Bohemian Gospel

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  Still only half seeing the shape of Father Lucas standing up from the desk, she’d heard Mother Kazi say, “It has started.”

  Mother Kazi would not look at her, but the girl could see the fear in the woman’s eyes reflected in those of Father Lucas.

  “Ah, my little Mouse, come to me.” Father Lucas had invited her to sit on the bench beside the fire. “You are a very special girl, did you know?”

  “Of course, Father. We are all special. Like the lilies, right?”

  He bent to kiss her head, and she thought he looked so very sad but she could not understand why.

  “Yes, andílek, my little angel, but you are even more special than the rest of us. The time has now come for us to try to understand how you are special.”

  “And why God made me this way?” That was what Mouse had really wanted to know, but Father Lucas had just looked at her.

  Now, as Mouse looked at Lord Rozemberk, she could see his glowing shape in her mind, and she took his measure.

  When she had first discovered her gift, Mouse had become fascinated with watching souls. She watched the Sisters as they prayed or ate or argued and the silent Brothers as they studied and worked the fields, and she learned that the size and brightness of the glow was different from person to person. Sister Kveta’s was tight, like a rod running through her, and Mother Kazi’s was yellow. Father Lucas’s seemed almost overfull, his glow slipping past the shape of his body, and so bright Mouse could always find it anywhere in the abbey, even in the throng of people at St. Wenceslaus’s feast day or in the dark night after she’d had a bad dream.

  When she was younger and studying all those souls, she would measure them against Father Lucas’s bright glow. Mouse used him as a standard again now for Lord Rozemberk. His was barely a glimmer.

  “What did Gernandus say, girl?” Lord Rozemberk asked again.

  Mouse stood with lit candles in each hand and walked back to Ottakar, her lips pressed in a thin line. “He said . . . he said he was sorry.”

  The King might trust this noble, but Mouse would not.

  She sat on the floor beside the pallet and shoved the candlesticks closer to Ottakar’s body. Her teeth were gritted against the guilt of having damned a man and her body was bent with the weight of responsibility for keeping a king alive, but neither was the reason for the shiver that went down her spine.

  As a child, Mouse had spent days looking for her own glow, lying on the cot in her cell, refusing to eat, searching for so long that her little body would spasm against the strain, convulsing until she passed out. She wouldn’t tell anyone what she was doing, not even Father Lucas; she had finally stopped looking because she was afraid he would figure it out.

  But she couldn’t stop herself tonight; she had to look once more, and now the truth settled again in her gut, cold and hard.

  She could not find even a tiny spark in herself. As far as she could tell, Mouse had no soul.

  THREE

  Sing,” he told her as she pinched the clean edges of the arrow wound together.

  “‘Lady, wouldst thou save my life,’” she sang as she threaded the needle. “‘Give, give but one little look to me.’”

  Lord Rozemberk knelt near the head of the pallet, hands resting on the King’s shoulders, but Ottakar did not need to be held this time. He balled his fists into the straw and gritted his teeth against the pain as she slipped the cannula from his chest. Mouse worked quickly, pulling the wine-soaked silk threads through the flesh in tiny, neat rows.

  “I want ale,” he muttered as she knotted the last stitch and sliced through the thread, freeing him; he grabbed for the cup Lord Rozemberk tried to hand him.

  “Not yet,” she said as she pushed him back down.

  “How old are you?” Ottakar asked, throwing his head back against the pillow. “Giving orders like . . . How old are you, little Mouse?”

  “Fifteen at Hallowmas. How old are you, noble King?” She slid her leg behind her in an exaggerated bow.

  “Ah, she bites back, this Mouse.” Ottakar turned and smiled at Lord Rozemberk who was not smiling. “Eighteen,” he said sleepily.

  “Not quite,” Lord Rozemberk added. “And you should address the King as ‘my Lord,’ girl.”

  Mouse didn’t have to look up to see the sneer; she could hear it in his voice.

  “Vok, go check on the men.” The command was quiet and cold. For the first time, Mouse could see the king in the wounded boy.

  “Yes, my Lord.” Lord Rozemberk bowed as he left, graceful and quick, respectful. He caught Mouse’s eye as he passed. She understood; if he was required to humble himself before the King, so much more so would she, a no-name girl living on the charity of the Church.

  She turned back to Ottakar. “I need to listen to your breath again. May I?” She felt unsure of herself and wouldn’t look at him as she lowered her head against his chest.

  “You have blood in your hair,” he said.

  Mouse sat up. A strand of her hair curled in Ottakar’s palm.

  “It is your blood.” She stood and walked to the cup of ale Lord Rozemberk had left near the fire. “And I will wash it out soon enough, my Lord.”

  “How long have you been at the abbey?”

  “Since I was a little girl.” She put her arm behind his back and held the cup to his mouth. “Here. Your breathing is better. You may have your ale.”

  He drained it and lay back quickly, grabbing at his side.

  Mouse realized this was her chance to tell him about Gernandus’s confession; he would know best how to protect himself and whom to trust. She leaned down and spoke quietly so no one would overhear. “My Lord, your man, the one who—”

  “Your parents had many daughters and so gave you to the Church?” His eyes were closed.

  “No. My Lord, I need—”

  “Me, too. I mean my father had one too many sons and meant me for the Church until—” He ran his tongue across his lips. “Until my older brother died, and then—”

  “I am not meant for the Church.” It stung to say it out loud.

  “Then why are you here? Who are your parents?” He half opened his eyes, blinking heavily.

  “I do not have parents.”

  “Everyone has parents.” He smiled, his eyes closing again.

  “Well then, I do not know mine, my Lord. Please—”

  “Do not call me that,” he said weakly.

  “Please. I need to tell you—” Mouse began again, but his breathing had deepened, and he fell asleep.

  Mouse leaned her back against the wall near the window where she could see the rising moon making its way over the church tower. When Lord Rozemberk returned and lay down on the floor on the other side of the King, Mouse realized she would not soon get another chance to warn Ottakar. So she would keep vigil instead. His breathing was steady and deep, no signs yet of fever or rot in his wounds. This night, Mouse was not a healer but a guard. She liked the thrill that went through her. Tonight she had a purpose. Tonight she was where she needed to be, where she belonged.

  And Mouse was no stranger to keeping watch for dangers in the night.

  It had started at the baby cemetery; she was eight and had been in the woods searching for truffles in the dark hours of the morning. No one else could find the black mushrooms that hid in the dirt beneath the trees; you had to know which trees to search and then you had to smell the distinct mustiness of the truffle in the midst of all the other forest smells. Pigs could do it, but not people. Except for Mouse. Each time she came back from the woods with a basket nearly full, the Sisters crossed themselves.

  On that particular truffle hunt, Mouse had gone farther up into the hills, searching. She had not meant to find it, the small plot framed by a wall of stacked rocks nestled in the soft spot just above a hot spring. But the soil was warm and wet, and Mouse could smell them—the truffles.

  And the babies.

  Her nose led her there in the dark; the moon had nearly set. She tripped on the first
stone—not a proper headstone, just a large rock. Mouse crouched, her eyes an inch from the surface of the stone, her fingers tracing the crude carvings. A cross. A word stretched out in the thin, long lines of Old Church Slavic: BABY. Mouse reached her hand farther into the dark and found another stone and crawled toward it. A skull carved on this one and a name. PETER. And then another with three woven spirals, the three rays—a pagan this one was. When her fingers found the rock covered in carved butterflies, she wept. This mother or father had hope for their lost child even if the Church would not take the baby inside the sacred walls that guaranteed passage to Heaven.

  This was a cemetery for the unbaptized, the unholy, the unwanted. Mouse felt like she belonged here.

  She had heard it then, something sliding among the leaves at the edge of the wall. She’d seen it pull itself from the darkness into the shape of a child, same size as Mouse. “Hello,” it said. Its voice was air whistling through the trees. “Come out and play?”

  Mouse shook her head. Her hands wrapped around the nearest stone.

  “Why not?” it asked.

  “I do not want to,” she whispered.

  It started running along the outer edge of the wall. Mouse spun, following it with her eyes. She tensed as it neared the gate, but it stopped suddenly, turning toward her. The child-thing tilted its head and took a long breath in through its nose; then it smiled. “You smell different. Who are you?”

  Mouse knew better. She’d heard the old women in town talk about giving away your soul when you gave a stranger your name. Mouse might not be able to see her own soul, but she would not give away the hope of it. She shook her head, trembling and waiting—for what, she didn’t know.

  The child-thing folded itself down to the ground, bouncing a little as it sat, legs crisscrossed. It leaned its forehead against the wooden gate, peering at Mouse through the slats. She couldn’t understand why it did not come for her. They sat there like that for hours. Mouse pinched herself when her eyes grew heavy, pinched until her arms were covered in bruises. But she stayed awake.

  At the first signs of light, the child-thing jumped to its feet, wiped a sleeve across the snot running onto its lips and dripping from its chin. “You might want to play another day,” it said, and with a wave, it jumped into the dark between a cluster of trees and was gone.

  Mouse sat there until the sun was fully up and there were no shadows. She saw the symbols then, carved into a stone at each corner of the wall and along the back of the gate. Crosses. The Church might not consider this sacred ground, but clearly someone did. Mouse could not walk to the gate without stepping on a baby, buried in the soft soil; she could feel the crunch of the dried bones beneath her feet.

  She’d run all the way back to the abbey, her basket empty this time, and had spent the afternoon dipping wicks in the hot suet to make candles. She had filled her cell with them that night to drive away the shadows.

  Ottakar coughed and Mouse crawled to him, lightly running her fingers across his lips. No blood. She laid her head against his chest. No sounds of rattle or fluid. Firelight flickered against the stone walls, but it was quickly eaten by the dark.

  Silently, she rose and went to the shelves near the fireplace and gathered what candles were left. Brother Jan would be angry, but Mouse didn’t care. She made a circle of them around the King and Lord Rozemberk and herself; they would bring light until the morning, though they offered little protection against assassins. That would be Mouse’s job.

  Near dawn, Ottakar woke, trying to push himself up.

  “Wait,” Mouse said through her teeth as she bit at the thread she was using to stitch the gash in her hand. It was already healing, the flesh starting to knit itself closed; she wouldn’t even have a scar after a few days.

  That was another of Mouse’s gifts. She never got sick; she healed quickly. Too quickly. No one at the abbey would notice now; they rarely even looked at her anymore—pretend like she didn’t exist and maybe she wouldn’t. But if Lord Rozemberk or Ottakar noticed . . . Mouse didn’t want to lie, but she wanted to be normal, at least in someone else’s eyes. The King had already called her odd. Odd she could handle, but the idea of him looking at her in fear, crossing himself against her, had sent Mouse searching for the needle and silk. She was pulling the last knot tight and edging closer to the King when the nearest candle flickered.

  She crouched, grasping the needle like some tiny sword, as shadows in the dark swayed and a figure moved into the murky light.

  “Who are you?” she asked as the man neared.

  He ignored her and tried to move past her toward the King. Mouse stepped into his stride, forcing him to stumble, and then put her hand against his chest.

  “No farther until I know who you are and why you are here.”

  From behind her, she heard Ottakar’s soft laughter. “Looks like I have a new guard, Vok.”

  Lord Rozemberk pushed her arm from the man’s chest. “Finally, you are here, Hartwin.”

  Mouse turned as Lord Rozemberk moved to let the man go to the King. She started to take a step forward when a hand wrapped around her arm.

  “You are no longer needed. Get out,” Brother Jan hissed in her ear.

  “Who is—?”

  “A real physician from the court. Lord Rozemberk sent for him last night.” The prior pulled her back as the physician knelt beside the King and pulled something from his robes.

  “Stop!” she cried as she lunged forward, but Lord Rozemberk was on her too quickly. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her into the dark interiors of the infirmary.

  “No! Ottakar. He might be—” Mouse stumbled, turning back toward the King, and again, Lord Rozemberk shoved her, his long strides bringing him on top of her so she had to keep backpedaling until she slammed into the wall at the far edge of the hall. He slid his hand between her head and the stone, grabbing a handful of hair with one hand as he reached for the door handle with the other.

  “You will address the King as ‘my Lord,’ girl.” He pressed his iron sabaton into the crook of her knee and pushed, buckling her leg. “Now get—”

  “He is in danger! The King is in danger,” she said as she wrenched her head free of his grip, words spilling out in her haste.

  Lord Rozemberk jerked her to her feet. “What are you saying?”

  “Gernandus said . . . something before he died. The King is in danger. I know it.”

  “Why should I believe you?” His voice was steady, cold.

  “Why would I lie?” Mouse looked him in the eyes.

  He took a step toward her, speaking quietly. “Tell me exactly what Gernandus said.”

  “I do not trust you. I will tell the King.”

  Mouse thought he was about to strike her, but he just stood there, staring at her. She took advantage of the silence. “How well do you know this physician who is with your king? They are alone but for Brother Jan, and he could not stop a—”

  Lord Rozemberk grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him, back toward the King.

  “Hartwin, leave us,” he barked as he neared the pallet.

  The physician had just finished unwrapping the wound; he gathered the bloody dressing as he stood.

  “And you.” Lord Rozemberk nodded at the prior. “Go.”

  Brother Jan bowed as he backed away from the alcove, but the King did not see; he was watching Mouse.

  “Tell the King what Gernandus said, girl,” Lord Rozemberk said as soon as they were alone.

  Mouse started to take a step toward Ottakar, but Lord Rozemberk kept his grip on her wrist. “He knew he was going to die. He wanted a priest. But there was only me. He said someone had paid him to kill you.” She saw Ottakar’s pupils dilate as if a shadow passed over him, and then she felt Lord Rozemberk’s fingers dig into her skin. “My Lord,” she added through gritted teeth.

  Ottakar was silent. He laid his head back, closing his eyes.

  “Who paid him?” Lord Rozemberk asked her.

  “I do not
know.”

  “You did not think to ask?” He nearly choked on his disdain.

  “I asked. He died.”

  “Why should we believe you? Did anyone else hear Gernandus?”

  “You left me alone with him.”

  “Why not tell us immediately after Gernandus confessed? Instead, you waited to tell us when you were no longer needed. Maybe you made it up in the hopes you would get to stay near the King.”

  Mouse felt the heat in her face; she worked hard at focusing on Father Lucas’s lessons about controlling her anger. He who is slow to wrath is of great understanding. You want to understand, do you not, little andílek? he would say. And you, who can do so much, must take extra care to do little in anger.

  Mouse would not let Lord Rozemberk bait her. She looked down at the floor, following the dark line of a crack in the stone until it disappeared in the shadows, and she held her tongue.

  “Why not tell me this last night?” Lord Rozemberk yanked her arm, spinning her to face him.

  “I . . . I thought . . .”

  “She could not trust you, Vok.” Ottakar’s voice was sure and sad. “For all she knew, you were part of the plot against me.”

  Mouse looked up to find him watching her again.

  “She took a great risk with your life, my Lord. You were unguarded. The men bedded down in the stable and me asleep. It would have been easy for—”

  “Mouse kept guard. Did you not?”

  “Yes . . . my Lord.”

  Lord Rozemberk let go her wrist. “And Gernandus said nothing else?”

  “‘I took money to kill the Younger King’ was all he said. And ‘absolve me.’” Mouse hoped they did not hear the catch she felt in her throat, but Ottakar’s eyes narrowed.

  “And did you? Absolve him?” he asked.

  She shook her head but said nothing more.

  “So who is trying to kill me this time?” the King asked as he looked down at the naked wound in his side. Mouse walked to the basket of clean linen on the shelves. She gathered a bowl and herbs and went to kneel beside the pallet.