Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  One of the pairs of servants that had been sent out hurried up the street from the door. Božena ducked back into the shadows to avoid being seen. The servants were escorting a priest into Aleksandr’s door. A priest who was escorted not only by the servants but also by one of the adolescent clerks who served as apprentices to the clergy. The clerk was carrying a candle, protecting the flame with his other hand. That clerk with his candle could only mean one thing: the priest was bringing the viaticum, the Holy Eucharist and holy oil to administer the Last Rites to the dying.

  Within the shadows, Božena smiled with satisfaction. Aleksandr was not long to remain in this world.

  Aleksandr was indeed dead as the dawn broke over the Old Town. His body was wrapped in its linen shroud and placed in its coffin, which was then deposited in the principal receiving room of the house. Božena watched the parade of mourners and stepped up to the well-dressed coming and going through the door.

  “Alms?” She stretched out her palm. “Alms on behalf of the dead?”

  Many coins were pressed into her palm that day as folk gave alms on behalf of the newly deceased. It was commonly expected that if alms were given on behalf of the dead, the recipient would pray for the deceased. Božena chuckled as she counted the money that evening.

  “I already prayed for the dead,” she said to herself. “At least, I’ve prayed for this dead man already. How else do they think he got to be dead?”

  She stationed herself the next morning near where Aleksandr’s funeral procession would enter the Old Town Square before crossing the market stalls to the St. Nicholas’ parish church for the funeral service and Requiem Mass and then on to burial in the cemetery near St. Agnes’ Cloister.

  “Alms?” she demanded of all that passed her.

  The approaching funeral procession could be heard and smelled before it could be seen. The fragrance of the incense wafted by and the chanting of the small choir that accompanied the body, together with the wailing of the professional mourners, ricocheted off the walls of the buildings that lined the narrow street.

  Then Božena caught sight of the body and its entourage. Coming abreast of her, the narrow street forced her to mingle with those bearing Aleksandr to his final resting place. Men carrying candles led the way, followed by those swinging censers; she could see the red hot coals within the thuribles as they swung past. Clouds of sweet-smelling frankincense hung in the air, both to honor the earthly remains of a baptized potential saint and to aid the ascension to heaven of the prayers offered on behalf of the man who was nevertheless also a departed sinner. Men carrying the narrow casket pressed her against the wall behind her and Božena found herself wedged between the pallbearers; caught between them, she was jostled along until the procession entered the Old Town Square and she could stand back a foot or two from the spectacle.

  Mourners, professional as well as authentic, passed. Steamy clouds hung about their mouths like the clouds of smoke hung about the censers. The chill, gray day was neither rainy nor excessively windy. But it was cold. Aleksandr’s wife—now widow—and his grown children with their families followed the casket. The widow shivered and shook from shock and sorrow as much as from the cold, even in her warm cloak that sheltered her in her widow’s black. A large throng of extended family members, servants, clients and other businessmen, as well as interested townsfolk entered the square behind the immediate family.

  “Almužny? Alms on behalf of the dead?” Božena darted in and out of the edges of the crowd, hands extended to catch the rain of coins she expected. Many did drop coins into her palms and even the few who did not passed her in silence rather than rebuking or laughing at her as they did on most occasions.

  Božena still had a few mourners to approach as they moved slowly across the square towards the church. As they passed the various market stalls, a hush fell on those bargaining there, and those engaged in business paused, turned towards the corpse, and crossed themselves in silence before returning to their tasks—their tone slightly muted.

  Suddenly fingers firmly gripped Božena’s shoulders from behind, wheeling her around. She found herself face to face with the matron who had rebuked her a few days previously, the matron who always carried a basket more delicate than practical.

  The matron, bent over to glare into Božena’s eyes, had no basket this morning but a thick wool cloak to protect her against the impending snowstorm. The two women glowered and scowled at each other and then the matron pushed Božena roughly aside so that she stumbled against the corner of one of the trading stalls. The matron sniffed with satisfaction and seemed about to move on, determined to keep her place in the lines of those accompanying Aleksandr’s body.

  “Anežka!” A well-dressed but short gentleman stepped out from his place behind the matron, who turned at the sound of her name. He hustled to Božena. The soft fur that lined his cloak caressed her face as he pulled her to her feet.

  “Anežka! Today—of all days!—this old woman deserves our charity!” He pulled a large coin from the leather purse that hung from his belt and pressed it into Božena’s hand. “If only out of our love for Aleksandr!” Božena bent her head and kissed the man’s knuckles.

  Anežka, having paused at the sound of her name, turned and watched her neighbor Jiří assist the old beggar woman. Though Božena could not see Anežka’s face, she knew the matron was mortified at this display of charity that surpassed her own. Božena’s display of humble gratitude only endeared her to Jiří while inflaming Anežka. Keeping her head bowed in mock submission, Božena considered herself an accomplished actress and this one of her most stunning performances.

  Jiří hurried back into the procession behind Anežka, whose cheeks blushed scarlet. He clucked and shook his head. Anežka bit her lip and continued her march to the church door. Few remained in the procession behind them to notice what had happened and those at the stalls were too busy to do much more than look up briefly and wonder why Božena had stumbled against the stall. But Anežka had noticed. She was not likely to forget it, either.

  That evening, Anežka sat before her mirror as her maid brushed her hair as she did each evening. Anežka’s husband, a merchant and member of the Old Town Council, sat in bed already, his nightshirt tucked under the sheets and the great velvet curtains ready to close around the bed to conserve the heat. He held a sheaf of documents in his hand, reading them by candlelight as he waited for his wife to join him.

  Anežka squirmed and chewed her lip as the maid caressed her dark tresses with the brush. The maid could tell her mistress was upset but wasn’t sure why. Finally, she could stand the tension no longer.

  “Mistress, have I offended you in some manner?” she asked, steeling herself against one of the haughty outbursts to which she had become accustomed. She could be fearsome towards others on her mistress’ behalf, but towards the mistress herself she had learned that a cool, steely submission was the best approach. Anežka neither appreciated nor tolerated timidity in her attendants.

  “No!” Anežka spat the syllable into the air. She took a deep breath. “No, Žofie, you have not offended me. I have been thinking about Aleksandr’s funeral today. It was a decent funeral, as good as Aleksandr deserved. As good a funeral as he deserved but no better than he deserved either.”

  Žofie nodded and continued brushing.

  “It was just that, as we were escorting the body into the Old Town Square, that wretched beggar-woman Božena was there. She was reaching her grimy hands into the faces of all those walking with the corpse and making a nuisance of herself.”

  “As usual,” the maid agreed.

  “Exactly. She was standing directly in front of me, not watching where she was going, and I would have tripped over her if I had not taken her by the shoulders and knocked her out of the way. She really must learn her place in society, rather than injecting herself into every event where she hopes to gain from the pity of her betters.”

  “So indeed, she must,” Žofie agreed. Anežka see
med to enjoy the brushing and was seemingly beginning to relax as she warmed to one of her favorite topics. It was a topic the maid warmed to as well. Although only a maid, Žofie shared in the prestige of the family whom she served and was only too happy to remind those lower on the social scale of their—and her—position. In addition, her family was descended from distant cousins of those women who had attended the princess Libuše, the seeress who had founded Prague.

  “So I removed her from underfoot of the procession. Perhaps a bit more roughly than I had intended, but no more than she deserved. Alas, our overly zealous and easily hoodwinked neighbor Jiří was right behind me and saw the whole business. Of course, he mistook Božena for a legitimate beggar-woman and rushed to her side. He raised her to her feet and pressed good money—a thaler, if I am not mistaken, my dear! can you believe it?—into that wretched woman’s hand. Then he had the effrontery to chide me—me! in public—for lack of charity. ‘If only out of honor and from our love of Aleksandr,’ he said!” Anežka snorted.

  The maid flushed with anger. How dare Jiří speak to her mistress so? Even though he was easily as wealthy as Anežka and her husband and thus at least their social equal, it was outrageous that he should behave so.

  “He is so lacking in the manners of a true gentleman,” the maid half-snorted herself.

  The sound startled Anežka’s husband. He glanced over at the two women across the room. “Ah, women,” he chuckled and returned to his reading. “They will have their gossip and chatter.”

  Žofie heard the chuckle and caught herself, blushing. She did not want the master to think her as light-headed and frivolous as a young maid who did not know her place in the household. She had never had many dealings directly with him and was never sure what he was thinking or how he thought about things. She was clearly Anežka’s maid and knew her mistress almost as well as she knew herself.

  “So true. Not a gentleman at all,” Anežka continued, oblivious to her husband’s presence. “Deserves a lesson in the manners of a gentleman, he does indeed.” She turned suddenly and smiled jubilantly, asking Žofie, “Your family comes from the old ways, Žofie! Can’t you cast the evil eye on him and give Jiři a lesson in manners?” Anežka clapped her hands in glee, like a little girl.

  “Mistress, please,” Žofie whispered curtly, unable to stop herself from casting her eyes to the floor as she blushed. She turned slightly, so as to not let Anežka’s husband see her face. “It is not good to speak of such things. I come from an old family that has remembered many of the old ways, ’tis true, but please, mistress—I have no idea of how to cast the evil eye.”

  Anežka looked at her maid’s face, apparently caught off-guard by both her tone and protestation of ignorance. Given the stories Žofie had told Anežka over the years, knowledge of casting the evil eye was exactly the sort of thing Žofie knew the mistress would expect her to know. Žofie glanced slyly in the direction of the husband in the bed and the mistress nodded slowly. She seemed to understand.

  Žofie brushed Anežka’s hair more briskly. “Never good to speak of such things as the evil eye, mistress,” she whispered. “But,” she resumed her normal tone and volume, “it is always good to turn to God for aid in matters such as these. It is always good to ask a priest to say a Mass for any venture or to ask a blessing on anyone we know. I would be happy to consult a reverend Father on your behalf, mistress. Of course,” she added as an afterthought, “the priests always ask for an alms when they say a Mass for someone.”

  “Yes, yes,” the mistress agreed, nodding slowly. Žofie wondered if Anežka truly understood what Žofie was hinting at. Ask a priest to say a Mass to teach Jiři a lesson in manners and civility? Žofie knew it sounded like nonsense.

  “I will trust you to settle the matter for me, Žofie,” Anežka finally agreed, apparently trusting that Žofie had some idea in mind that the maid thought dangerous to discuss too openly, even in the presence of Anežka’s husband. “I will give you the coin for alms in the morning and you can speak to a priest about saying a Mass.”

  “I will do that, mistress.” Žofie set the brush down and stroked her mistress’ locks, looking into Anežka’s eyes in the mirror before them. “As you ask.”

  The next morning, Žofie took the small coin Anežka had pulled from her purse and pressed into the maid’s palm and made her way across the Old Town Square to the church of St. Nicholas, where Aleksandr’s funeral had been served.

  “Reverend Father.” She pressed her lips to the knuckles of the elderly priest she spied on a stool near a statue of St. Nicholas, the patron of the parish. He was holding a basket, asking alms from those who came to light candles at the statue of the saintly bishop best known for his charity. Žofie knew this priest had come recently from a rural parish and did not yet know many of the folk in any of the four towns that constituted Prague.

  “Yes, my child?” The priest smiled who knelt after kissing his hand.

  “Reverend Father,” she repeated, pressing the coin into the hand she had just reverenced. “My mistress has heard that you come from a small town, a small town in much need, and wishes to help sustain the faithful there. There are many more alms to follow, Reverend Father, for she wishes to save her soul and atone for all her past misdeeds. Although she is healthy, she knows that death can come at any moment and she wants to make a bona mors, Reverend Father, a good death. She cannot face the dread Judgment Seat unprepared. She trusts your prayers, Reverend Father, and asks me—her maid—to bring her request and alms to you.”

  Old Matěj looked at the maid. “I am happy to receive the alms for her salvation and to pray that she not be caught by judgment before she has prepared herself.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Father.” Žofie pressed her lips to the old priest’s knuckled hand again, and shed a single tear.

  “What is your mistress’ name, that I may offer the holy sacrifice of the Mass on her behalf?” he finally inquired.

  “Oh, Father, she is too humble to ask for prayer for herself. She asks rather that you say a Mass for the rest and peace of her departed cousin, for it is news of his sudden, unprepared death—his terrible mors improvisa—that has so shaken her and made her conscious of the need to prepare for a good death for herself.”

  “I will gladly offer the Mass tomorrow on behalf of the poor woman’s cousin who stands in such need of intercession to escape the punishment she fears he deserves. What is the name of the good woman’s cousin?”

  “Her cousin was named Jiři, good Father, for St. George was the patron of many in their family.” Žofie closed her eyes and pressed them against the old priest’s knuckles as she had pressed her lips there.

  “Assure your good mistress that I shall offer the holy Requiem Mass on behalf of her cousin Jiři then, tomorrow morning,” Matěj assured his suppliant.

  “Thank you, Reverend Father.” Žofie kissed the back of his hand once more and then stood and whisked out of the church before he could ask any further questions.

  In the light snow that had begun to fall from the gray sky, the maid shook her shoulders and adjusted her shawl. The lies had tripped off her tongue so surprisingly effortlessly, so earnestly and convincingly, that she half-believed the tale she had told the priest. Anežka would be pleased with her performance.

  The women in Žofie’s family had passed a handful of secrets down amongst themselves, some said from the days of Libuše; one was the promise that divine vengeance would come on a living person for whom the Requiem Mass was offered. She was thus curious what form the divine vengeance would take. “No matter. Whatever it is, it will be no more than whatever Jiři has so deservedly brought down on his own head,” the maid muttered as she made her way through the stalls of the marketplace.

  The next day, Matěj stood before the altar where he had stood before, many times now, offering the Mass on behalf of those who asked his assistance in supplicating the divine Majesty. The rich, black vestments hid the stains of his own unworthy heart and made hi
s prayer the prayer of the whole Church, not simply those of a single sinful old man.

  Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me… Et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.

  Judge me, O God, and defend my cause against the ungodly people; deliver me from the wicked and deceitful man… That I may go up to the altar of God, the God of my joy and gladness.

  Matěj crossed himself, recited the psalm, and exchanged the ritual dialogue with the young man serving beside him. The priest ascended the step to the altar and, kissing the stone covering the small vault that contained the tiny relics of one or more saints, extended his hands to pray:

  Oramus te, Domine, per merita sanctorum tuorum, quorum reliquiae hic sunt, et omnium sanctorum: ut indulgere digneris omnia pecata mea. Amen.

  We pray thee, O Lord, by the merits of thy saints, whose relics are here, and of all thy saints: by thy indulgence, forgive me all my sins. Amen.