Bohemian Gospel

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  It was when she started vomiting that Mouse suspected she was pregnant. She heard the first faint heartbeat a week later, and she was afraid. Vok would most certainly know the child wasn’t his; he would just as certainly know whose it was. But that wasn’t what scared her.

  What frightened Mouse was the baby itself.

  For days she let worry gnaw at her, until finally at the Angel’s Mass at midnight on Christmas, she found the courage to close her eyes and look within herself. What she saw crippled her with joy. For the first time in her life, Mouse saw the spark of a soul in her; God had not turned his back on this child as he had Mouse. This child had hope, and, for the moment, that meant Mouse had a future.

  She began planning. She filled her days with necessary sewing until Gitta, sworn to secrecy and with even more solemn oaths that she would not write to Ottakar, had taken over the task. Mouse turned to a more enjoyable chore and started carving bits of wood until the windowsills filled with the likenesses of people she knew and an army of animals and figures from stories. When she started to carve a face for Father Lucas, the softness of his eyes and the sharp cut of his nose, a longing awakened in her to share her new joy with someone who loved her. Even ill, Father Lucas would enjoy hearing about the baby.

  Mouse wrote to Mother Agnes in Prague and asked her to inquire with others who might know Father Lucas’s fate. She also wrote to Mother Kazi at Teplá, asking if she knew where the Father was and begging her to come to Rozemberk in the summer when the time of delivery neared.

  A letter came quickly from Teplá—Mother Kazi was ill and could not travel; they had no word of Father Lucas. But Mouse was still waiting for answers from Mother Agnes when Ottakar came back to Bohemia with his new bride.

  She heard the horses as she worked in the garden she was planting. The last of the March sun was resting on Mouse’s back, but she shivered and laid a hand on her rounding abdomen.

  “It will not show, my Lady,” Gitta reassured her. “But he will see it in your eyes if you are not careful.”

  Mouse held the words as caution when she bowed before Ottakar later that day in the Great Hall as he made introductions for his Queen. Margaret was far older than Mouse had imagined, much older than Ottakar himself. Any lingering jealousy vanished, and pity took its place as she saw how unhappy he looked. He smiled and kissed her, but his eyes were dark with worry and disappointment. Listening in on his conversation in the hall revealed the source of his disappointment—the politics in his new kingdom were more tangled than he hoped and the pope was planning a new crusade. Mouse saw more worry in his face on the few occasions when Ottakar looked at his wife. Margaret might have given him Austria, but it was very unlikely that she would give him an heir.

  Mouse almost placed a protective hand on her belly.

  Out of fear of giving herself away, she worked to disconnect from the people around her, focusing on the food passing in front of her, nibbling at bits of bread or fruit, smiling blankly but trying not to hear the conversations. She tuned her ears on the minnesingers Ottakar had brought with him, troubadours he had taken with him to woo his Austrian wife. Mouse let her eyes flicker toward Margaret once more to quiet the sudden bitterness; she seemed as out of place as Mouse felt.

  “Will you dance with me?”

  Lost in her own thoughts, she had not noticed him come up behind her.

  “Vok, you do not mind, do you?” Ottakar asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “Not at all, my Lord.” It did not take Mouse’s special gifts to hear the lie, and as he took her hand and held it out to the King, the flash of anger in Vok’s eye promised consequences.

  For a moment, she thought of refusing Ottakar, but the nearness of him—his smell, just as it had always been, floating down to her as he bowed, and the blueness of his eyes which lost their worry as they gazed at her—kindled the old feelings. She found that still she could not say no to him.

  Ottakar took her hand formally from Vok, but as they moved past the table, his fingers slid to lace between her own. The steps of the dance brought them close and then apart again, hands touching and then not. Anyone watching could see in their faces how they felt about each other. Time had healed no wounds here.

  No sooner had Mouse sat down, breathless, heartbroken, and ready to find some excuse to retire to her room, than Vok roughly grabbed her arm, pulling her back to her feet.

  “My turn,” he hissed in her ear.

  His fingers dug into her waist as he moved her into the circle of dancers and pushed and pulled her through the movements. When the dance finished, Vok yanked her toward him, crushing her against his chest and kissing her hard on the mouth. She knew better than to push him away, so she let him put on his show for Ottakar.

  The King’s grim look as they returned to the table seemed proof of something to Vok, who called loudly for more wine, clapped Ottakar on the shoulder and began to talk about the hunt he had planned for the morrow. Mouse could not tell if he was pleased or angry.

  She got her answer in the middle of the night.

  When she had announced her intention to go early to bed, claiming a headache from too much sun in the garden, Vok had boasted his intent to see her later. She knew he meant it for Ottakar’s ears more than her own. He’d quit coming to her bed weeks ago after he’d burst into her room again, mostly drunk, and stared at her for the better part of an hour without saying a word before slamming his fist against the wall. Mouse had heard the bones crack, but when she had gotten out of bed to help him, he had pushed her away and left.

  So when she woke with a start from a dream of dancing with Ottakar to find Vok standing quietly over her, she lay still and waited for him to leave.

  He didn’t.

  “I will not let him have you. I mean to claim what is mine!” He snatched the covers away from her, leaving her exposed in her thin linen undergown to the chill air and his eyes, which slid slowly from her face along her breasts and finally to the roundness of her stomach.

  “What is this?” He spoke so quietly she barely heard him. She gave no answer.

  He grabbed her forearm and jerked her up, pulling her off the bed; she landed hard on her knees against the wood floor.

  “Tell me who did this,” he said. She kept her eyes on the floor. He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked back, forcing her to face him. “Tell me.”

  “You already know,” she said as softly as she could with her throat stretched taut.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  She tried to swallow. “Ottakar.”

  “He said he had never had you. He lied so I would take you off his hands.”

  Mouse realized that it was not her betrayal that hurt him.

  “He did not lie. It was the night before we married. The one night only. And it was my doing, not his.”

  He let go of her.

  She had closed her eyes and so did not see his fist before it slammed into the side of her head; she half caught herself but not before her mouth hit the arm of the chair beside her. She heard him moving, pulling his foot back as he prepared to kick her, but she yanked the chair around to catch the blow and then scrambled to her feet.

  “Stop!” she ordered. Vok stood still, panting, his hands balled into fists at his side. The power surged in her chest and the baby rolled, kicking violently. She laid her hand on her stomach, worried that the power might have affected the fetus, and breathed slow and deep until she was calm—the baby and the power both quiet.

  “If you hit me again, if you endanger the life of this child, I will kill you,” she said resolutely. “Now get out of my room.”

  The bruise and split lip kept Mouse in her room for the rest of Ottakar’s stay, and though she longed to see him, she knew it was better this way. When he left for Prague, Vok went with him.

  Mouse enjoyed a peaceful spring, almost as pleasant as last year’s at Hluboka, despite her longing for Ottakar. The garden thrived and now that Luka was in command of the keep, she took long
walks in the woods beyond the wall, although as her belly grew and the heat of summer descended, the walks shortened. When she could no longer hide her condition, Lady Rozemberk took a fresh interest in Mouse.

  “You must take care with Vok’s heir,” the Lady cautioned as she insisted on mornings in bed for Mouse and restricted activity—no more gardening, no more walks beyond the bailey. Mouse wondered why Vok had not told his mother who the baby’s real father was; she wondered if he had told Ottakar.

  When the letter came from Prague in the rainy days of July, Mouse took it with shaking hands, sure it was from Ottakar setting claim to his child. But it was not his seal. It was Mother Agnes’s, and it bore ill news.

  Father Lucas was near death at the monastery in Sedlec.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sedlec, she thought as she hurried to the stable. It drummed in her mind, driving out all reason. I must get to Sedlec.

  “I want a horse,” she said thickly as she took the stable boy by the shoulder and pushed him to a stall.

  “Which horse, my Lady?”

  “I do not care. Just ready a horse!” She paced as she waited, bits of questions sifting past the sense of urgency. Mother Agnes wrote in haste, explaining nothing but that the news had come from Ottakar. But why would they take Father Lucas to Sedlec? There was no leper colony there. If he had not been among lepers, where had he been?

  “Help me up,” she barked when the boy had finished saddling the horse. Her belly made her clumsy, but once mounted, she wasted no time prodding the horse into a trot past the keep and toward the only gate out. She hoped Luka was not there.

  “Let me out,” she called to the guards as she neared the wall.

  They did not move. Her horse, sensing her nervousness, pranced and scurried side to side.

  “Let me pass.” Mouse worked to soften her tone. “I am riding down to the village. It is too far for me to walk in my condition.” The lie slipped easily from her lips.

  The guards looked at each other hesitantly. “I am not sure—”

  “I need cloth from the weaver.”

  “Let me fetch what you need from the village, Lady Rozemberk. You should not be riding. What if the horse were to slip and—”

  “I thank you for your care, and I will take great caution, I assure you, but I do not know what I want. I must see what he offers.” When they still did not move, she added, “Perhaps I should find Luka, then? I believe he has given orders on this matter already—that I am free to go where I please when I please—but I am sure he will not mind having those orders questioned. Let me fetch him.” She turned the horse back toward the keep.

  “No, my Lady. I would not bother the Lord Chamberlain. I only meant to caution you.” He nodded to one of the other guards. “Let Lady Rozemberk pass.”

  Mouse kept to the village road until she was sure they could no longer see her from the tower and then turned her mount northward, weaving him between the trees until she reached the road toward Kaplice. She closed her eyes, envisioning a map Ottakar had shown her once during the early days at Prague, and settled on a route to the Sedlec Monastery.

  She ran the horse at a steady canter until neither she nor he could stand it any longer. It was enough to give her a comfortable distance from Rozemberk Keep. When it grew late enough that she was sure to be missed, Mouse steered the horse into the woods, deep enough that anyone riding the road would likely not see her but close enough to catch occasional glimpses of the track to be sure she was still heading in the right direction. The pace slowed as they wove through underbrush and bracken, leaving time for her mind to race and her body to complain. Would she get there in time, she wondered as she straightened, trying to stretch her back. Her shoulders and eyes sagged with exhaustion and grief.

  Images of the dismembered squirrel clawed at her mind and she jolted awake; the horse had stopped in a small clearing, munching grass. The stars were out. Mouse led the horse back to the road, her hand pressed into the small of her back, trying to push away the pain stabbing at her in waves.

  They stopped at Trebon in the late morning so Mouse could buy food for them both. Every part of her screamed the need to hurry, to get to Sedlec before it was too late, but the tired horse could do little more than trot, and the baby protested every jolt. Mouse worked to keep her mind on the promise of finding Father Lucas alive.

  It was dusk the next day when she saw the spires of the monastery bell tower. She asked the horse to run, but he could not, any more than she could when she dismounted, her legs leaden. She walked stiffly toward the infirmary, but as she passed the church with its doors flung wide, she saw him laid out on the table at the back of the chapel.

  Her knees shook, muscles quivering with the onslaught of grief; she wrapped an arm under her belly trying to lift some of the weight to ease the burning in her back and then forced herself down the aisle at a creeping pace.

  “No,” she whispered, laying her trembling hands on his chest. He had been dead awhile. No one had even washed him.

  “I am sorry, my Lady. Are you family?” The monk came from the altar to stand beside her.

  Ignoring him, Mouse walked slowly around the table, her hands running along Father Lucas’s body. She shook her head, not wanting to believe.

  “Who did this to him?”

  “Did what, my Lady? I understand he was ill.”

  “These are not the marks of leprosy.” Her voice ran cold with rage.

  “Leprosy?” The monk took several steps back from the table. “I . . . I do not think he had leprosy, my Lady. They would not have brought him here.”

  “No. He did not.” But she was not talking to the monk; she was mumbling to herself, her voice hollowed from the shock at his condition and the rage at what had been done to him. “There are no sores, no signs of infection.” She stopped, laying her face against Father Lucas’s bare feet, her hair falling over them like a curtain.

  “Come away. You should not see him so.” The monk put his hand on her back.

  She snapped upright, grabbing his arm and looking him in the eye. “Who did this?”

  “I think you are confused. He was ill.”

  She pulled him toward Father Lucas’s feet. “See here? The bottoms of his feet are nearly black.”

  “It happens when the flesh is left—”

  “No! His skin is darkening with decay, but his feet are much darker. Bruised before he died. And his toenails—do you see? Cracked and peeling back from the flesh.” She spoke rapidly, breathlessly and dragged the monk beside the table. “And look here—his thumbnails cracked just the same.” She felt along Father Lucas’s hands and fingers, silent tears running down her face. “Broken, crushed. Torture leaves such wounds. Not illness.”

  “Torture? Who would want to torture a sick, old man?” The monk pulled his arm free. “I . . . think you are overtired.”

  “Where was he before he came here?”

  “I do not know. Please come with me to see the abbot. We will find a place for you to—”

  “Leave me.” Looking down at the Father’s habit, which was tattered and soiled with blood and urine, she listened to the monk’s fading footsteps. When she knew she was alone, she sank to her knees.

  “Oh, Father, I am so sorry.” She held his shattered hand against her cheek. “I should have found you.” She gritted her teeth. “I swear I will find who did this to you.” But she couldn’t sustain the heat of revenge against the heaviness of her loss. The power in her snaked its way up and whispered a clear truth.

  Come forth, Lazarus.

  Her body shaking violently, Mouse pulled herself up to stand beside Father Lucas again. She stared down at his bloated face. And she understood why Jesus wept before he resurrected his friend. Like Mouse, he had come too late and lost the friend he loved. Mouse felt the pain of that failure burn her throat. Jesus could have his friend back and be free of the guilt of having come too late. Raising Lazarus was good for everyone, for Mary, Martha, Jesus, God—everyone except
Lazarus. And that was why Jesus wept.

  Just as Mouse wept as she bent to kiss Father Lucas.

  His head wobbled oddly as she leaned against it to whisper in his ear. Slowly she looked down to his neck, pulled back the folds of his mantle, and saw the jagged flesh.

  His head had been twisted and ripped from his body.

  Mouse thought of the squirrel, its arms and legs never joining quite right, its shredded flesh hanging at odd angles. She bent double, retching, and then pulled herself up onto the table next to Father Lucas, her pregnant belly resting against him, her head touching his. She could not put him through the suffering of resurrection, not for her own selfish reasons, not when she knew he was finally at peace. So she would suffer instead and let him rest where he was glad to go, just as he had commissioned in his last words to her.

  Mouse looked up to the mural on the ceiling of the apse—John baptizing Jesus in the Jordan, a dove hovering over the haloed Christ, the hand of God poised in blessing over his son.

  “You could have left him whole.” She closed her eyes. “I hate you for this,” she hissed.

  She slept, waking only when the monks came to take the body.

  “Go away.”

  And they did.

  But they came back in the morning. They tried to pick her up, but she screamed until her throat was raw and she spewed them with spit. They came back on the third day, masked against the smell, and took the body. She followed them outside and slid down the wall of the church when her legs would not hold her.

  The fire crackled and danced in the early morning air. Mouse bit into her tongue as the Brothers lowered Father Lucas into the cauldron of boiling water, and she gagged at the smell of cooking flesh. When the Brothers took the last of the bones, gleaming white, from the cauldron, and carried them to the ossuary where they would be used as a candelabra or pulls for the vestment cabinet, Mouse folded in on herself, sobbing.

  Someone came to squat beside her, but she didn’t care. She had maggots in her hair; she reeked of death.