“It is fetching,” he said, fingering the gold. “But when it covers your hair, it offends me—take it off.”
“How could I do such a thing to spoil tonight’s tender moment?”
Suddenly his eyes glinted, like a hungry wolf.
“We do not have to wait until tonight. I will take you now!” he said, his voice hoarse and low.
Cold sweat pulsed down Marketa’s spine, and she fought to compose herself.
“But, my beloved, no, we must wait. We have waited all these months. I want it to be right. Wait until my robe is finished. It should be the way you planned it.”
Please, oh God, she prayed, do not let him remove my hair covering! If he does, I am done for.
Don Julius stared at Marketa now, his eyes cold, the warmth of love extinguished.
“Where did you get such a costly adornment?” he said. “I have never seen anything like it, even in my father’s court. How does a poor bathmaid possess such a treasure? And where did you acquire this silk scarf?”
“It was a gift,” she answered quickly.
“A gift from whom?” he snarled through his clenched teeth. “From Jakub Horcicky?”
“A gift from a dear friend, Don Julius—”
He raised his hand to strike her.
“You lying whore! You open your legs for an old brewer, and you open your legs for my father’s physician. Do you think I do not know your nickname? Musle! Musle, they call you, the bathmaid whore.”
“No, Don Julius. Do not call me that name!”
“Musle!” he roared. “Yes, and they laughed that my heart broke for you when I thought you dead. All the while, you lived among them, the fornicating swine!”
“I was frightened, my lord. I was frightened of you and your temper! Have mercy!”
“Why can you not understand how I love you! You betray me at every turn, you harlot!” cried Don Julius. He held his hands over his ears, driven mad by voices that Marketa could not hear.
“Look at me, Don Julius. Look at me—do not listen to the voices, my darling. I beg of you!”
He turned his eyes, red with tears, toward Marketa. His face was a map of anguish. The shadows of the tormented boy washed over his countenance, like a moonbeam through a web of midnight clouds.
She pulled his hands away from his ears and whispered, “Stay with me, Don Julius. Do not listen to them!”
But Marketa could see that the voices had won. The demons had seized his soul.
“Get away from me, whore!” said a strange, cold voice.
Marketa covered her face and waited for a blow to hit her.
Instead, she heard a key rattle and the grinding of a lock. She looked up. She was alone. He had locked her in his chambers.
Marketa ran to the window where she could see the banners of the Masopust procession waving over the bright costumed revelers. Throughout the late afternoon, the town had carried out the traditional celebration of Bacchus, which would end with his burial. The fat brewer was this year’s Bacchus, and his wife and a child stood at his side. In one hand, he held a mug of beer; the other clutched a huge greasy drumstick from a goose. Bacchus ate and drank in excess, singing bawdy songs while the crowd cheered. A sexton and a grave digger, a priest and mourners followed him, for tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, he would be buried, according to the tradition, and the hard days of fasting would begin.
Suddenly, as she watched, a horseman charged into the scene. The women screamed and clutched their children to their sides. The rider, Don Julius, headed directly for Bacchus, trampling him. The brewer shielded his head with his arms as the horse trod his legs and torso, but within seconds the livid rider reined the horse toward the town square, the clang of iron horseshoes competing with the screams of the injured brewer.
Marketa knew it would be hours before Don Julius returned, drunk and murderous. And those hours were all that she had left to live.
Doctor Mingonius’s coach arrived at the castle when the sun was a bloody streak on the horizon and the first stars had begun to emerge. The doctor shared the coach with two other physicians, one being the great Jan Jesenius.
Jakub walked swiftly out to greet them. He sympathized with the older men for the grueling journey at such a relentless pace. But there was no time to waste.
Doctor Mingonius embraced the younger man.
“Where is he?” he said without any other word of greeting.
“He locked Marketa in his bedchamber and took off at a gallop down the hill into Krumlov. Trampling a townsman—”
“Marketa?” Doctor Mingonius broke in. “Marketa is held prisoner?”
Before Jakub could answer, Jan Jesenius, a stately man at forty, cleared his throat, interrupting them.
“May I present myself, Doctor Jan Jesenius, and my assistant, Doctor Jelinek. I believe, Doctor Horcicky, we have had the pleasure of meeting at Court, but you may not remember me.”
Jakub nearly smiled despite the dire circumstances to hear the self-deprecating charm of the illustrious physician, known throughout Europe and beyond. Of course any learned man of medicine knew Jesenius.
“Of course, Doctor Jesenius. It is an honor to have you here. And I believe we have met, Doctor Jelinek.”
Doctor Mingonius nodded anxiously at the pleasantries, but his face was a wrinkled map of worry.
“We must get her out of the room at once, before he returns! Has he harmed her in any way?”
“After a cloying display of affection, he struck her across the face and called her a whore. He has returned to his maniacal rage about the Coded Book—”
Doctor Mingonius was already charging up the stairs.
Don Julius left his horse in the square. The townspeople had returned to their festivities, drunk and stumbling, after the injured brewer had been carried away in a litter.
Bacchus had been lost to them a day early. He would not be buried tomorrow after all. Bad luck, they grumbled, and staggered back to the tavern to ease their disappointment with strong drink.
Last year’s Bacchus, a merry tanner, had died of the cold when the townsfolk buried him in the wet snowbanks of the Vltava. And what a year they had endured, a Hapsburg raping their women, their grievances ignored by the king. Could the coming year be worse? Was a wounded Bacchus more of a dire omen than a dead one?
Enough! The most important part of Masopust was to gorge oneself with meat and drink. Appetites must be sated, and the rest of the world could take care of itself. The oblivion of strong spirits washed over them, carrying away their fears and woes, making them stupid and happy for the remaining hours of the feast.
Under the mind-numbing effects of mead, medovina, and ale, they barely noticed the lord of Rozmberk Castle sitting among them. It wasn’t until he pounded his fist on a wooden barrel, demanding mead, that the surly tavern-keeper even threw a look at him.
Don Julius drowned his thirst with mugfuls of the honey wine, one after another, as if he were parched. The strong spirits rose from the wine and burned his eyes. He blinked back the tears and tipped up the clay vessel, downing it in one draught.
The women, not as drunk as the men, hurried from the streets to hide in their homes, for they had seen Don Julius’s horse in the square. But the men of Krumlov were not going to leave their tavern on the most festive night of the year—Hapsburg be damned—and they drank all the more.
Don Julius felt his face grow numb and spirit rise in his veins. The fermented honey smelled of flowers and he thought of Marketa, of burying his face in her thick hair. He gave a lopsided smile to the beaked rooster who served him, and pounded his fist for more.
“Bring a goodly pitcher!” he shouted.
A spool of spittle fell from his mouth, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.
Around him the other drinkers spoke Czech, a language he could understand but could not speak fluently. Don Julius considered it a barbaric tongue, fit only for peasants, a language to be extinguished and replaced with German, the language of God and i
ntellectuals. His nose and lips wrinkled up in a sneer as the Czech words grew louder and louder. The repetitive buzzing of syllables annoyed him, and his mood grew dark again.
A huge bear slammed his massive human hand on a barrel, hissing violently to a horned devil. Both men uttered curses, their tempers flaring as their tankards emptied.
Would a bear defeat a devil? Don Julius wondered, the wine buzzing in his head. What of that bearskin—it would be the trimming for—ah, the night garment of Marketa. Marketa, my angel—
No! The whore!
He would teach her tonight who is master! How could he touch her when she had sat naked before the piggish brewer, the stinking fat brute. She would give her maiden favors to a commoner, a man not worthy of a Prague whore. And then she had seduced a Hapsburg.
She deserved to die.
How could his true love have betrayed him?
And had he not seen lust in the eyes of Jakub Horcicky? His hand on her cheek when the door swung open. Coupling. There in the dark hall, right outside his own door.
He would teach her not to make a fool of him again!
And the Coded Book. Had she whispered its secrets to her new lover? With his magic potions, his dedication to herbs and flowers, a sorcerer.
Would the two of them poison him now? Was that the secret of the Coded Book, a recipe for his death? His father and Jakub and Marketa—all of them plotting his death.
The words of the book, unreadable—they held the key to his destruction! All the strange plants, the flowing waters where the maidens bathed. His blood. The green water in which the women played? Greenish-blue as the veins that ran under his skin.
He stared in horror at his hand, cold with sweat, examining the veins that pulsed just beneath the flesh. Look! The same color as the waters that flowed through the book. Maidens laughing, in the waters, maidens round-bellied with another man’s seed, swimming in his blood.
“I will kill her!” he shouted.
The devil leapt unsteadily from his seat though the bear struggled to pull him away.
“You Hapsburg shit!” spat the devil, his breath stinking of sour beer and boiled eggs. “Foul villain who preys on innocent girls! Coward!” The blacksmith’s son tore off his mask as he shouted.
Don Julius blinked to see a devil become a red-eyed, sootfaced man, screaming insults. He had never had anyone challenge him in his life.
“You dare insult a Hapsburg?” he shouted, reaching clumsily for his rapier.
The blacksmith already had his dagger in his fist. With a quick jab, he slashed Don Julius’s face.
The riotous talk ceased and silence filled the cellar as royal blood was spilled. Only the crackle of the wall torches could be heard, licking the stone walls with their flames.
Don Julius raised a hand to his cheek, his fingers coming away bloody. He stared at the sticky redness as the bear and the rooster pulled the devil-man away, now shouting and kicking him out the door as he screamed insults.
The wound to Don Julius’s face was not mortal, a horizontal glance of the blade. Still, it bled copiously. He sat fingering his blood, dumbfounded and remembering the leeches.
All around him swirled stumbling ghosts and stags, gawking chickens and fish monsters. They shoved each other to get a closer look at a bloody Hapsburg, haunting him with whispers and curses in a guttural Czech he could no longer understand. The closed air of the tavern was sour with fermented hops and men’s sweat.
“The devil curse all of you!” he screamed, waving his rapier at the crowd of ghouls. The drunken mob parted as he struggled to the door.
He stumbled out into the square where he found his horse, attended by a barefoot boy.
“Out of my way!” he screamed at the hapless boy, kicking him in the ribs.
He threw himself into the saddle, still swinging his rapier. The horse shied and he lurched forward, nearly toppling from the saddle. With a dig of his spurs he galloped away to the castle, muttering the name of Marketa between his clenched teeth.
“Marketa, can you hear us?” shouted Doctor Mingonius.
There came no answer.
“She must be in the furthest recesses of the rooms,” he said to Doctor Jesenius. “Where is Jakub?”
They both looked around. Jakub Horcicky had disappeared.
“I must get back to the doctors,” argued Jakub. “I think Mingonius means to break the door down.”
“What?” said Annabella. “Release her and have Don Julius extract vengeance on the entire village? Ne, listen to me, Jakub. This is a true solution, which will settle the matter once and for all.”
“How can you be sure it will work, Annabella? What if he—”
“It is her last wish. Trust me,” she said. “Dismiss all the kitchen servants and forbid them entry.”
Before she heard his reply she was already working a metal wedge into the wooden crate, prying it partly open with great care. She looped a rope around the box, securing it with a knot.
Jakub helped her lift the box onto the platform in the shaft, the device that had once been used to ensure Wilhelm Rozmberk’s meals were delivered piping hot from the kitchen.
“Are you sure you can pull the cable without me?”
“It will not be just me but Marketa. We are strong and the load is light, compared with the strength of our necessity. Go! Stop him before he reaches the door or all will be lost!”
Jakub hurried out of the kitchen, his winter cape drawn over his shoulders.
Neither of them noticed the sweep of a dark robe and the glitter of a crucifix in the shadows of the servant hall.
CHAPTER 48
A CONFESSION
Carlos Felipe Sanchez de Miramar had heard the snap and creak of his knees as he lowered himself to pray on the cold granite of the monastery chapel a few hours earlier. He had heard the screams and protests of Marketa as she had been locked in the room, and the howls of the brewer trampled in the streets, the wretched man clutching at the broken bone of his leg.
I have helped the bastard prince play Satan against the people of Krumlov, he thought. He will murder the girl now.
The priest lowered himself to his knees, folding his hands in prayer, his stiff knuckles protesting. The harsh Bohemian cold was unmitigated by tapestries, rugs, or heat, and the old priest shivered under his coarse wool tunic. The dim light that strained through a leaded glass window only partly illuminated the altar and the worm-eaten wooden statue of Christ on the cross.
The priest bent his stiff neck in prayer. He remembered how fervently he had prayed as a young man, how the mystery of Christ and the aura of the Blessed Virgin had enthralled his soul and left him ardent to serve God. He was from a wealthy family in Ronda and did not have to join the order, but he had heard the call as clearly as a man stricken with love, a stirring in his heart that had urged him to dedicate himself to the Jesuit brotherhood. The erudition of the Jesuits suited him, for he was a man of books and learning. He counted himself many times blessed to have been given the honor of tutoring the young Hapsburgs, Rudolf and his younger brother Ernst, when they had come to the Spanish court.
It all seemed so long ago now. The future had shone with untold brilliance then, the strengthening of the Holy Roman Empire, where God’s word would educate and guide the hand of an emperor, and Jesuits would administer holy discipline to the continents of Europe and the Americas.
But Hapsburgs bred weaker and weaker monarchs with each generation. They bred amongst themselves like caged rabbits. Despite the Jesuit’s tutelage and his Uncle Felipe II’s stern hand in his education, Rudolf II’s fancy turned to collecting art and clocks, frivolities, and fanciful inventions. He spent the empire’s treasure on alchemists and practitioners of the occult, astronomers and astrologers who predicted his future from the position of the stars, instead of leaving fate to the hand of God. It was rumored that Rudolf had left the faith entirely, too occupied with his fanciful pastimes to find time to pray to his Maker.
Then the kin
g had bred haphazardly and prolifically with the Italian wench to produce this devil, Don Julius. The bastard, who, under Carlos Felipe’s own charge and supervision, had planned to rape and possibly murder an innocent girl.
The priest winced as he thought of his part in this tragedy. His temper had betrayed him; his pride had made him suggest that the barber should be seized and punished for having lied to a Hapsburg.
And to him.
Suddenly, Carlos Felipe’s chest contracted in a spasm of pain, and he pressed his tight fist against his heart. What had become of the man who served God so willingly and who had shyly asked favor of the Blessed Virgin Mother, like a schoolboy with a crush? When had his heart shrunken like a withered apple in winter? His faith and soul had been pure so many years ago, praying and studying in the monastery. Now he was an accomplice to murder, an embittered old man who had helped a madman procure his blameless victim.
His heart tightened again, and he gasped. He looked up for someone to help him and saw a pale white light hovering over the niche that held the statue of the Virgin. He thought he heard a rustle of skirts, the stiff cloth an aristocratic lady would wear, but all he saw was the light illuminating the niche. He was dying, and this must be the Holy Spirit gliding away from him.
He cried toward the light, “Forgive me!”
Suddenly the light was extinguished and he heard shuffling footsteps behind him.
“Brother,” a voice called from the shadowed recesses of the chapel.
Carlos Felipe gave a little cry, clutching his chest.
Abbot Prochazka hurried to his side and pleaded for the old man to lie down, kneeling beside him and propping up his head. The chill of the stone floor soaked into the old priest’s back, but his heart ceased its clenching pain as he felt the kind hands holding him in the darkness. He began to breathe a little easier, though terrified the pain would return.
“I am dying,” Carlos Felipe gasped. “God punishes me for my actions, for my betrayal.”
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