subject. ‘I’ve grown to like it here. I’m sure you will, when you get used to it.’
Further up the table he heard someone say, ‘And do they practise human sacrifices?’ That was something most people seemed to have heard about the native inhabitants of New Spain. For a moment they both stopped to listen to Dorantes.
‘There is some evidence that the natives of Peru occasionally sacrifice children,’ he said, to gasps of horror, ‘but they do not practise this abomination on anything like the scale of the Aztecs, to the north. But since you have enquired about the custom, will you permit me to show you something given to me by the Viceroy of New Spain?’
Dorantes placed his hand in his tunic and produced a slim item wrapped in a velvet cloth. As everyone sat in fascinated silence he unwrapped it to produce the most malevolent-looking knife Lukas had ever seen. It had a blade of roughly hewn white stone, which appeared both sharp and brittle, and an elaborately decorated handle, fashioned in the shape of a kneeling man.
Celestina pulled a long face. ‘Not that again,’ she whispered to Lukas. They both giggled, but he was still fascinated.
The blade was a material called chalcedony, explained Dorantes. The handle was mahogany, or some other such dark wood, inlaid with colourful stones and shells.
‘Do the savages not know of metals?’ said Anselmus.
‘They have bountiful supplies of silver and gold,’ said Dorantes, ‘with which they fashion exquisite ornaments. And they are known to make edge weapons of bronze. Of the other metals they have no knowledge.’
Celestina began to talk to Lukas in a low whisper so as not to draw the disapproval of her father.
Lukas tried to listen to both conversations at once.
‘They hold the victim down at the apex of a vast pyramid . . .’
‘The journey here from Madrid was most wearying . . .’
‘. . . and the heart is cut out of the chest . . .’
‘. . . a whole month of dried peas and salted meat on the ship . . .’
‘. . . and held up while it is still beating, to the morning sun . . .’
‘. . . but the sunsets were very pretty . . .’
‘. . . Then the body is cast down the stone steps . . .’
‘. . . and my little Chico took to life at sea like a dogfish . . .’
‘. . . and another is brought forth . . .’
‘. . . like a dogfish . . .’ she repeated, giggling. Then she kicked him under the table, annoyed at his refusal to laugh at her joke.
‘And did they sacrifice him too?’ said Lukas, whose interest in Celestina’s dog had been completely eclipsed by his fascination in her father’s account of human sacrifices.
She kicked him again, hard. ‘You ought to be paying attention to me,’ she said archly, ‘not some boring old story about natives.’
‘Were you disappointed that your mother was so determined not to go to Peru?’ said Lukas, suddenly frustrated to be drawn away from the main conversation.
‘Oh no,’ said Celestina. ‘My father was to be away for seven years. He only came back three months ago. I barely recognised him, and he certainly did not know me. But then I was only seven when he left.’
Lukas was getting distracted again. Dorantes was telling them how the Inca beast of burden – a long-necked donkey-like creature called a llama – could often be seen wearing gold hoops in its pierced ears.
Those brown eyes were looking straight at him and he grasped for a conversational straw. ‘I’m sure your mother was pleased to have your father back,’ he said.
‘She died the year before he returned,’ said Celestina reproachfully. ‘I told you of it – don’t you remember?’
Lukas blushed bright red. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said.
‘You’re hopeless,’ she chided, ‘but you’ll have to do. Besides, I want you to show me around the Castle. You’ve been here a while now, and I’m sure you know all the nooks and crannies.’
Lukas was astonished. A high-born girl would never ask to go out alone with a boy of her own age. It was unheard of. She must have noticed the look on his face. His eyebrows had almost flown off the top of his forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being too forward.’ She leaned towards him and whispered, ‘My father is always chastising me for it. I meant, would you be so kind as to show Perpetua, she’s my maid, and me around the Castle?’
She was looking right at him, in a way that most adults would consider too bold. Something about her excited Lukas in a way he did not really understand.
.
As the night drew on, the guests drifted away in dribs and drabs. Celestina gave him that look again when Lukas said goodbye. He talked excitedly with Anselmus all the way back to their rooms. His uncle smiled indulgently. ‘It is good for you to meet others of your own age within the Castle, Lukas. I sometimes wonder if you can be happy here in a world full of old men like me!’
Lukas assured him he was thrilled to be there, learning such a fascinating profession. He took to his bed and fell asleep thinking of Celestina’s brown eyes and the soft scent of her skin.
.
Krohl stayed late at the gathering to finish his wine. He did not want to return to his dreary little house on Golden Lane, among all the crackpot alchemists and servants. Dorantes came over and filled up his glass.
‘I hear His Excellency is attended by the finest physicians in the Empire,’ he said.
‘His Majesty is attended by noble men,’ murmured Krohl. ‘They are good Christian souls. Indeed I know them all –’ his voice dropped to a whisper – ‘although it should be said that some are more tolerant of heresy than others. And they especially seem to be rewarded with His Majesty’s highest affection and the most prestigious dwellings in the heart of the Castle.’
‘Tolerance of heresy?’ sai
d Dorantes softly, playing the sympathetic listener with accomplished ease. ‘Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Surely the Emperor would not accept such men in his midst?’
Krohl sensed he had gone too far. ‘It would be dishonourable to say more,’ he mumbled. ‘I must be away.’
‘They are all good, learned men,’ he added hastily, as he stumbled out of the room.
.
Chapter Fifteen
The next time Lukas saw Celestina she looked right through him, even though he said hello as she passed. Not a flicker.
That night he tried to remember every detail of their conversation at Doktor Grunewald’s. How she had looked and the way she had stared into his eyes. No girl had ever done that to him before. He wondered if he’d said something to her that had upset her or caused her to think twice about seeing him again.
He went to Anselmus for advice, although he suspected his uncle was not the best person to ask about anything concerning the fairer sex. ‘Women are strange fickle creatures, my lad,’ he said. ‘You must resign yourself to this simple truth, unless you intend to spend the rest of your life in a remote monastery.’
Lukas nodded, but when his uncle was out, he asked Otka.
She smiled. ‘This girl, she shy,’ she whispered. ‘Then she bold,’ she shouted. ‘Now she shy again,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe next week, she bold.’ She roared with laughter at Lukas’s bewildered face. He was no wiser.
When he went into the city centre one late afternoon a few days later, to purchase supplies for Anselmus, he saw Etienne in the main square. Lukas had expected gentle mockery when he asked Etienne’s advice, but his friend was surprisingly kind to him. ‘She does sound beautiful,’ he said. ‘No wonder you feel disappointed. I think she’s embarrassed. She was forward when she met you. Now she feels she has to be aloof, so you won’t think she’s too bold. I’d just ignore her too. If she thinks you’re desperate to get to know her, she’ll lose interest.’
That made more sense than the advice anyone else had given him.
Lukas suggested they go to the Stone Table tavern, close by the square. He wanted to see his friend on his own. But Etienne insisted they go to the Three Violins. ‘I know the villains in there,’ he winked, ‘so I feel safer.’
The others were gathered round their usual table, and Lukas decided he would join them for a little while, then go home. After all, he was carrying valuable materials from the apothecary. There was space at the table next to a fellow in early middle age who seemed to know them all. Lukas sat down there. The man had the dark complexion of someone from further south – Servia or Wallachia perhaps – and a little pointed beard. Lukas noticed his left ear was missing. Something about him made Lukas feel uneasy.
‘This is Mister Hlava,’ said Etienne. ‘He joins us from time to time. We help him out with errands, little jobs . . .’
Lukas had learned not to ask Etienne’s friends the standard questions on introduction, such as ‘What do you do?’ But on this occasion Etienne offered the information. ‘Mister Hlava is a mechanical-instrument maker.’
Hlava turned away and began talking to Strom. Lukas became distracted by Jenka – admiring the way she dealt with her more obnoxious customers.
‘Get me a mutton pie, wench,’ said one rotund drunk as he grabbed her round the waist. ‘I need sustenance before I go home to entertain my mistress.’
‘Buy two pies,’ said Jenka, prising his hand away. ‘Then you may entertain her twice.’
Hlava noticed how Lukas’s eyes followed the serving girl. He saw how his face tightened into a scowl when men patted her on the bottom or put an arm around her waist, and how he looked away when she flirted with other customers.
‘What’s her name?’ he asked.
‘Who?’ said Lukas, embarrassed that his interest had been noticed. ‘Jenka.’ Hlava held his gaze. He felt the need to say more. ‘She works here most days.’
Lukas and the newcomer fell into conversation. Hlava turned away from the others, saying he could hear much better on his right side. ‘It’s difficult to catch everything in a noisy tavern,’ he said. ‘You’re a cut above, aren’t you?’ he went on quietly. ‘I can tell by the way you speak. You’ve had an education – not like this lot!’ He winked. ‘I could use a boy like you – to help with some of my jobs. I pay generously – they’ll all tell you.’ He gestured around.
Hlava turned to address the rest of the group. They all leaned closer so they could hear him. ‘I need some ivory, boys, and some good-quality malachite. Keep your ears and eyes open.’ They all nodded.
As an afterthought he added, ‘Oh, and I have something special for you all. Something that will make us a lot of money.’
Then he left for another rendezvous, without elaborating further.
‘What happened to his ear?’ said Lukas.
Etienne dropped his voice. The others clearly had a lot of respect for Hlava. ‘There’s a whole chapter to write about that. Some say he was savaged by a dog; he certainly doesn’t like Belphegor. Others say a rival bit it off in a tavern fight. I’ve also heard he used to be employed in the court in Vienna. When he left he took several books that belonged to the Archduke. He’s lucky he wasn’t hanged for it. In fact, he’s lucky he only lost one ear.
‘Be careful with him,’ urged Etienne as quietly as he could. ‘He’s a useful man to know, especially if you’re short of a few pfennigs, and he seems to know some important people, but . . .’ He shrugged, leaving the rest to Lukas’s imagination.
Lukas had had enough of the Three Violins. He abandoned his beer and walked home.
.
Chapter Sixteen
Don Jenaro Dorantes had been at the court for six weeks before he accepted that the stories he had heard about Rudolph were true. He had not expected to meet His Excellency the Holy Roman Emperor immediately. That was understood. He was an ambassador. His Excellency was the Emperor. Patience was part of his vocation. But six weeks was too long to keep anyone waiting – even an under-procurator from the court of the Duchy of Hessen-Rumpenheim – let alone an emissary from the Spanish Emperor.
When he first arrived, he sent out a request for an audience every morning via the court herald. Every evening he smarted with the humiliation of not having received a reply. Now he thought it prudent to request his audience every three or four days, just to remind His Majesty that he was still there and waiting.
After three weeks a reply came. ‘His Majesty,’ said a page, ‘will see you in due course.’
That could mean anything from tomorrow to some time in the next century. But other members of the Spanish party had been gathering intelligence. When they met to discuss their findings the news was both good and bad. The Emperor, it was widely known, was a recluse who saw only those he chose to see. He spent a great deal of time alone, either in his Cabinet of Curiosities or his own chambers. Both places, it was whispered disapprovingly, were rumoured to be filled with paintings of a decidedly immodest character. But then, so were many of the open courtrooms of the palace, where Dorantes and his party were permitted to go.
Sometimes, it was said, Rudolph chose to see no one but his physicians. Even his mistress, who had reputedly borne him six children, did not see him for weeks on end. One of Dorantes’s retinue gave a ribald laugh at that point. ‘He obviously prefers to gaze upon his fleshy pictures,’ he said with a smirk. The others, taking their cue from Dorantes, looked on with frosty disapproval.
Such works inflamed the humours. Dorantes had already taken to bathing in icy water and had scourged his back with a birch to purge himself of the excess of yellow bile such inflammation created.
‘Our task here is too delicate for a written approach,’ said Dorantes to his cohorts. ‘We must persist in our attempts to meet the Emperor. I have it on the highest authority that he is a good Christian soul, and I am sure that once we are able to present our case to him, face to face, we will have no
trouble in persuading him to return to the true path.’
Later, alone in his study, Dorantes considered his strategy. The physician Anselmus, the one who had been so interested in his sojourn in Peru – perhaps he would help him to talk to the Emperor. He could ask Anselmus about his inflamed humours too.
But he would have to approach him with caution. After all, he might be one of the heretics that the cheerless Doktor Krohl had talked about.
.
Dorantes called on Anselmus the next day and spoke plainly of his desire to see the Emperor. ‘I come with instructions from the Emperor of Spain,’ he declared. ‘He wishes me to talk to Rudolph personally on a matter of the utmost importance. I come to you, as you are so highly regarded both by His Majesty and the gentlemen of the court, to humbly ask your advice.’
Dorantes understood when to flatter and when to cajole. It was his job. He knew when to confide and when to conceal. He suspected Anselmus knew his purpose in Prague. He was uncertain, however, as to whether this peculiar man was friend or foe.
‘Your Eminence,’ said Anselmus, ‘let us speak plainly. I have a fairly clear idea of your purpose. It is said around the Castle that you intend to persuade the Emperor to support the Pope and the work of the Inquisition in the suppression of heresy.’ He searched the Spaniard’s face for a clue.
Dorantes remained impassive. ‘Are you a follower of the true faith?’ he asked.
‘Indeed I am,’ said Anselmus, ‘but here in Prague you will find there is a degree of tolerance not found in other parts of the Empire. Does it not say in John: In my Father’s house are many mansions?’
Dorantes said nothing, but the expression on his face remained pleasingly open and he gestured for Anselmus to continue, which he did.
‘Our Church of Rome has done much to discourage the natural curiosity of learned men. Despite my own adherence to the Church, that I cannot agree with. God gave us brains to think, not to accept everything our masters tell us.’
The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 9
