Bohemian Gospel

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  Mouse heard the strain in his voice. He took a deep breath and continued. “Our country is whole again, ready for the bright days to come, and we owe a debt to these three who made it so. First, my aunt, Mother Agnes, whom you all know for her work with our sick and poor. She could not be here tonight, as she holds vigil with her Sisters. To her, I have committed to build a new wing for her convent and a new chapel, too.” The men and women pounded fists on the tables in approval. “Second is Lady Rozemberk, to whom I grant a small estate near the lake of Landstejn, which shall be under her sole management and be her own property until the time of her death, when it will revert to her younger son, Lord Rozemberk. The elder Lord Rozemberk has been stripped of his title and privileges, and his estates default also to his younger son.” Again, the people sounded their pleasure. Ottakar cut his eyes toward Vok, who sat like stone; Mouse knew he had petitioned to have his father labeled a traitor, but Ottakar had refused.

  “We thank these women for their service, but it is to one other we owe our deepest debt. With the bravery of a knight, she sought relentlessly to right the wrongs she witnessed, and so we bestow upon her this night a special honor: the rights of a knight.” He held out his hand to Mouse, pulling her to stand beside him; she was sure her face was as red as her dress. “Lady Emma, you will keep vigil this night in the Chapel of All Saints and on the morrow make your oath before me and God and be knighted as a protector of Bohemia.”

  The Great Hall stood silent. Mouse’s heart thundered in her ears. No woman had ever born the title of knight in Bohemia, and it seemed the lords and ladies did not wish it to be so. Mouse chewed at her lip and was about to tell him that she did not need such accolades when Vok began pounding his approval on the table. Ottakar’s men quickly joined in and then finally the others in the hall did, too.

  Ottakar bent, his lips cool against the heat in her cheek as he whispered, “You do have value, Mouse, not lent you by parents or a family name, but a worth all your own.”

  After the others had gone to St. George’s to keep the Hallows’ Eve vigil, Ottakar and Mouse slipped into the Chapel of All Saints. Mouse cried a little when she knelt before the altar as Ottakar laid sword and shield on it. Bishop Miklaus offered a stilted blessing and then left quickly.

  “They were mine when I was a boy. My mother had them made for me,” Ottakar said as he knelt beside her, nodding to the sword and shield. “We called them Long and Broad.”

  Mouse smiled; the old Bohemian folktale had been a childhood favorite of hers.

  “They are yours now,” Ottakar went on. “Like the hero in the tale, you broke into the tower. You defeated the evil sorcerer. You told me you were a soldier; I believe you. And every knight must have a blade and shield, though I am not sure when you might use them.” He looked over at her. “Do not imagine that I mean to take you to war, knight or not.”

  “Are we going to war?” she asked, suddenly serious.

  “No we are not, but I am sure I will lead men to their deaths on the battlefield at some point. Each day I learn how much more twisted and tangled are the politics of the Church. And how far-reaching. I must keep this pope a friend, and I am sure he will have people he wants me to bend to their knees for Rome.” He sighed as he made the sign of the cross. “But this night those troubles rest elsewhere. Tonight, we must clear our minds and cleanse our souls so we are pure to take the oath tomorrow.”

  Mouse bowed her head; she counted her breaths and then her heartbeats, methodically sifting through the swirl of emotions until she was calm. But she still worried about being brave enough to try to cleanse a soul she wasn’t sure she had. She couldn’t help but look at Ottakar’s glowing soul as he kept vigil beside her. It seemed different somehow; though as she studied it in her mind’s eye, she could not easily tell what had changed. She finally resolved that it was not smaller but tighter, more rigid. And she was troubled.

  He left her for a little just before dawn. Against her better judgment, she turned her special sight inward, looking again for a flicker of light, some sign of a soul to cleanse. In the quiet of the chapel, the wind whipped around the windows like a creature seeking a way in to the sanctuary; the candles at the altar flickered as its tendrils snaked in between the loose panes. Mouse shivered.

  “‘I will declare what God hath done for my soul. I cried unto Him with my mouth.’” As she whispered Father Lucas’s favorite Psalm, his face flared up in her mind like a warning. “‘Verily God hath heard me; He hath attended to the voice of my prayer,’” she said over and over, trying to make the sense of foreboding that pressed down on her slip away like smoke from the candlewick.

  Mouse heard the door to the chapel open and ease shut, Ottakar’s footsteps coming down the aisle, the rustle of his silk mantle as he stopped beside her. He helped her rise, and she felt the heat in his hand, longed to lay it against her cheek, to kiss his palm. The flush of desire felt as odd as the rush of fear had moments ago. He led them to a bench beside the altar.

  “So how will you knight me, then? Am I to be Sir Mouse?” she asked playfully, trying to force herself back to normal; she felt as if she were dipping and soaring like a bird on the wing.

  “I think Lady Emma will do, but you will always be Mouse to me.” He tried to match her tone, but he avoided her eyes, playing instead with the ribbon around the cuff of her sleeve. She knew him well; he was wrestling with something.

  “If it has to be told, Ottakar, then best be done with it.” She whispered the words, almost hoping he wouldn’t hear.

  “You are stronger than I am.” He spoke softly in the voice he saved only for her, unburdened by expectation and free of command. He kept twisting the ribbon of her sleeve where her hand rested on his thigh. She bent to look in his face, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear so she could see his eyes. They normally reminded her of the hyacinth-covered hills near home, but tonight they were clouded.

  He jerked away from her and stood, gripping the balustrade, his shoulders hunched.

  “When you look at me like that, I cannot think about anything but—” His words came thick and fast. Mouse wanted to go to him, but she couldn’t move, frozen by a sudden, terrifying hope.

  She was sixteen and she knew what she wanted for her life. But it was impossible—he was impossible. Then he was beside her again, his breath hot against her mouth, his lips pressing on hers. Her mouth parted for him, ready to give him what he wanted, what his body craved, as he was about to give her what her heart desired—a name, a place to belong, a life with him. His hand slid behind her head, the other around her waist, supporting her as his lips opened into her own. Mouse felt dizzy and alive, but then he pushed himself away from her.

  As he turned back toward the altar, she lifted her hand to her cheek, cooling the tender skin his stubble had chafed.

  “I am sorry for that,” he said.

  “I am not.”

  “I think you know how I feel about you, though neither of us has said it. I can keep nothing from you anyway, even if I tried.”

  She smiled at him, confident and comfortable with the openness they had always shared.

  “But it does not matter what I feel. I am King and you are . . .” He shook his head. “By the saints, Mouse, a wayward mother, even if she claims connection to the family of Aragon, and God only knows who for a father? I swear I would give Moravia to find him a noble and ready to claim you, but despite all my efforts I can discover no evidence of him. It is like you were sired by the wind.” He clenched his jaw, and then his face softened as he looked at her. He sat beside her again, took her hand.

  Mouse’s body coiled as the sense of foreboding seeped into her again.

  “You told me yourself that in order to be a good king, different from my father, I must put the needs of my people above my own desires. The time has come for me to do my duty. I must craft battlements to shield Bohemia from the threat of an ambitious pope. I am elected duke of Austria, Mouse. We will announce it tomorrow.”

&n
bsp; “I am sure your father is pleased,” she said coldly.

  “This is none of his doing.”

  “He has always wanted to claim Austria. When he saw he could not do it for himself, he used you to get it for him. He has been working on you ever since we returned to Prague. He has infected you with his ambition.”

  “No, Mouse. This is my decision. And in order to be Austria’s duke, I must appease their nobles. I am to marry Margaret, Henry’s widow. And you will—”

  Mouse didn’t hear what else he meant to say. She saw now that the hope she’d clung to this night had been desperate and false. By choosing duty over her, Ottakar breathed truth into what had been uttered in spiteful missives by the ladies of the court and hinted at in the longing stares of Ottakar’s men. She was and always would be—nothing. Here in the flickering candlelight of the chapel, Mouse finally believed it.

  The cold of the marble pew seeped into her hips and legs, numbing her. She wanted to run away, but she had nowhere else to go.

  “I love you, Mouse. I will always take care of you. And you will marry Vok. He will make a good husband for you. You will want for nothing and—”

  “What?” she asked as the words finally registered. “Vok?”

  “You will marry Vok.”

  “No.”

  “He wants you. He will make a good husband and—”

  “It does not matter.”

  “It matters to me.” He sounded sad.

  “I do not want to marry.”

  “You would choose to be a nun? But Mother Agnes said—”

  “No. The Church is not for me. Just let me go.”

  As she said it, she knew he would refuse. She had no family. She could not return to the abbey. Mouse had nowhere to go; she was trapped. She trembled as she thought about the reality of what her life would be now.

  She stood to leave, but Ottakar grabbed her arm.

  “There is more. I would not give you so much to bear, but I feel you would want to know.”

  Mouse felt as if she were in a dream.

  “I have a letter from Bishop Bansca. It came today.” His voice sounded far away, hollowed, and the scratch of the parchment in his hand, too loud. “He speaks of Father Lucas.”

  She froze.

  “Would you like to read it?” He held out the letter to her.

  Her hand moved slowly, the fingers numb as they closed over the broken seal. She meant to nod, meant to open the letter, but her arm dropped slowly down to her side.

  “He is ill,” Ottakar said.

  The words thawed her; she quickly turned to him, too quickly after hours on her knees. The image of St. Wenceslaus in the stained glass swayed and Ottakar’s arm wrapped around her waist to steady her.

  “I must go to him. Where is he?”

  “You cannot help him, Mouse.”

  “I am a healer. I will make him well.” She took comfort in the arrogance of her tone.

  “He is beyond healing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bishop Bansca says it is leprosy.”

  “No.” She would not let it be so. “I will go see for myself. This comes from Bishop Miklaus, yes? He and Brother Jan want to discredit the Father, to get him out of the way so Brother Jan can have the abbey. They—”

  “The letter comes directly from Bishop Bansca, Mouse.”

  “I do not know this man. I do not trust him. And besides, if it is true, if Father Lucas has—” She choked on the words. “I can still tend him, ease his suffering.” She was weeping.

  Ottakar pulled her to his chest. “And risk the disease yourself? Do you think I would let you do such a thing?”

  “I never get sick.” She sounded like a child. “And he will be sent to some cruel place with no one to care for him. No one here wants me. Please let me go to him. Tell me where he is, Ottakar,” she sobbed.

  “I do not know.”

  “Then find out!” She dug her hands into his tunic; she would make him answer if she had to.

  “I think your Father anticipated such a response, Mouse. He writes to me at the end of the bishop’s letter. See here?” He took the letter crumpled in her hands and unfolded it.

  She read the short lines, clearly in Father Lucas’s hand though oddly scripted as though he’d had difficulty holding the quill—“Tell my little andílek to let me rest where I am glad to go.”

  “No,” she cried, her legs giving way beneath her. Ottakar carried her back to the bench.

  She cried until she had no more tears.

  An hour later, she stood as if dead and let Ottakar knight her in front of the people who had crowded into the chapel; none of it mattered.

  In her room, the morning sun pouring through the window too brightly, she let Gitta help her undress.

  When she got in bed, she did not care if she ever woke.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Visions of Father Lucas, grisly lesions covering his face, his hands gnarled, fingers bloated and black with infection, finally drove her from the numbness of half-sleep she’d lingered in for hours. Mouse sat at the edge of the bed trying to find the will to do something. All she wanted to do was run, though there was nowhere to go. But her body would not stay still. The power in her coursed through her like fire, feeding on her despair and reminding her that she had the power to make Ottakar change his mind or to force Bishop Miklaus to tell her where Father Lucas was.

  Mouse had sent Gitta away, so she dressed herself and headed to see the bishop. Last night’s wind had brought a bitter cold, and she bent her shoulder to it as she wove between the icy puddles in the bailey. She was glad for the warmth of the bishop’s house, though the reception of her was as chilly as the weather; Bishop Miklaus would not see her. Too busy with Church matters, his man said. So Mouse kept watch from the shadows of St. Vitus’s, where the freezing rain had formed uneven fangs along the eaves of the church. The bishop would leave his house sooner or later, so Mouse lay in wait, teeth chattering.

  When the door finally opened and Bishop Miklaus headed down the path, Mouse followed him, not wanting to confront him where there might be witnesses. He pulled his cloak around him as he walked toward St. George’s. The freezing rain, now mixed with pellets of stinging ice, had driven almost everyone indoors; the back bailey was empty. She had assessed the bishop as he walked, noticed how he lurched leftward, his leg dragging a little in step. He was weak on that side. The growing sheets of sleet would help her, too. He was sure to take the narrow path between St. George’s and the outer wall for the bit of cover it would offer and the break against the biting wind.

  Mouse slipped around the front side of the church ahead of him and pressed her body into the dark of the wall, willing herself to blend with the shadows as the hollow-eyed children had done.

  He did not see her as he passed.

  She slipped her foot in front of his left leg as it dragged; his right knee buckled when it took his full weight, and his body spun as he lost balance, slamming into the church wall. Mouse was on him before he could he cry out, one hand on his chest, pushing him hard against the stone, and the other shoved tight against his throat.

  “Tell me where Father Lucas is.” She could barely speak, her voice thick and hoarse from the cold, her mouth nearly frozen.

  “I do not know.”

  Mouse’s fingers tightened against his throat, digging deep into the flesh and curving around his windpipe; she could feel the heavy and rapid beat of his heart where her thumb pushed against his artery. His eyes grew wide, panicked.

  The power grew in her, drunk on the rage that burned in her like blasts of hot air from a fire gone wild. What did she care of oaths made? Why should she keep faith with God, who had never claimed her, or Ottakar, who tossed her aside?

  “Tell me where Father Lucas is!” she commanded.

  “I do not know,” the bishop gasped.

  “Then tell me where Bishop Bansca is.” Mouse squeezed her hand even tighter about his throat, her fingernails cutting into
his skin.

  “Rome.”

  “What?” She felt the cartilage in his throat start to give, his eyes bulging and then rolling back in his head. But it was the hopelessness of his answer that doused the anger and the power so suddenly.

  If Bansca had gone back to Rome, he was beyond her reach. And if he was the only one who knew where Father Lucas was, then Mouse would never find him.

  Bishop Miklaus slumped as she let him go.

  Horror rushed to fill the emptiness in her, and she crouched, frantically laying her ear against his chest. His heart beat, irregular and faint; he was still alive. But it was only luck that had saved him; it was not her conscience that had stilled her hand.

  Mouse ran through the sleet to the Black Tower. She told the guards the bishop had collapsed, and then, as they tended to him, she slipped through the gate and into the woods. Numb again, not from the cold, she wandered without purpose or thought between the ice-coated trees. They tinkled like glass as branches brushed each other, moaned as the wind rubbed limb against limb. As she walked down to the river, she could hear the voices of the Sisters, carried down from the convent, praying for All Saints. They did not call her back or send her on her way.

  There was no one to watch her step into the swirling water.

  In her mind, Mouse imagined the warm shallows of the Teplá back home; she could barely feel the sharp teeth of the nearly frozen and much deeper Vltava. She was thinking of that day last year when she’d gone into the water unsure of her future, afraid that her dream of adventure—made flesh and bone with the arrival of the wounded Younger King—was dead. She had thought Ottakar was leaving the abbey without her, and, as she’d laid her head back in the gentle waters to rinse away his blood, her disappointment had led to a wish that the river would carry her away to someplace new, an unseen future. As the violent currents of the Vltava pulled at her skirts, Mouse made the wish again.