by Tracy Falbe
As if in agreement, she pushed aside his hand and licked his face. She slurped at the saltiness of his tears. Then with her swift silent grace she trotted toward the den. She looked back once. Thal had only disappointment to offer her. Resigned, she entered the den to nurse her pups.
One by one the other wolves crept up to him, but none let him touch. They whimpered and sniffed and then retreated. Last to come was his most dependable companion. The maturing male was clever and a pleasure to hunt with. He would have to guide the pack now. Thal dipped his head to him, and the sign of respect surprised the wolf.
The raven squawked. Thal regarded the dark silhouette in the towering evergreen. The bird was right. He had to go. He did not belong here anymore.
Thal needed space to think. The presence of his family was too distracting. He struggled to remember his life before the forest, but the blissful liberty of many seasons hunting with his kin blocked it out.
He flung the old wolf hide over his shoulder and walked away. Like his alpha female he looked back once, very wistfully. He hated to leave, but the world of humans had reclaimed him and he could not stay.
Chapter 3. Mother Shadow
Altea folded a towel over her basket of eggs to protect them from the hot sun. The market had been especially busy with new produce flowing into the city. The cool spring was finally warming, and hope for a bountiful year was cheering the folk.
Her maid Cynthia pressed close as they worked their way through the bustling crowd. She was carrying a bucket of little strawberries. Altea expected her brothers to gobble them up before they could sweeten a custard. She smiled when she imagined washing the juice off their faces and fingers. Despite the constant work her brothers required they were adorable. Altea tried to dote on them. They all had splendid dispositions like their mother. Happily they lacked the hard humor of her stepfather, although she supposed he would adjust their boyish gears to fit the cogs of adulthood sooner or later.
A heavy wagon drawn by two thick-limbed black horses rumbled by Altea toward the Kamenny Most. People jumped out of the way of the ponderous load. She noted the Habsburg seal upon the barrels in it.
“No one cares about those who walk in the street,” Cynthia groused.
“It’s not hard to watch out for wagons,” Altea said, wondering at the maid’s sour mood.
She supposed the crowd was bothering the woman, so Altea applied herself to advancing their progress. She lifted her chin. “Excuse us,” she said many times and wove through the people.
Some men lifted their hats to her. She acknowledged their manners pleasantly while maintaining just the right amount of aloofness. A young man with new clothes that showed off his physique rather nicely ushered her forward with his walking stick. “May I have the privilege of walking you home, Miss?” he said with smiling eyes.
The presumption of the stranger was shocking even if his daring proposal tantalized Altea.
“We can manage, Sir,” she replied brusquely and brushed by him.
Even if his roguish attention tickled her curiosity, she relished her power to deny and disappoint.
“Can you believe him?” Cynthia muttered. “As if a decent lady would walk the streets with a stranger.”
“Of course not, Cyn,” Altea agreed.
Cynthia glanced over her shoulder. She flashed with disapproval but deep down wanted one more look at the handsome bachelor. “Probably some baron’s bastard who just fleeced a tailor for that set of clothes,” she said.
Altea smiled. Cynthia was a good judge of the occupants of Prague’s streets.
The crowd thinned after they left the Knights of the Cross square and its adjoining river docks where various provisions were being constantly unloaded. Riders and wagons went both ways down the center of Karlova Street. Altea and her maid kept to the side. The street jogged to the left and then Altea reached her house. A workman was installing a new sign by the front door. Its red and silver paint displayed a racing hound jumping over a hammer. Below the image in ornate letters was the name Fridrich. She did not understand the symbolism of her stepfather’s new house sign, but she supposed it was not embarrassing. Some people’s signs made even less sense with pictures taken from books about exotic places that Altea was not sure existed. The world offered up so many wild tales these days.
Without a glance at the new sign, Cynthia trotted up the front steps, but Altea paused. She still had to prepare herself to enter her home since her mother had died. Her mother’s absence was like a choking smoke that would not clear. Father Refhold had advised her that time would lessen the pain. Until then she was to pray for her mother’s soul and speed her out of Purgatory. Although Altea believed the advice to be good, she resented that her mother had not gone straight to Heaven. She did not intend to confess that thought.
Altea looked away when Cynthia opened the door. The dark gate to the fortress of loss repulsed her. She needed to gather courage a moment longer to tackle the sharp feelings within.
Looking up the street, she thought about her stepfather who would be in his office at the Court by the Town Hall. It was not far. In her mother’s final year, she had often sent Altea with messages to her stepfather. Altea had come to realize that it was her mother’s way of giving her a break from her bedside care. She had enjoyed the little breaths of freedom. Her stepfather had not necessarily appreciated the needless interruptions, but he had seemed to enjoy letting his associates have a look at his fetching stepdaughter.
But Altea had no reason to bother him today, and she disliked going near the Old Town Square since the dreadful executions that spring. She still could hardly believe that Gretchen had met such a grisly fate. Unlike most of her neighbors, Altea had not gone to witness the event. She could not imagine seeing that kindly old woman, who her mother had depended upon so much, dragged to the stake with her head shorn.
A haunted shudder shook Altea. She did not want to believe the crimes the old midwife had committed, even if her stepfather had insisted they were all true.
“Altea!”
Yiri’s piping voice tweeted her name with delight. The seven-year-old boy ran down the steps and grabbed her arm. Hauling her inside, he blathered about a dead bird.
“Mind the eggs,” Altea scolded as her basket swung.
“Come see. We’re going to do a funeral,” Yiri said.
“Don’t say it’s in the house,” Altea said.
Cynthia’s shriek from the kitchen revealed the maid’s discovery of the avian body. Her shrill scolding put an end to the boys’ elaborate plans.
Elias hustled toward the door with the limp sparrow dangling from his fingers and flung it in the street.
Yiri protested loudly, and Patrik and little Erik wailed.
“What were you thinking?” Altea asked of Elias. At fourteen he was the oldest and presumably capable of preventing the deposit of corpses in the kitchen.
“There’s dead birds in the kitchen all the time,” he said defensively.
“Those are for cooking,” Cynthia said.
“We were considering a cremation,” Elias shot back.
“Enough of this prattle,” Altea declared. The boys hushed, except for four-year-old Erik who whined and leaned against Yiri.
“We have strawberries. Now isn’t that better than a dead bird?” Altea said and everyone trooped back to the kitchen. They indulged liberally in the fresh berries. The tart sunshiny juice delighted everyone, and the boys forgot the bird.
Altea got them cleaned just as their tutor arrived. She welcomed Master Holub and steered her brothers toward the room where they took their lessons.
“Why don’t you study with us?” Erik asked, clinging to his big sister’s hand.
Altea bent and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “I finished my studies before you were born. I’m grown up,” she explained.
He gave her a hug and ran to catch up to his brothers. His shoes banged on the floor, and Altea recalled how their mother would have admonished him not
to stomp.
She went to the sunny front room to work on her embroidery. She carefully unfolded the corner of the tablecloth and resumed stitching the design of vines and acorns that she had developed. The work was slow but she had almost the entire edge of this tablecloth finished. She had others in her hope chest along with dozens of towels, head wraps, handkerchiefs, aprons, coverlets, and shawls. The lid was getting difficult to shut. Altea frowned as she considered that she had almost enough linen for two wives now.
Even so, she enjoyed the work. Her skills had improved over the years, and she was proud of her designs. She tried not to copy other women too much, and she had gotten many compliments on her work.
Her home was still filled with linens from her mother’s lifetime of creation. All the fabric in the house had passed through her mother’s hands. The signature of her soul was upon everything.
Altea set down her little hoop and shut her eyes. Her mother’s absence was consuming her. She tossed her embroidery aside and fled to her room. The tears came easily, but she muffled her sobs. Her brothers did not need to hear. She knew they cried at night too, and she wanted to be strong for them.
The day grew hotter and the stuffiness of the house lulled her mercifully into a nap. She awoke to Yiri shaking her shoulder.
“Papa’s home,” Yiri said.
Rubbing her face, Altea sat up.
“He says he wants you,” the boy added.
He always wanted something. Altea got up and unraveled her frazzled golden braids. While brushing her hair, she relished taking so much time to respond to her stepfather’s summons.
Yiri sat on the edge of her bed watching her. He was fascinated as her fingers deftly plaited her hair anew.
“Hand me my wrap,” she said.
Glad to be useful, Yiri bounced off the bed and gave her the white linen headdress she had tossed aside earlier. She wrapped it around her hair and checked her face in the mirror. She touched her smooth cheek and was satisfied that she had a good youthful glow. Witnessing the prolonged demise of her mother had made her appreciate her vibrant skin.
“You’re pretty,” Yiri commented.
“Thank you,” she said and smiled warmly.
As if embarrassed to have complimented his sister, Yiri ran off to play. Altea went downstairs and sought her stepfather in his study. He was in a chair with his feet on a stool, unwinding from a hard day of acting important while sitting in another chair.
Martin Fridrich was studying a pamphlet and frowning. Inky fingerprints smeared the side of the paper facing Altea. His chin was pillowed by his jowls. He tapped his fingers on his belly. His brown hair was gray at the temples and retreating from his pudgy face.
“Altea, why can’t my valet find my slippers?” Martin demanded.
“Because he’s incompetent,” Altea suggested.
The pamphlet snapped onto the table by his chair and he puffed at her reproachfully. “He says he gave them to you,” Martin said.
“He gave me old slippers to throw out, and I did,” Altea said.
“And you did not get new ones?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t that be Hynek’s task?” she asked back.
Martin grumbled. His aging valet was misplacing and forgetting more and more things, but Martin knew Altea was not going to accept any blame. His stepdaughter was many things but meek was not among them.
“At least it’s warm,” he muttered and wiggled his toes in his stocking feet.
“It may be time to refresh the valet’s position,” Altea said.
“That’s putting it nicely,” Martin said. “But I don’t need you to tell me how to employ or not employ my valet. Hynek’s loyal and honest. Rare things in this city these days.” He commenced to complain about the rising crime and how it was bollixing up the jails. “We ought to do like the damnable Turks. They cut off the hands of thieves and are done with it. That would surely put an end to all this pick pocketing and highway banditry.”
“And how would you expect all these one-handed men to earn livings then?” Altea said.
Martin wrinkled his nose. “That’s why women have no place thinking about the law,” he said.
Altea rolled her eyes. “I’ll check to see how dinner’s coming,” she said as a way to excuse herself.
Esther the cook was nearly done preparing the evening meal. Altea set the table and rounded up the boys.
“Wash your hands and faces,” she said.
“Why?” the youngest two asked in unison.
“How will you be proper gentlemen with dirt smeared on your faces?” she said. Her stern look reminded them that she would scrub them herself if they did not comply.
At dinner, Martin presided over the meal from the head of the table. Altea sat on one side with Yiri and Erik across from Elias and Patrik. Elias was closest to his father, who was sharing with him court cases he had presided over and the day’s gossip. Altea cut meat for Erik and tried not to look at the empty seat at the foot of the table. She would not presume to fill it even if she had taken on the bulk of her mother’s duties.
“There’s a new archbishop on the way I hear,” Martin announced.
Altea looked up. The news was quite shocking. An archbishop had not been in Prague since the Hussite Wars.
Martin added, “Finally an archbishop again. It took till 1561 but it’s a sure sign this Protestant madness won’t get its claws in Bohemia.”
“It’s so heartbreaking to think of whole kingdoms of people going to Hell,” Altea said. Protestantism had consumed half the Empire. The German States and the Low Countries were sick with it. Father Refhold had urged everyone to pray for the return of Papal guidance to those under the sway of fanatics.
“Heartbreaking?” Martin humphed disparagingly. “If this chaos doesn’t get snuffed out there’ll be war till Judgment Day.”
His dramatic prediction disturbed Altea, but she could do nothing about it so she put it from her mind.
After dinner she helped the younger boys get ready for bed. Elias read a book while she tucked in the three boys. Their soft voices were filled with sadness as they prayed on behalf of their mother’s soul. Elias set aside his book and blew out the candle. Dusky light silhouetted him gently against a window. He would say his prayers later in private.
When they left the younger boys, Altea noticed that Elias was still dressed.
“Going out?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m old enough. Father does not mind,” he said.
“Enjoy yourself,” she said.
He told her goodnight and ambled down the stairs with his long awkward legs. Altea passed her bedroom door and stopped at the top of the stairs. She listened to Elias and Martin talk and waited for the door to slam when her brother went out.
She seized the opportunity to speak to her stepfather alone. She had put off this conversation long enough.
He was dozing in his chair when she entered his study.
“Papa Fridrich, may I ask something of you?” she said.
He sat up and folded his hands over his belly. “What is it?” he said as if preparing to hear testimony.
“At Church last Sunday I was speaking with Mrs. Janleb and learned that she can recommend a very well referenced governess to us,” she said.
“A governess?” he muttered as if the concept were quite foreign.
“Yes, of course, Sir. The boys need one. I’m sure people think it strange that we don’t employ one. A Magistrate would surely have a governess for his children.”
“Stop trying to embarrass me. I know better than you what is expected of a Magistrate,” Martin said. “Now, why this fuss about a governess? You do a splendid job with the boys. I dare say you’re as good as your mother.”
“No I’m not!” Altea cried.
Martin winced and recalled that he still needed to be sensitive to her grief. “Now, now, hush girl. We all miss her. Don’t you realize I thought it better to have you care for the boys during this difficult time? Imagine them
losing their mother and then me foisting some impoverished old maid on them when we got home from the funeral. It’s much better that you care for them.”
“Oh,” Altea whispered, losing some momentum. She had not considered that Martin might actually have something akin to a compassionate reason.
“It’s too soon,” he decided.
Sensing that he planned to save the expense of even a paltry governess’s salary, Altea rallied. “Sir, I’m nineteen now. My girlfriends are married and you leave me to be an old maid auntie to care for your sons. I have no time for suitors, for parties. How will I ever marry?” Altea demanded and felt great relief to have spoken her piece.
Martin surprised her by rising from his chair. He walked around her and looked her up and down.
“Suitors? Parties?” he said.
“I trust my dowry still exists,” she added.
He narrowed his eyes. He did not appreciate her snide reference to his potential for miserliness. Martin wandered away to a window. Revelers passed in the street singing. Altea held her tongue because he actually seemed to be thinking about her plight.
At last he came back to her. He set his hands on her shoulders. She tensed a little.
“You’re as lovely as your mother was. She was a fine catch for me. I didn’t fuss about taking in a young widow,” he reminisced. “I see that little girl hanging off my bride’s skirts is all grown up now,” he added and took her chin and tilted her face one way and then another.
“Your dowry is not much, Altea. That stony patch of hog pasture was all that was left after your father’s debts were settled. The fool certainly spent money like he knew he was going to die young. But the days of your Kardas name being worth anything are over. Knights don’t get the credit they used to. The future belongs to more clever men, not proud brutes. Still, there’s some value in you, if you’ll help me find it,” he said.
“Help you?” Altea whispered, confused.
He let her go and she relaxed a little. His hot thick hands had been disturbing.
“It’s not by the Grace of God that I’m a Magistrate. And you’re a fine looking woman capable of conversing with important men. If it’s a husband you want, then we must try to get you a good one who’s in a position to advance my status. Do you understand?” he said.
