The Bloodletter's Daughter

by Linda Lafferty

  He let the cloth fall from his grasp, and it fluttered down to the banks of the river, settling on a heap of rubbish from the castle.

  Don Julius looked down at her and began to laugh, pointing at the white cloth on the small hill of waste, where food and slops mounded against the castle wall. His cackle echoed across the valley.

  Marketa turned her back to him and watched the trout, holding steady against the current. Her heart thumped hard against her chest, so hard she could feel it in her throat.

  She heard her father’s voice calling her from the Latran side. He walked briskly to where she was standing.

  Marketa tried to calm herself, not let him see her flustered. He seemed unnaturally grim. Had he seen the exchange between Don Julius and her?

  “I am pleased you are so punctual, Daughter. Let us hurry. There is someone I want you to meet before we go to the palace.”

  He took her arm, and they hastened back across the bridge. Marketa looked up and saw Don Julius still staring at her, silently.

  The Poor Clares convent stood alongside the Franciscan monastery on the banks of the Vltava, only a few hundred paces from the cemetery where Annabella dug for mushrooms.

  The heavy wooden door creaked open and the two—father and daughter—entered. The smell of an open hearth and stale air rushed into Marketa’s nostrils. The heat of the fire pressed against her skin like an insistent cat. She could barely breathe.

  The nun who opened the door seemed to know her father.

  “Sir, you will be kind enough to wait outside? I will take your daughter to her.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Why are we here?” Marketa whispered to her father as the nun took her arm and ushered her into the dark hall.

  “You must speak with your aunt,” he said, his face dissolving for an instant, then steadying. He composed himself, straightening his back and firming his jaw in determination. “She will give you courage and guidance that I cannot.”

  The old nun at the door smiled, but her dull brown eyes were studying Marketa as if she were a curiosity, an interesting trinket in a peddler’s bag.

  “Yes, you have some of the mother superior in your countenance,” she murmured. “I can see more than a little resemblance, especially when she was young.”

  They came to an ancient door, worm-riddled beneath the thick coats of beeswax. The nun knocked and lifted the creaking latch as she pushed a palm against the door.

  “Mother, I have brought your visitor.”

  At a small desk near the lone window of the room sat Marketa’s aunt. Marketa had never seen her before—only a drawing that her father kept safe in his room. Marketa had thought of her aunt as dead to her, enclosed forever in the convent.

  The nun struggled to her feet. Her wimple framed a sweet, albeit aged, face, the kindness Marketa knew in her father’s eyes. They were sadder, though, as if they had known great tragedy.

  “My dearest niece!” she said, her voice collapsing into a cry. “Marketa, come to me!”

  Marketa was embraced in her arms and drank in her scent—smoke from the fire and incense that infused her clothes. She did not bathe as often as they, but how could she, confined to a convent? Still, her smell was comforting, and Marketa thought of how dogs knew the scent of a family member. Yes, they were flesh and blood, she could sense it.

  The mother superior held her niece for a long time until she finally pushed herself away, swallowing tears.

  “Sit, please,” she said, gesturing to a wooden stool. “We do not have much time. Sister Milana, please wait with my brother and send for Marketa when he indicates it is time.”

  Despite the fact that it was broad daylight outside, little light entered the room. Ludmilla lit another candle and studied her niece’s face as if it were a familiar map she was eager to trace.

  “Now, my child. My brother has told me of your trouble. It seems that you have captured the eye of a Hapsburg, be it an illegitimate one.”

  “Yes, madam. Don Julius has given me unwanted attention.”

  “Unwanted. I see.”

  Marketa shifted uncomfortably on the little stool. It was barely wide enough to support her.

  “I was only to hold the tray for the bleeding.”

  “And you spoke to him, I understand. Even though you were told not to utter a word.”

  Marketa drew a quick breath.

  “Yes, but only to encourage treatment. He refused to be leeched. The only way to cure him is to balance his humors.”

  The nun leaned back a bit in her straight-back chair. Marketa noticed her breathing was irregular and she cleared her throat often.

  “The only way, you say—your father has told me of your great interest in medicine.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And you are quite sure that this—bloodletting—is the cure for the king’s son?”

  “Yes, quite sure. He is clearly unbalanced—the yellow choler is overflowing.”

  “And this yellow choler—the symptoms are?”

  “Rage. Violence. Cruelty. Unsound mind.”

  “And lechery? Your Hapsburg is hardly a gentleman.”

  Marketa felt her back tense.

  “He is not my suitor. He is my father’s patient. He is—mad. Surely you have heard his wails from the castle above?”

  Ludmilla looked around the room, contemplating Marketa’s answer.

  “Niece, do you have any other gifts?”

  Marketa stared back at her in the dim light.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Have you ever had a calling from—another form, another world? Dreams that follow you throughout the day? Voices?”

  “I am afraid I do not have your spiritual calling.”

  Her aunt raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together tightly.

  “Do not be so sure, Marketa. You can sense an imbalance in the humors. Perhaps you can perceive other things ordinary people cannot.”

  Marketa listened to the faint sound of a girl’s voice singing, penetrating the walls. It reminded her of her mother’s finch, chirping behind the wooden bars of its cage.

  She shook her head.

  “I am not so gifted,” Marketa muttered. “I am merely my father’s assistant.”

  Ludmilla reached out and held Marketa’s chin squarely in the palm of her hand. She studied the girl’s eyes, making Marketa look at her own.

  “You are very stubborn,” she said, finally dropping her hand to her lap. “Your father has told me you have seen the White Lady.”

  Marketa could see she was watching her reaction.

  “He has told you that?”

  “My brother and I are very close. Would it surprise you if I were to tell you that I have seen her as well?”

  “When? Where?”

  “She appeared to me when I was your age. In the same place—above the river in the palace corridor window. She was beckoning to me.”

  Marketa asked the question her mother had asked her.

  “What color gloves was she wearing?”

  “Gloves? No, that time she was bare-handed as a maiden. But I speak of this only to open your eyes to your gifts. The woman you saw was the ghost of Perchta of Rozmberk, Bílá paní. She was a kindhearted woman who gave porridge and bread to the poor of Krumlov. Then her father married her off to a wealthy land baron, Jan von Lichtenstein, who severely mistreated her. He beat her when he found that her dowry was not sufficient, and the other women of his family made her work as a maid. She was beaten and abused. When her husband was on his deathbed, he asked her to forgive him for making her life a misery.”

  “And she did?”

  “No,” said her aunt, slowly. “She refused. Her husband then cursed her with his dying breath. When she died herself, she was destined to walk Rozmberk Castle.”

  Ludmilla studied her niece with her clear blue eyes.

  “There are many who see her shadow or smell her scent on the air. Very few have the gift to see her. You and I, Marke
ta, share that gift.”

  Marketa supposed she should have bowed her head. She should have thanked her for her compliment, for saying they were alike and shared the ability to see spirits from the other world.

  She did none of this.

  “Why?” Marketa asked, setting her chin rigid in a challenge. Had her mother been there, she would have pinched it, calling her daughter rude and stubborn.

  “Why what, my daughter?”

  “Why do I have this gift? Why can I see spirits—the White Lady? Why can you?”

  Her aunt looked away, at the cross fixed above the door.

  “She has come to warn you. And because you have not made a decision, she appeared bare-handed. Once you have made a decision, she will choose the color of her gloves, white for good fortune or black for bad fate.”

  Marketa sat in silence, pondering her words. She remembered the White Lady’s bare hands.

  “Come, my child. Think. You have a gift and the blessing of the spirit. Make your decision wisely.”

  “What decision is that?”

  Her aunt’s eyes stared at her piercingly. Marketa thought indeed she and her aunt looked much alike, even now, despite the difference in their ages. Rarely seeing the sun, Ludmilla’s skin was still fair as hers, and she had Marketa’s nose and chin. Marketa wondered if she once had the same brindled hair.

  “You can seek sanctuary here. You will develop your spiritual devotion and join the Clares. We have sisters who have the ability to see beyond, and they use their powers to serve God.”

  Marketa jumped off her stool, shocked by her aunt’s earnest invitation, for even thinking she would consent. Had her father planned this? He had—he must have!

  Realizing her rudeness, she curtsied and then took her aunt’s hand and kissed it.

  “Forgive me, dear Aunt. I could never become a Poor Clare!”

  Her aunt nodded sadly and sighed. She looked away from her niece and up at the figure of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross.

  “I can see that. No, the convent would not endure your obstinate nature and impulsiveness. You are too ambitious to marry Jesus in spiritual vows. To worship God, you must be humble. You, despite your simple upbringing, are not humble at all.”

  Humble. Why should she be?

  “You, my dear niece, look to something else. Science has taken you as a devotee, regrettably. The worship of God and his son, Jesus Christ, is all-consuming. You cannot follow both paths, I am afraid. You have missed the all-important call of God, of saving your soul and praying for the souls of others.”

  Marketa stared at her. Her aunt’s chin was raised and sharp with conviction, condemning her niece for not following in her footsteps. Marketa was filled with fury. Ludmilla’s words were an accusation, a declaration that Marketa was spiritually starved because she was dedicated to science.

  Marketa bit back, not caring how she hurt her aunt.

  “Aunt Ludmilla, how many people have you helped while locked away in this dark convent for so many years? It is safe to worship and to serve God in the darkness, but in the light, people suffer and we bear witness to that suffering. At least we try to offer more help than posing on our knees, hands clasped and useless.”

  Ludmilla’s face mirrored Marketa’s own defiance.

  “How dare you speak to me so! I am mother superior of this convent, and we serve God in our simplicity, poverty, and devotion.”

  “Better not to dirty your hands with the suffering of the outside world where you could truly make a difference.”

  Marketa stood up, knowing how rude she had been and not caring. As she reached the door, she spun around to ask a last question.

  She had to know.

  “Did my father ask you to invite me into the convent?”

  “Yes. He saw the White Lady, too.”

  At this, she bit her lip and turned her back on her niece. But Marketa could hear her sobs.

  The girl ran down the hall, her feet slapping the old wooden floorboards and sending an echo through the convent.

  CHAPTER 17

  A WOMAN SURGEON

  The nuns moved aside, a parting of the black sea of habits as Marketa fled the convent. She raced past them, sweeping out the door, breaking into a run. One of the youngest, a novice named Fiala, felt her eyes well up with tears as she watched Marketa emerge into the light of the morning, free of the darkness of the convent, her clothes already airing and losing the heavy scent of incense and old women in the freshness of the morning.

  “Will she join us?” she asked no one in particular. “I should like to have a friend like that.”

  A withered nun sat in the dark corner by the hearth, embroidering a priest’s robe.

  “Ay!” she cried out, pricking her finger with the needle. “What nonsense you speak, Fiala! Your friends abide in the heavens, angels to God and our Lord himself.”

  “I should love to have an earthly friend,” the girl sighed, her murmured answer inaudible to the old nun.

  “Close the door, Fiala. You are letting the warm air out.”

  “Yes, Sister Agnes,” said the novice, a reluctant hand pushing the massive door closed.

  Marketa looked back at the convent as the heavy door shut. She spun around, running toward her father, who stood waiting on the bridge.

  “Why did you send me to see my aunt?” she demanded. “Why, Father?”

  He turned away from her gaze and looked down into the waters of the Vltava.

  “I fear for you,” he said quietly. “I have seen the power of the Hapsburgs. Even a mad Hapsburg has power. You cannot imagine. The convent would keep you safe and pure.”

  “Pure? Safe? Is that that all you can wish for me in my life?” she said, her fingers tight in fists at her side. She thought of the brewer, and her eyes stung.

  Her father met her eyes, and his shoulders sagged.

  “You are but a girl,” he began. “A gifted girl, but still a girl. We cannot change that fact. Your knowledge of medicine must remain a secret or you will be regarded as a freak. Or worse, a witch.”

  The words stung Marketa as if a swarm of bees had smothered her. She stared at him openmouthed. He suddenly looked old and frail to her, though he was still a robust man in his thirties.

  “Oh, Marketa, if anything should happen to you, I don’t know what I would do,” he said.

  She noticed his nose was running, and he wiped his eyes with the cracked red skin of his knuckles and then looked down at the river, so she couldn’t see his face. She swallowed hard and put a soft hand on his wrist.

  “Father! Nothing is going to happen to me. I will learn from Herr Doctor Mingonius and from you. I will stand no closer to Don Julius than you say.”

  “You do not understand, Marketa! King Rudolf will not allow his son to be fettered for long. It is a blow to his pride. He wants to believe that his son is sane, that he is worthy of the Hapsburg name. A king’s pride is a dangerous thing; it consumes like fire all that it touches.”

  Marketa looked up to the castle, looming above them. She heard the hollow cry of the crow circling above.

  “And the moment Don Julius is free, he will come for you.”

  Marketa swallowed hard. “Then I shall run away, Father. I shall run away to Prague.”

  Her father shook his head. “No, Daughter. You do not understand the determination of a Hapsburg.”

  Marketa fidgeted with her apron, twirling the fabric round and round. “No, Father. You do not understand my determination. He shall not have me. No man shall have me without my consent.”

  Her father did not answer.

  “Come, it is getting late,” her father finally said. “We must walk up to the castle now.”

  Don Julius was far calmer this time. When he saw Marketa, his thick lower lip firmed up in a smile, a smile that would have been dazzlingly handsome on a man whose sanity was not so utterly compromised. But Marketa thought of what her father had said, and she kept her distance, giving him only furtive glances s
o as not to attract his attention.

  Besides, thought Marketa, Don Julius is far too stout, though he is slimmer than when he first arrived in Krumlov. He must be greedy at the dinner table, feasting on butter, cakes, and ale. I could never find such a fat man attractive, especially after the jowly brewer and his fleshy hands, grabbing for me. Men who have such appetites must be stingy in their love, feeding only themselves like the big-bellied men who sweat hunched over their dinners at Uncle’s tavern, sucking the meat bones dry of marrow and casting them into the hearth’s fire to crackle and burn. A gentle man who can give of himself in love must have discipline and satiate his appetite slowly, savoring the flavors shared with his lover.

  She found herself remembering the lean physique of Jakub Horcicky and the feel of the soapy water slick on her hands as she massaged his taut muscles. A man with disciplined tastes, a man of rational thought. And a generous heart.

  It was of no use. Don Julius did not care whether Marketa fancied him or not. He was obsessed with her, and his obsession would not be diminished by her lack of interest.

  “Fair Marketa,” he said as he stretched out his left arm and leg to the surgeons who applied the leeches. “See how the worms linger on my flesh, looking for yours instead. How proud and particular they are to hesitate at a Hapsburg’s blood once they have tasted your own sweet nectar. You have spoiled the creatures, my darling.”

  Pichler flicked an eye up at his daughter and then back at the particularly large leech he held. He pricked a hole in Don Julius’s flesh with a lancet to excite the sucking mouth. Marketa held the white porcelain tray under the incision and watched as thick drops of blood splashed into the basin.

  Finally the leech bit hard at the small wound, and Don Julius rolled back his eyes in ecstasy.

  “We are united at last, fair angel!”

  Marketa noticed a bulge in the king’s son’s breeches, straining at the leather laces. He saw her eyes travel to his erection and leered at her, the tip of his tongue sweeping around his mouth, his breathing hoarse and erratic.