The Bloodletter's Daughter Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Linda Lafferty

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  DEDICATION

  To my beloved parents, Fred and Betty Lafferty, who taught their daughters the magic of books

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, my profound gratitude to my husband, writer and editor, Andy Stone. For twenty-seven years, he suffered the heartache of publishers’ rejections along with me.

  Just keep writing, he said. A writer writes.

  Andy, my “touchstone,” taught me to write well by writing more...and loving the art and craft, published or not. The Bloodletter’s Daughter is the result of that love.

  To my parents, Fred and Betty Lafferty, who taught their children the love of books at a tender age. We are a family of readers as a result.

  A tremendous amount of research went into this novel. I would like to thank translators and Czech friends who offered assistance. Thank you, Zuzana Petraskova, Jiri Vaclavicek, and Mirka Gamarra. For housing me with great Czech hospitality, my thanks to Jakub Rippl of Dum u Velke Boty bed and breakfast in Prague.

  Screenwriter Vladimir Vojir helped me procure a DVD of his documentary for Czech television illustrating the story of Don Julius and Marketa Pichlerova. Gratitude to him and to Ceska Televize for this valuable resource.

  A highlight for me as a writer was to hold the Coded Book of Wonder (the Voynich manuscript) in my hands. Immense gratitude to Marty Flug, Yale president Dr. Richard Levin, and Yale University for this opportunity. (Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library is magical.)

  Thank you to another Yalie, Jonathan Rose, for your help.

  Thank you, photographer Nora Feller of NoraFeller.com for the extraordinary author portraits. My white shepherd, Rosco, sends a lick on your cheek, whether you want one or not.

  Writing is a solitary process, but a few friends gave me vital encouragement. Thank you, Nancy Elisha, my beloved sister who has read every word I have ever written. Her belief and love of my books carried me through the darkest hours for nearly three decades.

  Other dear friends and readers: Sarah Kennedy Flug, Anne Fitzgibbon Shusterman, Lucia Caretto, Judy Sharp, and Elizabeth Haas White. Thank you, dear ones, for the support over the years.

  To Caroline Leavitt, who swooped into my life, buoying me up when I was heartbroken by the publishing industry. Caroline, you are a talented writer and an extraordinary human being. God bless you.

  Thanks to David Forrer, who worked with me on early versions of this book.

  My editor, Melody Guy, guided me in rewrites with a gentle, supportive hand. I loved working with her. I trusted her judgment absolutely and worked to meet her expectations. Thank you, Melody.

  Jessica Fogleman’s expert eye reviewing the manuscript was essential and much appreciated.

  To my author team of Danielle Marshall, Nikki Sprinkle, Jessica Poore, and PR rep Gracie Doyle, a debt of gratitude for helping readers connect with my book.

  To those at Gelfman Schneider, who help in all matters—Victoria Marini and Cathy Gleason, thank you.

  To the Production Department, thank you for all your meticulous work.

  My boundless gratitude to Betsy Robbins and the translation rights staff at Curtis Brown.

  Special thanks to the Aspen Writers’ Foundation, and especially Executive Director Lisa Consiglio; Programs Manager Natalie Lacy; AWF Board Vice President Julie Comins Pickrell; the entire AWF Board of Trustees; and Founder Kurt Brown. Attending the Aspen Writers’ Conference and Aspen Summer Words for over thirty years has paid off! I always enjoy those terrific June workshops and the talented writers who share their experiences and the craft of writing. Aspen Summer Words is truly a “Writers’ Mecca in the Mountains.”

  Bravo to Amazon’s art department. You dazzled me with the cover design.

  To my acquisitions editor, Lindsay Guzzardo, who believed fervently in The Bloodletter’s Daughter. You are this book’s fairy godmother. Lindsay, thank you for your faith and persistence. Amazon Publishing—you made this book possible. Thank you for taking a chance on me.

  Finally, to my spectacular agent, Deborah Schneider—who took me back as a client after an eighteen-year absence and secured the perfect home for three books at once. Chai, Deborah, Chai.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE: LITTLE GIUGLIO AND THE CODED BOOK OF WONDER

  PART I: BEFORE THE FALL

  LATE SPRING 1605

  CHAPTER 1: MUSLE OF CESKY KRUMLOV

  WINTER 1606

  CHAPTER 2: THE MAD BASTARD OF PRAGUE

  CHAPTER 3: ANNABELLA AND THE MAGIC PEARL

  LATE SPRING 1606

  CHAPTER 4: ARCHDUKE MATTHIAS, YOUNGER BROTHER OF RUDOLF II

  CHAPTER 5: THE WHITE LADY

  CHAPTER 6: RUDOLF II AND THE CODED BOOK OF WONDER

  CHAPTER 7: DROWNED FLEAS

  CHAPTER 8: NEWS OF DON JULIUS IN KRUMLOV

  CHAPTER 9: A HOLY CONSPIRACY IN HUNGARY

  SUMMER 1606

  CHAPTER 10: A STRICT REGIMEN

  CHAPTER 11: THE ARRIVAL

  AUTUMN 1606

  CHAPTER 12: ROZMBERK CASTLE

  CHAPTER 13: A LETTER FOR MARKETA

  CHAPTER 14: LEECHES FOR A HAPSBURG

  CHAPTER 15: KATARINA’S WARNING

  CHAPTER 16: THE POOR CLARES CONVENT

  CHAPTER 17: A WOMAN SURGEON

  CHAPTER 18: THE CODED BOOK OF WONDER

  CHAPTER 19: A CHANCE FOR PEACE

  CHAPTER 20: MARKETA’S CHARM VS. THE CODED BOOK

  CHAPTER 21: THE ROYAL GARDENS OF PRAGUE

  WINTER 1606 – 1607

  CHAPTER 22: THE INSULT

  CHAPTER 23: A HAPSBURG’S ADDICTION

  CHAPTER 24: DREAMS OF PRAGUE

  CHAPTER 25: KATARINA AND THE GRAIN SHED

  CHAPTER 26: TAMING A HAPSBURG

  CHAPTER 27: AN OMINOUS REWARD

  CHAPTER 28: AN INVITATION TO PRAGUE

  CHAPTER 29: BELVEDERE’S SPELL

  CHAPTER 30: DECEPTION AND DANGER

  PART II: AFTER THE FALL

  CHAPTER 31: A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE

  CHAPTER 32: CESKY BUDEJOVICE

  CHAPTER 33: DON JULIUS GRIEVES

  CHAPTER 34: RETURN TO KRUMLOV

  CHAPTER 35: KEPLER AND THE HEAVENS

  SPRING 1607

  CHAPTER 36: CRIES IN THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER 37: THE LIBERATION OF DON JULIUS

  WINTER 1607 – 1608

  CHAPTER 38: A DARK WINTER

  CHAPTER 39: A MAN IN ANNABELLA’S HOUSE

  CHAPTER 40: JAKUB HORCICKY DE TENEPEC AT ROZMBERK CASTLE

  CHAPTER 41: LUDMILLA

  CHAPTER 42: KATARINA’S NIGHTMARE

  CHAPTER 43: MATTHIAS AND TAMAS OF ESZTERGOM

  CHAPTER 44: THE REUNION

  CHAPTER 45: AN AFTERNOON OF LOVE AND BLISS

  CHAPTER 46: THE LAST NIGHT OF MASOPUST

  CHAPTER 47: AN ENCHANTED EVENING

  CHAPTER 48: A CONFESSION

  CHAPTER 49: AN ACT OF CONTRITION

  CHAPTER 50: MALEVOLENCE

  CHAPTER 51: THE FUNERAL FOR THE SAVIOR OF KRUMLOV

  SUMMER 1608

  CHAPTER 52: THE CORONATION OF MATTHIAS

  EPILOGUE

  A
UTHOR’S NOTE

  A CONVERSATION WITH LINDA LAFFERTY

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  LITTLE GIUGLIO AND THE CODED BOOK OF WONDER

  Within that awful volume lies the mysteries of mysteries!

  —Sir Walter Scott

  There was no snow in Prague in February 1599—only freezing rains and a heartless cold that crawled into the marrow, chilling the bones of all Bohemia. From the dense Saxon forests bordering Dresden to the dark mountains of Sumava north of Vienna, to the curing waters of Karlovy Vary in the west and the wet, pine-studded mountains of the eastern Polish frontier, the cold winter rains lodged in aching joints and spawned melancholy humors, making the weary, mud-splattered Bohemians yearn for a blanket of fresh white snow.

  Icy raindrops clung to the windows of Prazsky Hrad, the royal castle towering over the ancient city. Meandering silver fingers of water ran slowly down the glass, distorted by the warp of the thick, uneven crystal.

  A boy, not more than thirteen, sat with his head propped in his hands, his elbows resting on either side of an open book. The beige vellum, soft and fragile, was illuminated by a smoking tallow candle on the mahogany table. Even in the early afternoon, the thin gruel of midwinter light entering the windows did not offer enough illumination for the boy to read.

  As if anyone could ever read this book.

  The boy who gazed so hungrily at the book had honey-toned hair that grew in unruly waves. He pushed his hair out of his blue-green eyes, eyes the color of the North Adriatic Sea.

  Giuglio studied his precious book in his mother’s apartments, for the royal nursery was far too noisy for a boy of such an intense nature. That morning he had begged and wheedled his grandfather, Jacopo Strada, curator of the king’s vast collection of curiosities, into lending him this priceless book of indecipherable code and mysterious origins. He pushed his disobedient hair back again and bent low over the strange, colorful illustrations.

  Giuglio particularly liked the pictures of bathmaids, the naked women in tubs of green water. His mother teased him that he was becoming a man and their white breasts were what attracted him.

  “It is only natural, Giuglio,” she would say, stroking his hair tenderly. Mistress to King Rudolf II, she understood such things well. “Soon you will find your way to the bathhouses of Prague and see the bathmaids for yourself.”

  But Giuglio frowned, shaking her off. His mother did not really understand. It was the secret he was searching for. He was certain the laughing women understood, particularly one slim-hipped maiden who stared at him from the pages. She held the secret to the mysteries, he was sure. If only she could speak to him.

  He struggled to concentrate. Was it the bathmaids’ voices that filled his head? No, what he felt was a lightning bolt that rattled his spine, making his face shake with palsy, his cheek quivering like a raw egg in hot grease.

  And after the lightning in his spine came the thunder in his head. It wasn’t a voice.

  Not yet.

  It was an overwhelming urge, a passion to do horrid things, things that would make his beautiful mother cry. He longed to call his mother a whore. There! Now that he’d thought it, the word filled his mouth, bulged his lips, and almost burst out into the room. Had Giuglio been born to a legitimate wife of King Rudolf, the entire Hapsburg Empire would one day be his, and his alone.

  Whore!

  His left eye began to twitch, and he pressed his fingertips against it to stop the spasm.

  Giuglio watched the silhouette of the beating rain, the heavy drops of water licking the glass. The shadows painted trembling patterns against the bare plaster between the tapestries, as if the veins of water were boiling instead of near freezing.

  Suddenly, the winter light illuminated his mother on her bed, a radiant spear of sunshine lancing through the window, piercing the heavy gray clouds, if only for a few seconds. Giuglio studied her profile, the perfect white skin and rounded bosom that had enchanted a king, filling the nursery with bawling children. Her eyes looked like aquamarines set in wet glass. She inclined her neck to study her glossy black hair, which was hooked around an ivory comb.

  A servant entered with a message from the king. Giuglio bent his head once more over the fantastic illustrations, his hand over his eye to still its spasm. He traced the green cascade of water as it ran through cylinders—just like the maidens’ bathing barrels, only bottomless—and then splashed into a pool where the naked women frolicked.

  Or did the barrels look like the segments of a telescope, Galileo’s device for studying the heavens? He must write down that idea. He started to reach for the stack of parchment across the table.

  “Ah, benissimo!” cried Anna Maria, scanning the note in her hand. “Your father is going to pay a visit.”

  Giuglio’s hand froze in midair.

  “The king is coming? Now?”

  The skin around his eye began to jump even more. He quickly gathered up his papers.

  “Yes, dear! Now behave and make me proud. You know he dotes on you. Try not to act—so odd, tesoro.”

  “Mother! He is ill-tempered with me.”

  “No, no, Giuglio. He boasts of your future by his side! You will one day help him govern as Lord of Transylvania; he has told me so. You must indulge his humors. His melancholy too often colors his vision. You are his treasure, figlio mio.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  “The king,” the servant said, stepping aside.

  Rudolf II entered with a sweep of his long cape, a feather jauntily stuck in his velvet hat. He smiled slowly at his beautiful mistress, reclined on the bed, combing her long black hair, her jewel-green eyes beckoning him.

  “You look ravishing, Anna Maria,” he growled. “Leave us!” he snapped to the servant.

  The man bowed and backed out the door, the heavy latch clicking into place.

  “Now,” said Rudolf, striding to the bed and throwing her ivory comb to the floor with a clatter, “I will tangle your hair in such passion, no comb’s teeth will chew through the knots!”

  Rudolf began to unlace his breeches with eager hands, his eyes never leaving his mistress.

  “Wait, Your Majesty! Please! Did you not see our Giuglio at the table?”

  Rudolf turned. He saw Giuglio with a quill, an ink pot, and blotter. And quires of parchment.

  The king stifled his lust with an exasperated sigh. He lay back against the silk cushions and studied his son from his mistress’s bed. He waited for his passion to cool.

  Even a king should not disgrace himself in front of his children.

  Giuglio, his first-born and most beloved son. The child had inherited the handsome looks and passion of his Italian mother. Rudolf had doted on young Giuglio and spoiled him with a generous allowance, the best tutors, horses, expensive clothes—and a collection of valuable clocks.

  The king had noted with satisfaction Giuglio’s fascination with the clocks’ intricate workings, spilling their metal guts onto the parquet floors of the palace nursery. Part of his genius—so similar to mine, thought Rudolf—was this facility with mechanical reasoning. The king had spent hours watching his little boy play, puzzling over countless tiny parts, deeply absorbed as he dismantled and reconstructed the clocks.

  But Giuglio was hunched over something on the writing desk. It was not a clock.

  “Boy, what do you have there? A book?”

  Giuglio swallowed hard. He swatted at the voices—no, no, the urges!—in his head.

  Not now!

  “The Coded Book of Wonder,” he answered, clenching and unclenching his fist.

  Rudolf’s eyes narrowed. “I told Jacopo to keep that book under lock and key and to supervise you personally when you are looking at it. Where is my antiquarian?” the king roared.

  Anna Maria crawled hurriedly off the bed and laid a soothing hand on the king’s shoulder as he rose and approached their son.

  “You forget that I am
Signor Strada’s daughter. I am supervising his grandson’s work, Your Majesty.”

  The king’s shoulders softened as he felt her touch, and his flesh tingled. But the book was one of his most treasured possessions.

  “Work? What work?”

  “Giuglio, show the king your tables and graphs.”

  Giuglio ducked his head in a nod of acquiescence, took a deep breath to still his tremors, and began reluctantly unrolling the sheaf of parchments he had so recently put away.

  “Oh, Your Majesty! Giuglio is decoding the book,” said his mother. “Such a clever boy!”

  The king dismissed this with a snort.

  “I have had every linguist, mathematician, and alchemist try to break the code, and in thirteen years no one has succeeded. This boy will not unlock its secrets!”

  Still the king was curious. He looked at his son’s work. He saw mathematical tables, series of quadrangles, graphs with segmented lines, and foreign words scribbled in the margins of the notes. He saw with pride that they reminded him of his alchemists’ annotations, the work of sages three and four times the boy’s age.

  “What is this?”

  “I have been comparing the usage of symbols with all the languages of Europe,” said Giuglio, his green eyes glittering feverishly, his mouth dry and moving mechanically like one of Rudolf’s windup toys. There was nothing he loved more than talking about the Coded Book of Wonder. But he also showed the side of himself that his mother feared most—the peculiar side that was haunted by the specter of Hapsburg lunacy.

  “Blocks of meaning,” he continued, his hands gesturing wildly. “Recurring combinations of letters. Some only at the beginning of the word, some only at the end, and others exclusively in the middle. The royal chess maker, the Saracen, says it is a characteristic of Arabic. He said it may also be true in Hebrew, but I will have to consult a literate Jew to confirm this. I thought the next time you meet Rabbi Lowe to discuss the Kabbalah, I could—”

  “What!” roared the king. Giuglio’s head shrunk into his shoulders, and he put an arm up, shielding himself. “My son conversing with a Jew? Do you know what damage you could wreak with such stupidity? If a Hapsburg is seen asking advice from a Jew, both the Catholics and the Protestants will want my blood!”