The boy hunched near the flame again, feeding it twigs with his dirty fingers.
“I was too young and weak to fight against the Ottomans. When they laid siege to Esztergom, my uncle spirited me from my home, to teach me to be a man. I think my mother must cry every night, but we fight to protect Esztergom from the infidels and keep our women safe.”
Matthias’s shoulders drooped as he heard the boy’s words. Esztergom had fallen to the Ottomans that very morning. The women and children had been raped, killed, or abducted.
There was nothing left but rubble and charred ruins.
“And your father?”
“He fights with the armies of Archduke Matthias,” the boy said, sitting up straight and pushing his grimy hair from his face. “The king says that we are the shield of all Christendom.”
Matthias winced. The boy would learn soon enough that his family in Esztergom was now dead or became concubines to the Ottomans. There was no shield. Only the wounded and the dead were testimony to the battle.
“You say you are too weak to fight, and yet here you are alone keeping the fires burning, caring for the wounded, preparing food. Hard work you perform here. What gives you the strength?”
The boy shrugged, then took the stranger’s hand and placed it against his chest.
“Keep your fingers there—to the right,” said the boy, directing his hand with his own. “Can you feel it?”
Matthias nearly snatched his hand away. As royalty, he was not used to being touched, but he played his part. And he was curious. The boy’s chest was concave, the flesh seemed hollowed as one would scoop out the meat in a melon.
Under his fingertips Matthias felt the beat of a heart. A faint pulse on the right side of the boy’s chest.
“My mother used to tell me that it was a secret gift, to have my heart on the right side of my body. She said it gave me unnatural courage and strength. That is why I can help the wounded, I think. My uncle thought it would be better than staying home with the women.”
Matthias’s hand slipped from the boy’s chest. He looked around at the campsite, littered with broken, wounded bodies. Another man cried out for water.
“I’m coming,” called the boy.
“I must report back to my commander,” said Matthias. “I will remember meeting you—”
“Tamas.”
“Tamas. Tamas of the Right Heart. I hope your other brothers and father come back to camp safely.”
Tamas looked at his brother Adam, his mouth wide, sucking for breath.
“I pray they do,” Tamas said. “I want to return to Esztergom and see my mother and sisters. I fear I was not made for battle, yet they tell me there has been war since the year of my birth.”
Matthias studied his face. “How old are you, Tamas?”
“Thirteen. Just.”
Matthias nodded slowly. “Yes, they tell you the truth. Every year since your birth.”
Tamas squatted on his haunches and poked at an ember until it blazed. Then he fetched the jug of water.
“Too long. We all pray for peace. They say Matthias may defy the king and sign a treaty with the Ottomans.”
Matthias stared at the boy.
“Do you think that would be a mistake, Tamas? Would it not show a lack of courage?”
Tamas shook his head. “My father says it is the peacemakers who take the biggest risks. He says any fool can start a war. It takes courage to stop one.”
“Your father sounds like a wise man.”
“Water, boy! I am dying of thirst,” cried the wounded man from his pile of rags.
Tamas nodded toward him.
“Oh, he is, the wisest man in the world. And I hope the war ends soon,” said the boy. “I miss my mother’s cooking!”
Matthias nodded his thanks and climbed the long, steep hill toward his horse and escorts. He turned once more to watch the boy lift the clay jug to a dying man’s lips.
CHAPTER 44
THE REUNION
Gripped by fear, Marketa shook with terror, but one thought burned bright through all the cold bewilderment she felt in her soul.
She would not let her father die in the castle dungeon.
Marketa had heard he was kept in cavernous blackness, chained to the rocks, given only hard crusts of bread to eat and whipped daily.
Some of the servants risked their life to bring him scraps from the kitchen and news from the outside world. Barber Pichler begged them to send his love to his daughter and tell her she must not surrender herself to Don Julius.
“He will murder her. Tell her!” he implored. “She must flee Krumlov. Otherwise the madman will find her.”
The servants noticed that the barber never inquired about his wife.
It was Masopust, the final days of feast before the Lenten fast, a Christian celebration stretched thin over ancient pagan roots. The streets of Krumlov were filled with townsmen in animal-spirit costumes, carrying offerings for fertility, both in soil and womb. They knew evil spirits ran wild, indulging their last chance for mischief before the faithful partook in the holy fast of Lent.
It was a time for frenzied excess, gorging on the last of the winter’s meats and ale, and parading wildly and reeling drunk in the streets. The tavern was packed, and the savor of roasting meat wafted through the winding lanes.
It was traditionally a festive time, the full breath of merrymaking in the bleakest month of the year. But not a soul in Krumlov greeted the holiday without a shiver of apprehension in the winter of 1608.
It was still bitterly cold, and the banks of the Vltava were crusted in a brittle wedge of ice. The howls of the royal madman above pierced the winter wind. The mad Hapsburg ruled from the ancient castle, and one of their own innocent citizens was locked in the depths of his dungeon. Now they heard that the miller’s daughter, Katarina, had been raped savagely in the forest and left bleeding and half-dead by the bastard prince. The townspeople of Krumlov spit down on the cobblestones, looked up to the gray skies, and wondered what kind of spring could be birthed from such terrible omens.
Don Julius hunted everywhere for Marketa with a murderous glitter in his eyes. Slit-mouthed gossips whispered that she should surrender herself to the Lord of Rozmberk Castle and save their town.
Destruction, vice, and terror reigned in Krumlov. What cheer could the coming Holy Easter tidings provide when the world reeled from such sin and iniquity?
Marketa was alone in Annabella’s house when the coachman knocked on the door and a young novice entered, her head humbly bowed.
For a novice about to take the holy orders, entering the house of a professed witch was unthinkable. Fiala knew she risked damnation, but she did as she was bidden by Mother Ludmilla.
“Why are you here? Who waits in the coach?” Marketa asked her, bewildered.
“It is your aunt, the mother superior. Her last request is to be at your side when she dies,” said the novice in a meek voice. “I have sworn to carry out her orders. She begs you let her enter to pass her last days—perhaps only hours—with you.”
Marketa stared—the novice stood before her, her young eyes set on the bathmaid’s face, waiting anxiously for an answer.
“Of course,” Marketa managed to say at last. “Bring her in immediately—it is cold and bitter outside!”
Marketa pulled together some coverings and placed them on Annabella’s mattress. She drew a deep breath. Would a mother superior really lie in a witch’s bed? Would she draw her last breaths on the sheets of a sorceress?
The coachman carried the light bones of Ludmilla into the house. She winced as he moved her to the bed, for she was in pain and the withered folds of her skin were pinched in the coachman’s grip.
“Aunt Ludmilla, welcome,” Marketa said, kissing her dry cheek. “But I beg you listen, this is Annabella’s bed I offer you. Mine is in the catacombs below.”
“She is good to share it with me,” whispered her aunt, and she put a hand out to touch the linen ticking as they laid her
on the mattress.
After the novice and coachman had left, Marketa covered her aunt with quilts and fanned the embers to flames. Then she placed the clay kettle on the firehook to make some tea.
“Annabella is digging for roots, Aunt Ludmilla,” she explained. “She will assess your health when she returns. She has marvelous knowledge of plants to cure sickness. I have witnessed it time and time again.”
“Come closer, child,” said her aunt. Marketa knelt by the side of the bed, and she grasped Ludmilla’s hand, the nun’s fingers a bird’s claw.
“I did not come here seeking a cure. I came to see you and make things right between us before I die.”
Marketa’s eyes welled with tears. Her father was in a dungeon because of her, and now her aunt risked her soul to cross the threshold of a witch to see her. What good had she, Marketa Pichlerova, ever brought to this world?
“I want to ask your blessing, dear niece, before I die. I fear I have not intervened in the world of sin and mankind. I have indeed been a poor servant to our Lord.”
It took Marketa a second to understand what she was saying. When she did, she gasped.
“Oh, no! Aunt Ludmilla, you are a good, pious woman. I beg you to forget my spiteful words!” Marketa crossed herself in genuflection, a habit deeply instilled in her by the Catholic Church.
Before Ludmilla could answer, the door creaked open and Marketa caught a glimpse of red hair trailing below an indigo scarf.
“Annabella! Come here—my aunt is very ill!”
Annabella hung her cloak on a peg. She did not look surprised to see the mother superior of the Poor Clares convent lying on her bed. She bent down and kissed Ludmilla’s hand.
“I have been waiting for you, Ludmilla,” she said. “I was afraid you would wait until it was too late. As I wrote you, time is of the essence.”
Marketa narrowed her eyes at Annabella, wondering what madness she spoke of now. But her aunt nodded her head and smiled weakly.
“It is almost too late,” she said. “Tell me how I can help.”
Don Julius had gone days without bathing. His hair was matted and his face streaked with greasy food and filth. He refused to use the chamber pots and left puddles of urine and mounds of excrement on the parquet floor. He screamed and threw vases, clocks, and fine ceramic figurines at the servants who dared to enter his chambers.
His behavior had deteriorated to a point that was close to the condition in which he had arrived in Krumlov a year ago. There was no trace of the studious young boy, of the handsome prince, of those last shreds of his true soul that Marketa had fought to rescue.
Jakub had ridden north to Prague to plead with the king to revoke Don Julius’s powers over Krumlov and to free the poor barber Pichler. The king had refused. He trembled with fury to learn that Marketa’s reported death had been a lie.
“Let Krumlov deal with my son—these are the consequences of their deceit!”
But the king did worry about his son’s mental collapse and bade Jakub to discuss the matter with the other court physicians.
Jakub had ridden straight back to Krumlov, with only one night of rest for his horse and himself. Before he even opened the door of Don Julius’s chamber, he could smell the stench.
“Don Julius, pray let me enter,” Jakub called, covering his nose with a handkerchief. He did not wait for an answer, but pushed open the door to the filthy room.
“You traitorous physician!” Don Julius shouted. “You know the whereabouts of my love and you betray me by keeping silent! You conspire against me like all the others!”
“Don Julius,” Jakub said, “I bring tidings from your father. I bring tidings and—I bring the Coded Book of Wonder.”
At this the snarling expression of Don Julius faded like a wave receding from washed sands.
“You possess the book?”
“Yes, I have it in safekeeping,” he lied, for the book was still back in Prague in the king’s possession. “And I shall give it to you if you release the barber from your dungeons and cease your search for the girl Marketa.”
“Never!”
“Your father is very distressed at the news of your behavior. He is sending Doctor Mingonius back to Krumlov to help me treat you. There are two other doctors who are to attend you, for your father is afraid for your health.”
“That devil does not worry himself about me!”
“His Majesty is very concerned about the rumors that have spread throughout the land, throughout the empire. Your actions have shocked the civilized world. Matthias, your uncle, is using the outrage to fuel a rebellion to overthrow your father, our king.”
“Ha! It will serve the swine right.”
Jakub stared fiercely at him.
“And you do not think your own protection and privileges will end should your father be dethroned? I think Matthias would relish the thought of beheading you to prove his power.”
Don Julius furrowed his brow. His uncle Matthias had always hated him and would stop at nothing to possess the throne of the Holy Roman emperor.
“The Coded Book. Where is it?”
“As I say, it is kept in a safe place where no one can find it. Your father promises you may have it if you cease this behavior. He loves you as his favorite son, but your behavior has caused a scandal that endangers his throne. You have gone too far.”
Don Julius said nothing. He rubbed his hand over his itching crotch.
Jakub looked at him in disgust. He had tried hard to contain his temper and to convey King Rudolf’s word as clearly as he had been commanded to do. But he could no longer contain his fury.
“Good God, man, clean yourself! What woman would ever want to be in your company? Your apartments smell of shit, and your body is filthy. Your hair is matted as an ape’s.”
Don Julius reached up and touched his knotted hair, feeling the thick snarls for the first time. He sniffed at his doublet, raising his arms.
“I must bathe then,” he mumbled to himself. “She must fall in love with me as she did for one day, one enchanted day!”
Jakub’s eyes flashed wide. Could Marketa have ever loved such a man? He thought of her blue-gray eyes and how her gaze might soften in love. Was it possible this man had really seduced her?
True, Don Julius had proclaimed his eternal love for her. The night air of Krumlov carried his desolate torment, crying mournfully for his lost love. What woman would not be affected when the favorite son of the emperor shouted her praises and celebrated her beauty, when he declared himself so lovesick at her absence that he could barely breathe? Don Julius shouted to the world that he needed Marketa with a desperate passion.
Had his passion once been desperate enough to sway her judgment? Was it now desperate enough to end in murder?
“I must bathe. I must shave and cut my hair,” Don Julius decided. “I must look my best for her. She must fall in love with me again!”
Jakub remembered Annabella’s request. A lock of hair.
“Yes, I will send for the barber after you have bathed, Don Julius.”
Marketa watched as Annabella stared at the blood spots on Ludmilla’s lips and touched her finger to the red droplets. Annabella brought the blood to the candlelight to study it, turning her finger this way and that. Then she disappeared into the catacombs to rummage through the dried herbs, bones, roots, and talismans. Marketa stood over the passage, the trapdoor flung open against the stone floor. She could see the witch’s candlelight dancing against the walls.
Marketa turned away to stoke the fire under the cauldron. The water was boiling by the time Annabella emerged from the dark hole with a bundle wrapped in her apron. She spilled the ingredients out on the floor by the hearth.
Among the litter Marketa recognized a dried rat’s tail and a desiccated toad. There was a bulbous root much like the one Marketa had seen when she encountered Annabella that first time in the cemetery, digging by a child’s grave. The root had an uncanny resemblance to a tiny man, its tendrils reachi
ng out in four limbs and its wrinkled face sneering at her with squinted eyes. There were two glass vials of black potions Annabella poured in the cauldron. They boiled up in a sulfurous cloud that made Marketa gag and turn away, coughing.
Annabella did not twitch, immune to the smell. She added the bones and skull of a small animal and some fresh organs, perhaps an animal heart. Then she asked for Ludmilla’s blood-soaked handkerchief and tossed it into the brew.
Finally she coated the inside of a mug with a thick black tar. “Essence of poppy oils,” she told Marketa. “The sweet oblivion of the magic flower.”
Marketa could not understand the murmurings and incantations. They were in a tongue she didn’t know—not Germanic or Latin or Slavic, for there was not a word she could decipher.
At last Annabella poured a dose from the cauldron into the mug and brought it to Ludmilla’s bedside.
“You will die soon,” she said, holding Ludmilla’s hand. “You know this, of course.”
Ludmilla nodded, and her white lips stretched into a peaceful smile.
“Annabella!” Marketa cried. “What of your potions, your cures?”
“There are some things a healer can do. But the others, the vast majority of life and death, we cannot pretend to tamper with, for there is a much higher spirit who determines our fate. Your aunt knows this, Marketa, the difference between our mortal world and the world beyond. That is why she has come to us.”
“But what of this brew?”
“It will bring her peace and strength for the brave deed she is about to perform.”
Marketa looked at her aunt Ludmilla, white as death’s own pallor. Then she turned to Annabella. “What deed can she possibly perform?” she whispered. “She is barely alive!”
“A deed of great nobility and sacrifice. I only give her this potion to carry her through these few remaining hours, without the torturing pain she endures now.”
Pichler dug his filthy knuckles into his eye sockets against the blinding light of day. He stumbled on the stairs to Don Julius’s apartments and was helped up by the two Krumlov guards who had known him since they were in Latin school together as children.
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