A fortnight of rest and food had indeed strengthened the prince’s blood and stamina. When Marketa finally returned to Rozmberk Castle, she could hear his curses lashing the air long before she reached the guarded door.
“You must restrain him,” said Doctor Mingonius to the three guards. “Do not let him free under any circumstances. I will not bleed him without his consent, but we can restrain him if he is going to harm himself or anyone else.”
The doctor took a deep breath. “Marketa, wait here,” he said. “Do not enter until I call for you.”
She noticed the creases in his face and the dark rings under his eyes from too little sleep and too much worry. He must be struggling with the notion of my presence, she thought. Having a woman intervene goes counter to everything he considers professional, especially after receiving the compliments and congratulations of the king’s ministers.
Over an hour went by and Marketa could hear the scrape of boots on the wooden floor, the crash of heavy furniture, and the roar of curses. She heard the pleading of Doctor Mingonius, the curses, yelps, and wails. It sounded as if a wild beast was in the room, not a human being. Perhaps they had waited too long between bleedings, she thought, for the cure seemed to have vanished. Tonight, she thought, was the full moon—yes, they had waited too long.
Then finally—after far too much time, she thought—Marketa heard her name called.
“Marketa! My angel!”
Immediately there was a hush, an ominous silence. Then the creak and groan of the heavy door being opened.
“You may come in now, fräulein,” said Doctor Mingonius, his hair tousled and his green velvet clothing torn in several places. “Be careful not to get within his reach.”
“How can I apply the leeches if I am not close to him?” she said.
She strode past the doctor with feigned confidence, then stopped as she crossed the threshold: the chair!
The prince was lashed to the new bleeding chair, his body supported by crimson velvet cushions. She noticed how her patient was reclined, his body, though lashed with ropes, readily exposed for treatment, his back supported by the horizontal slats. Marketa smiled, seeing that the furniture maker had followed her designs exactly.
“Yes, your invention is quite comfortable, my darling,” said Don Julius, noticing her smile. “I feel as if I am reclining on a throne befitting a king.”
Doctor Mingonius stared slack-jawed at Don Julius. The doctor was still breathing hard from his struggle with the patient just minutes before. Now Don Julius had become calm and courteous, the moment Marketa walked in the door.
Marketa greeted Don Julius with a curtsy as he had instructed her to do in the lessons. Her eyes were bewitched by the sight of her patient and her creation, the bleeding chair.
“I make you happy!” said Don Julius. “Look at the charm of your smile. Let me see you, come closer, my darling.”
Marketa approached him cautiously.
“Your beauty has only been enhanced since our last meeting. Is it the waters of the Vltava that perform such miracles? I watch you every day as you wash trays and towels in the river.”
His hand cocked away from his rope-bound wrist, his finger indicating the direction of the bathhouse.
Marketa nodded. “I know, Don Julius. I see you above. You threw a white cloth from the window one day. Pray, what did you mean by that?”
Doctor Mingonius cleared his throat and approached with a bucket sloshing with muddy water.
“Will you let Marketa apply the leeches now?”
Don Julius wrinkled his nose at the doctor.
“I speak of love and you speak of worms. Let me be alone with the fair Marketa, and she could cut me with a blade. She could cut out my heart—”
“That will not be necessary,” said Mingonius briskly. “We will follow the same plan. The guards shall attend you. If you reach out to Marketa in any way, she will leave at once and shall not return. Do you understand?”
Don Julius sneered. “Take your common stench from this room—it adulterates the aroma of the sweet Marketa.”
“Don Julius, do not speak in that profane manner to your good doctor,” said Marketa. “Apologize this minute.”
Don Julius looked up at Marketa, wounded at her tone.
“I beg your pardon, Herr Doctor,” he mumbled. “Would you be so kind as to take your leave, please?”
Mingonius ran his hand over his forehead, amazed yet again at her control over the madman. “Of course, Don Julius.”
When the door shut behind them, Don Julius sighed. A sigh that reached deep, thought Marketa, from the heart.
“I am sorry, my love, for my outburst. But they represent all that I despise, those men,” he said. His eyes were focused on nothing; they seemed to recede and look within himself. “They are in control, absolute control. He, the devil Mingonius, has kept you from me, though I begged to see you. They see me as a sick man, one to be managed.”
“But you are sick, Don Julius,” said Marketa. “That’s why the bleeding must be performed.”
“Do you believe that, my angel? That I am sick? Because I rage against those who imprison me? Because I despise that desiccated priest who makes me pray to a God I do not believe in?”
“Surely you must believe in God, Don Julius.”
“Surely you must believe in God, Don Julius!” he said, mimicking her in a high voice. “No, I assure you, after what I have seen and heard from the voices, I cannot.”
Marketa shivered. She had never heard a person confess he did not have faith. There were Protestants, there were Reformists, but faith was strong in Bohemia.
Everyone had faith.
But Don Julius did not.
“Say a prayer quickly to the Holy Mother to forgive you,” said Marketa.
“You say one for me, Marketa. She will not hear my prayer.”
Marketa did whisper a prayer. She looked at Don Julius, whose countenance was now not of a lunatic, but of a lost soul. He was a Hapsburg, yes, but a prisoner. Perhaps he would be all his life.
Something caught in the back of her throat, and she had to cough twice to clear it.
“I know your dream, Marketa. You dream of becoming a physician, of learning and practicing medicine in Prague. I am right, am I not?”
Marketa said nothing. How did he read her thoughts?
“You dare to dream, no matter how impossible that might be. Do you know my dream?”
She shook her head.
“I dream of casting off the Hapsburg curse, this mantle of lunacy. I dream of walking through the streets of Prague without women clutching their children to their breasts and hurrying off to hide.”
She touched his shoulder, not to administer a leech, not as a matter of medical protocol, but to soothe him.
“I am sorry, Don Julius,” she whispered. “Truly I am.”
He looked up at her.
“I do not wish you to be sorry. I wish you to love me for the man I could be. I wish with all my heart you would love me—for I know to have your love and trust would transform me now and forever.”
She looked up at the guards, who watched Don Julius’s every movement. Then she looked down at the bucket, where the leeches slept under the muddy water.
“I should perform your treatment now,” she said quietly. She wished he did not look so forlorn. It disquieted her and distracted her from the treatment. In a way, it was easier when he was nasty and maniacal, rather than seeing this remorseful look of confusion.
He nodded as the guards adjusted the ropes so the bleeding could begin. He extended his forearms as far as he could under the restraints.
Marketa noticed the surrender, the meekness with which he offered up his body. Why was it that he was so ready to submit to her will and not to the others? When she was alone with him, especially now, he seemed to her—dare she believe?—normal.
Never had his green eyes seemed so clear and luminous. They had lost the bloodshot color that had so frightened her wh
en he first arrived. Now they shone with a brilliance that betokened depth of character, intelligence—even, despite his blasphemy, a soul.
Don Julius had undergone a profound change in the last few months. His cheeks and face were lean after the months of a strict diet. Indeed, he cared little for food now, Mingonius had reported, and had to be urged to eat at all. His tailor had taken in the seams on his clothing several times, and the fine cloth—velvet and satin—showed off his athletic body, honed and muscled from riding the hunt.
She remembered how his erection had frightened her only weeks ago. Now there was no bulge in his trousers, only a lament in his voice and a pleading in his eyes. He looked utterly lost and childlike.
Before she applied the first leech to his forearm, she took a little knife—a fleam—out of her father’s medical bag. His skin had grown thick with scar tissue over the bleeding points.
“This will only smart a moment,” she said, holding the blade near his vein.
“I trust you,” he said. “I trust you completely.”
She looked up at his eyes.
He winced and then breathed deeply as the blade nicked the flesh.
“Now the leech will bite. The blood will arouse him,” she said, dipping her hand into the cold water to fish out a creature.
“Do you trust me?” whispered Don Julius, his eyes wandering over her. “Do you, Marketa?”
She hesitated, looking into his eyes. His catlike stare mesmerized her. She had never seen such beautiful eyes in her life.
“Yes,” she found herself saying.
“Then ask them to leave,” he whispered, nodding to the guards. “I am tied. I cannot harm you. Trust me. I must be alone with you.”
“My father and Mingonius would never allow it,” she said. “Turn out your other arm. Bend it like this, as far as the ropes will allow,” she said, instructing him with her own forearm.
He did as he was told. He drew a deep breath as she flicked the blade again into his skin.
“It seems unfair that I should be the one who agrees and surrenders constantly. There is no trust on your part. I have things I want to say to you in private—”
“Yes, I remember the topics you wanted to whisper to me one time. Vulgar suggestions.”
“I will never do that again,” he whispered. “But you must trust me. Look at me, Marketa. Look at me. You must trust me!”
As the next leech found the vein, Marketa raised her eyes to his. The pleading, the childlike insistence she found there unnerved her.
“Remove his doublet,” she said to the guards. “I need to apply the leeches to his back.”
The guards did as they were told, untying a rope at a time, cautiously pulling off the clothing, and retying Don Julius.
“I only wish they were your hands undressing me,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “But you are heartless and cruel to my declarations of love.”
When she said nothing, he said, “A witch and her worms—a man’s heart means nothing to her.”
She looked up into his eyes. He looked back at her, watching to see if his accusation had wounded her. Then the long black lashes closed, a curtain. She felt something quicken deep within her, but dismissed the sensation.
Marketa worked quietly, pulling his skin up to apply the leeches. Don Julius seemed content with the silence. His skin flushed wherever she touched him.
“Untie his feet and legs and remove his breeches,” she ordered the guards. “I must apply the leeches there.”
“Send—send them away,” he whispered again, looking down at her between his ankles. “Or I shan’t let you apply the worms to my neck and head.”
“You know we must follow of the map of humors,” she said. “Be reasonable, Don Julius.”
“You be reasonable then, Marketa. I have done nothing but give—give my word, give my body, give my soul. Give my blood to you, and you alone. I have given up my dignity and indulged you, more than any commoner would do. Now I ask one request. But I do not think you have the courage to grant it.”
Her eyes flashed, challenging him.
“What is that request, Don Julius?”
“To be alone with you. That does not seem like too much to ask. Or is it that you are a woman and I frighten you? Of course. So that is the reason women can never be physicians, for they cannot take risks and make leaps of valor!”
Marketa set her lips firmly together. She struggled with his words.
“Guards! Send in Doctor Mingonius,” she said.
Don Julius’s eyes flew open in alarm.
“No! I warn you. I will not continue treatment unless you consent. I will smash this chair to pieces if you or that doctor try to apply any more of your hellish eels to my flesh. You know my condition. Do you have real courage, or are you frightened like all the others?”
Marketa ignored him and looked at the door, her chin set.
Doctor Mingonius hobbled in, his legs having gone asleep while he waited in the straight-back chair in the hall.
“Where are the headpoints?” he said. “You must apply them to his head for the cure to work. And the thighs?”
“I am only halfway through, Herr Doctor. Now I want to complete the treatment in private.”
“Nonsense! I cannot permit you to stay here alone with him.”
“Those are my conditions,” said Don Julius, color rising in his cheeks. “If we are to go any further, she and she alone will touch my flesh, and I will not suffer the humiliation of the guards looking on me in a naked state. Their stares sicken me!”
Marketa thought of Prague. It was her dream. If Don Julius did not accept the bleeding, the priest would report Mingonius’s failure. It would be a matter of days and Don Julius would be waking the dead with his screams and rage.
The bad blood had to be drained.
“Let me,” whispered Marketa to Doctor Mingonius. “I know I can do it.”
“Dear girl, you do not know what you are saying! He is a madman!” Doctor Mingonius put his hand on her shoulder.
All of her life, she had been told what to do. Was she really so different from Don Julius now, bound and helpless?
“Guards, bind his wrists with more rope and leave us!” she said.
Mingonius’s eyes flashed. “Marketa! Do not ask me to—”
“You will do as she says or no one, I swear, no one will enter this room to treat me again,” roared Don Julius. “I will send word to my father that you are charlatans and you shan’t touch me again. I swear it!” He thrashed against the ropes, making the heavy chair screech across the floor.
“Do it,” said Marketa, above the din. “Do as I say and I can save us both!”
Doctor Mingonius felt the perspiration on his lip. The Jesuit would be only too happy to contradict the declarations of success carried to Prague by the king’s ministers. He hoped the priest was not in earshot now.
As if hearing the doctor’s thoughts, Don Julius began to shout at full lung.
“Get me the priest!” he shouted. “I shall have him dispatch a letter to the king this very night of your incompetence!”
Doctor Mingonius looked at Don Julius and then again at Marketa.
“Trust me,” she repeated. “I can do this.”
Doctor Mingonius scanned her face.
“Guards!” he snapped. “Remove his clothes and fasten him securely to the chair. Make sure he cannot pull away and harm Fräulein Marketa!”
“Out!” bellowed Don Julius.
With a flutter of his cape and a last doubtful look at Marketa, the doctor swept out the door.
The guards pulled off Don Julius’s breeches, bowing to him as they did so. Then they retied the restraints, tighter than usual. But he did not look at them even for a second. He watched Marketa, his eyes studying her, mesmerized.
“Go now,” he said to the men. “If I harm Marketa in any way, you may plunge those surgical knives through my heart.”
The two guards exchanged looks but said nothing. One threw a fu
rtive look at Marketa and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent.
As the guards closed the door behind them. Marketa felt a shiver of apprehension. The room was eerily quiet. The candles flickered in the breeze that came in through the window from the river.
“Come now, Marketa. You cannot be afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of you, Don Julius.”
“You are a liar,” he laughed. “But a brave one. Well, here I am. Your patient. Naked and waiting for your hands to cure me.”
Marketa breathed deeply. She could smell his sweat, the musky scent of his body. It was an odor she knew well from the bathhouse, a distinctly male smell, acrid and animal.
She approached his thighs and nudged them apart with her foot at his ankles.
“Why do you not just ask me to open my legs for you,” he said. “I told you I would be cooperative.”
With that, he spread his legs wide, his penis hanging to one side like a dog’s tongue lolling.
Marketa still could not trust herself to speak, but applied the fleam to the soft skin of his upper thighs. She could tell he was a man who rode often, for there was chaffed skin that ran up the inside of his calves and thighs, where the hair had been rubbed off and the skin, once raw, had now healed over. The riding muscles were outlined distinctly, just below the blue-white skin. Her fingers touched the hard brawn, tracing a vein.
She heard his heavy breathing. His head rolled back in ecstasy. His skin twitched under her touch, and he gave a deep sigh as she applied the small leeches.
She moved, on her knees, around to his back, pulling the pail of leeches alongside. Her hand reached his spine through the heavy slats in the chair, and her finger counted the vertebrae to find the right points of contact. She opened the fleam and pierced his skin. He did not wince; he did not twitch. For the long minutes it took to apply the leeches to his back, there was nothing but silence.
Finally, she rose and stood beside him. “Kindly bring your head up, Your Highness,” she said, her voice trembling.
Don Julius slowly turned his face toward her. His eyelashes fluttered open and his eyes sought out hers.
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