All these thoughts rumbled swiftly through the doctor’s mind and resulted in a frown that wrinkled his forehead.
“You will never be able to practice medicine, Slecna Marketa.” It was the first time the doctor had spoken a word of Czech to anyone in Cesky Krumlov. “What good would an education do you? It is a waste of time and effort.”
“All I want is your word that I can accompany you to Prague and see Jan Jesenius perform the autopsy. I want to see veins, the organs—”
“Slecna! You are indelicate in these matters—”
“Hear me, you are a doctor and I am a bathhouse attendant—what shame is there in a dead man’s body?”
“Out of the question!” he said sharply. Suddenly he imagined the king’s hand sweeping away his reward, his land, like an angry child knocking the chess pieces off a board. There would be no fat babies raised on warm cows’ milk, no eggs adorned with the delicate tendrils of down, no succulent hams curing in the cellar. No vegetable garden with fresh-tilled loam, the earthy aroma greeting him when he arrived in his new carriage from Prague, weary of the city and the court.
Marketa saw high color flushing his face as his anger rose. He was not a man accustomed to having terms dictated to him by another man, let alone a woman—much less a mere girl.
She fingered the fringe of her shawl.
“Think as much as you like,” she said, standing up. “When you finally agree, you know where to find me. But the moon is waxing, and it is time to bleed Don Julius once more. I saw how he struggled with you at the window; you have no control over him. It will not be long before he is as dangerous as he was before our treatment. His cure will be undone, and reports will reach the ears of the king before you reach Prague yourself. Imagine what His Majesty will think when he hears it was a woman who provided the cure, not his own court physician. Now, if you will excuse me, Herr Doctor, I must take my leave.”
Doctor Mingonius accompanied her to the door, a stunned slowness in his polite gestures. By God, this girl had a mind worthy of the political machinations of the court itself! Had she been plotting this all along? Mingonius admired an agile mind, much as a skilled chess player appreciates a worthy opponent.
He smiled at the impertinent girl. Without realizing it, Mingonius spoke to her again in German.
“I should love to have a business partner who is so adept at bargaining—you would be an excellent horse trader in the markets of Prague. Pity you know nothing of horses, Fräulein Marketa.”
“Slecna,” said Marketa. “I prefer to hear you speak to me in Czech.”
She pulled her cloak tighter and threw her shawl over her head, preparing for the cold beyond the castle.
Marketa knocked on the door of the little house on Dlouha Street. The good healer welcomed her in from the cold and pressed a hot cup of linden-berry tea into her frozen hands.
“Drink,” she urged Marketa. “Drink and I will fetch the letter that came today.”
Annabella returned with the folded parchment in her hand. Marketa pulled her lips away from the hot rim of the cup and unfolded the letter.
My Dearest Marketa:
I thank you for your last letter. I have taken your admonishment to heart. Of course I will not mention my concern for you to Mingonius, but I wince to think of you in such close proximity to Don Julius. I cannot impress upon you the danger of the situation, were he to break loose of his bonds. You have not seen his capability to maim and destroy—I have.
Why must you be present at his bleedings?
Yes, I realize, without your cooperation I would not know of his progress and perhaps Mingonius would not succeed in his treatment.
I am torn. Torn between my need to learn of Don Julius’s progress and my concern for you.
You seem to be an integral part of his treatment. Why is this necessary? I will warn you, though, you must not commiserate with this patient—it is unprofessional and dangerous. I understand from what you have written that you feel sympathy for him. You must not. To empathize too much with a patient is to become subjective. Physicians are taught to be objective and skillful in their analyses, devoid of emotion. Describe to me his physical symptoms. Do his eyes focus? Do his hands shake? Does he repeat himself or seem incoherent? What is the shade of his skin, the color in the palm of his hand? Do his gums look pink or red? His breath, does it—
These words were scratched out, with a vicious slash of ink.
Write to me of his physical conditions as well as his rantings. These observations are the most useful to a diagnosis.
As to the news in Prague. Europe is shocked by the work of our imperial mathematician, Johannes Kepler, and his revolutionary theories of astronomy. He has proclaimed his belief in Copernicus’s theory that the sun is at the center of our universe and the planets all circle around it. Even our own Earth. This has been greeted with threats and howls from the Catholic Church. As a Protestant, Kepler does not concern himself with the pope and has the king’s blessings in his study of the heavens, staving off the Papists in order to give his scientists free rein.
Genius! Ah, it is a privilege to be alive in this glorious age of discovery and enlightenment. Prague is indeed the sun of civilization, the glorious sanctuary of science, reason, and art.
In spite of our bright fortune and the patronage of our good king in the field of science, there is rumor of unrest. The king’s younger brother, Matthias, seeks to usurp the throne. He gathers the Hungarians to his side, his allies claiming that the king’s melancholy has rendered him weak and unfit to rule. Some of the Bohemian lords and Moravians are said to listen to Matthias’s treasonous prattle, especially since his success in negotiating peace in Hungary.
Don Julius remains an open wound in His Majesty’s heart, and I believe this contributes significantly to his melancholy. Thank heavens this mad son is locked away safely in Krumlov.
Again, in closing, stay away from Don Julius, I beg you. You must not forget whom you are dealing with or the danger he presents. Let the doctors perform their bloodletting and take your leave.
And please tell me more about this book he speaks of. I am now certain it must be the Coded Book of Wonder.
Yours in service to our king, His Majesty Rudolf II, I bid you good health and God’s protection.
Jakub
More than ever, Marketa wanted to tell Jakub that it was she, and she alone, who treated Don Julius. Take her leave, indeed! She struggled with her pride, whipping it down as if were an unruly cur, nipping and begging for recognition.
She knew she must keep silent, for if the king were ever to hear that a girl—a simple bathmaid—had been treating his favorite son, he would be outraged. Her father, Mingonius, and perhaps even she herself would be thrown into the dungeons of the hrad.
She fancied seeing more of Prague one day than the prison walls.
Still, as she sat in Annabella’s house and penned her reply to Jakub, she would reap some satisfaction. Her lips pressed tightly together in a satisfied smile as she dipped her quill into the ink pot.
My Dear Doctor Horcicky:
I have considered your words carefully—that a physician is meant to be utterly objective and not to take a patient’s soul into consideration. So let me list in detail his physical condition, as well as the exact nature of his discourse.
Don Julius has lost many pounds now. It is hard to even guess how much. His appearance has changed completely. His skin is browned from his excursions hunting. His eyes are mostly focused—sometimes desperately so—on me. They are clear and as beautiful as gemstones.
His breath is—ah, but you scratched that out of your letter! Still, it may please you to know that his breath is sweet and healthful, like a baby’s sigh. Yes, I have on occasion gotten this close to him. Again, he is tied, and guards stand at either side.
He proclaims his love for me. He wants me to marry him and return to Prague as his wife.
These observations I report quite objectively with no embellishment, nor em
pathy toward the patient. Merely the facts, reported faithfully.
I will trust you will keep your pledge of secrecy and my protection. Do not report the patient’s affection toward me to the king or you will jeopardize my safety and that of Mingonius and my father.
Yours in service to our benevolent king, I bid you good health.
Marketa Pichlerova
Jakub focused and refocused his eyes on the words. His hands clenched the vellum so tightly, he left thumbprints on the soft margins.
“She is in great danger!” he muttered.
He started to dismiss the courier, and then reconsidered.
“How does the slecna look to you? Is she in good health?”
“She is as comely as ever,” replied the courier. “That one has the healing hands of an angel. No one can untie the knots of my back like Slecna Marketa.”
Jakub’s eyes flashed open in surprise. It had not occurred to him that the courier would be on such intimate terms with his correspondent.
“Only knots, sir,” said the courier, realizing he had made some kind of mistake. “Her hands just massage my back. Her mother would beat me with a stick if I were to touch her.”
The courier shifted his weight awkwardly, seeing the smoldering look in Horcicky’s eye. He searched for something to say.
“Pani Pichlerova boasts her daughter’s virginity will bring a pretty penny someday soon. Until then, she keeps a close eye on the patrons to see they do not sample the goods.”
Jakub turned his back angrily on the courier and returned to transplanting the king’s orchids.
CHAPTER 25
KATARINA AND THE GRAIN SHED
Katarina did the marketing for the Mylnar family, buying meat, roots, and vegetables for their soups and stews. Because she was so beautiful, she did better than her mother bargaining with the vendors of Siroka Street. Her father grudgingly allowed her this one opportunity to leave the mill because the money she saved was not insignificant.
But it was not because Katarina enjoyed haggling with the merchants that she was eager to shop for the family. She did it because it was a chance to catch a glimpse of Damek, the blacksmith’s son, in the crowded morning market.
Her appearance at the wide mouth of Siroka Street inevitably made a ripple of excitement down the line of market vendors, who had little else to brighten their day.
“Here comes the comely miller’s daughter,” the grocer would say to his sweating nephew, carrying heavy crates of cabbages from the oxcart. “It soothes tired eyes to look up from the frozen muck and see such beauty coming toward us.”
The smitten grocer would give the best price of the morning to Katarina and pull out his finest produce, unblemished by worms or weevils. He beamed with pleasure when her delicate fingers chanced to brush his palm as she paid a meager price for her roots and vegetables.
The butcher was the same, though his shrewd wife watched him carefully to be sure he did not throw away their earnings just for a wink of a maiden’s eye. Still, Katarina would come away with the most tender cuts, and Pan Butcher always managed to sneak in some extra sausages or secretly fill her clay jar with fresh suet when his wife’s back was turned.
Pan Mylnar did not like his daughter to be alone on these trips to the market. He would send his youngest son, Jiri, to accompany her. The young boy was glued to her side. Under no circumstances, said his father, was Jiri to let the blacksmith’s son be anywhere near her. But there were times now when Jiri worked as a page in the castle and could not accompany her.
It was on one of these days in the busy Wide Street market that Katarina felt a hand curve tenderly around her elbow. When she turned, she saw the gentle face of Damek, whose brown eyes were shimmering in love.
“Meet me around the back of the brewery,” he whispered. “I must see you!”
Katarina’s lips mouthed “no,” but the hunger in his eyes insisted. She looked down at her basket, suddenly bashful in his unblinking gaze, and when she looked up again, he had disappeared in the crowd.
She had a long list of purchases to make and did not know how she could possibly meet Damek and return home in time to make the midmorning meal. The bright winter sun was already warming her back, and her father and other brothers would be eager for soup and the taste of fresh bread.
Katarina hurried through her purchases, not taking the time to negotiate the best price. She did not bother to pat the butcher’s hand or pull a strand of her hair from her braid, twisting it coquettishly in front of the grocer as he bartered with her. Her mother would notice that the coins she gave her were all spent, with no change to spare for the next day. She would scold her for being so careless with the family money.
The brewery was on the Latran side of the Vltava, beyond the bathhouse and the Franciscan cemetery. It was a long way from the bustling market, beside one of the Vltava’s sharp, looping bends where the river twisted back on itself.
Katarina struggled with the weight of her basket. It took three heads of cabbage and many pounds of root vegetables to make soup for her hungry brothers. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip, and she felt a trickle of perspiration work its way down her breasts. She worried whether the fresh butter would begin to melt or the thick cream would curdle from its jostling in the jug.
Why had Damek picked a spot so far away?
She knew the answer—her father would hurt him, perhaps even kill him and beat her severely if he found out the two were meeting in secret. Still, the woven reed basket cut into her tender hands. She shifted the weight onto her arms, looping them together in front of her.
A voice called from the shadows of a hovel.
“Why do you carry such a heavy load?”
Katarina looked over her shoulder to see a dark-haired gypsy sitting on a crude log bench. She wore sparkling earrings, the color of pure silver, and she was dressed in purple and red, her hair pulled back in a yellow scarf.
“I—I...”
“Ah,” said the gypsy with a gap-toothed smile. “You are meeting your lover, I can see it in your eyes.”
Katarina stopped breathing. Her face colored red.
“Beauty, your secret is safe with me,” laughed the gypsy. “But beware of the tyrant of the brewery. He is an evil devil.”
The gypsy spat into the dirt and raised her hand in a curse in the direction of the brewery.
“You can leave your basket with me,” suggested the gypsy. “That way you can make better time and enjoy your lover’s company all the sooner.”
Katarina had been warned about gypsies and knew better than to leave her morning’s purchases with her. She shook her head, thanking her politely.
“You do not trust me, do you, beauty?” said the gypsy, her smile fading. “Well, I suppose you shouldn’t. Be on your way and make your lover carry your load home for you!”
Katarina hurried away, trying to make up for lost time. The sun had begun to melt the ice in the puddles, and mist was rising from the moist earth. As she approached the brewery, the stench of hops assailed her nose. She wrinkled her face at the smell, wondering how Marketa could endure the fat brewer’s attentions in the bathhouse.
A voice called out from one of the deserted grain sheds.
“Over here!”
Katarina looked around, making sure no one saw her. She entered the door of the shed and looked around at the mounds of threshed barley.
“My darling,” Damek cried. “I had to see you!”
He stood in the shadows of the doorway, and Katarina could only detect a silhouette until her eyes adjusted to the dark. He was, as always, blackened by the soot of the smithy’s fire, and his darkened face and arms blended into the dim light.
“If my father finds us together, he will kill you!” she said.
She felt his arms pull her into the recesses of the shed. The basket fell away from her hands at the entrance, the cabbages rolling this way and that.
“I am willing to risk that,” whispered Damek. He embraced her, kissing t
he sugar from her sweet neck.
Katarina’s knees weakened, and Damek’s arm slipped around her waist, supporting her as his wet kisses covered her face. He let her down carefully into the brown hills of barley. The smell of grain mixed with the musky odor of her lover, his smoky face streaking white with tears of ardor.
“My darling,” she whispered through the flurry of kisses. “I thought we would never—”
“Who is there?” shouted a man’s voice. “Who is robbing me of my grain?”
Damek sprang to his feet, shielding Katarina behind him.
“I do not steal!” Damek shouted. “Let me come out and I will show my face. It is I, Damek the blacksmith.”
He motioned for Katarina to stay silent. She crept back into the darkest corner of the shed.
“Come out, now!”
Damek looked around, his mouth twisting with consternation. He knew he could not let the brewer know the truth, but he did not know how else to explain his presence.
He walked out into the light toward the pitchfork, his hands held high in the air.
“You! Does your father know you are a thief?”
“No—”
“And what is this?” He kicked at the reed basket, still filled with root vegetables, meat, lard, and cheese. Keeping an eye on his prisoner, the fat brewer squatted down to inspect the contents.
Fat sausages oozed their grease onto his hands. The clay cup of lard was seeping into the cloth where fresh cheese was tied. A crock of pale yellow butter glistened, the creamy finish damp with moisture.
“A man who can afford to buy food as fine as this has no reason to steal my barley. What were you doing in there?”
Damek set his jaw and stared back at him.
“As you say, I was stealing your grain.”
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