Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

“Excellent—or Rudolf wouldn’t have asked him to dine with us. The emperor is drawing his battle lines and rallying his troops.”

“What, exactly, is he planning to fight over?”

“The manuscript—and you. He won’t give up either.”

“I told you before that I wasn’t for sale. I’m not war booty either.”

“No, but you’re unclaimed territory so far as Rudolf’s concerned. Rudolf is an Austrian archduke, king of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia, margrave of Moravia, and Holy Roman Emperor. He is also Philip of Spain’s nephew. The Hapsburgs are an acquisitive and competitive family and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

“Matthew’s not coddling you, Auntie,” Gallowglass said somberly when I started to protest. “If you were my wife, you’d have been out of Prague the day the first gift arrived.”

Because of the delicacy of the situation, Pierre and Gallowglass accompanied us to the palace. Three vampires and a witch caused the expected ripples of interest as we went toward the Great Hall, which, once upon a time, Matthew had helped to design.

Rudolf seated me near him, and Gallowglass took up a position behind my chair like a well-mannered servant. Matthew was placed at the opposite end of the banqueting table with an attentive Pierre. To a casual observer, Matthew was having a grand time among a raucous group of ladies and young men who were eager to find a role model with more dash than the emperor. Gales of laughter occasionally drifted in our direction from Matthew’s rival court, which did nothing to brighten His Majesty’s dour mood.

“But why does there have to be so much bloodshed, Father Johannes?” Rudolf complained to the fleshy, middle-aged physician sitting to his left. Pistorius’s ordination was still several months away, but, with the zeal typical of the convert, he made no objection to his premature elevation to the priesthood.

“Because heresy and unorthodoxies must be rooted out completely, Your Majesty. Otherwise they find fresh soil in which to grow.” Pistorius’s heavy-lidded eyes fell on me, his glance probing. My witch’s third eye opened, indignant at his rude attempts to capture my attention, which was strikingly similar to Champier’s method for ferreting out my secrets. I was beginning to dislike university-educated wizards. I put down my knife and returned his stare. He was the first to break it.

“My father believed that tolerance was a wiser policy,” Rudolf replied. “And you have studied the Jewish wisdom of the kabbalah . There are men of God who would call that heresy.”

Matthew’s keen hearing allowed him to zero in on my conversation as intensely as Šárka had pursued her grouse. He frowned.

“My husband tells me you are a physician, Herr Pistorius.” It was not a smooth conversational segue, but it did the job.

“I am, Frau Roydon. Or I was, before I turned my attention from the preservation of bodies to the salvation of souls.”

“Father Johannes’s reputation is based on his cures for the plague,” Rudolf said.

“I was merely a vehicle for God’s will. He is the only true healer,” Pistorius said modestly. “Out of love for us, He created many natural remedies that can effect miraculous results in our imperfect bodies.”

“Ah, yes. I remember your advocacy of bezoars as panaceas against illness. I sent La Diosa one of my stones when she was lately ill.” Rudolf smiled at him approvingly.

Pistorius studied me. “Your cure evidently worked, Your Majesty.”

“Yes. La Diosa is fully recovered. She looks very well,” Rudolf said, his lower lip jutting out even further as he examined me. I wore a simple black gown embroidered in white covered with a black velvet robe. A gauzy ruff winged away from my face, and the red ruby of Matthew’s salamander necklace was arranged to hang in the notch of my throat, providing the only splash of color in my otherwise somber outfit. Rudolf’s attention fixed on the beautiful piece of jewelry. He frowned and motioned to a servant.

“It’s hard to say whether the bezoar stone or Emperor Maximilian’s electuary was the more beneficial,” I said, looking to Dr. Hájek for assistance while Rudolf held his whispered conversation. He was tucking into the third game course, and after a startled cough to free the bit of venison he had just swallowed, Hájek rose to the occasion.

“I believe it was the electuary, Dr. Pistorius,” Hájek admitted. “I prepared it in a cup made from the unicorn’s horn. Emperor Rudolf believed this would increase its efficacy.”

“ La Diosa took the electuary from a horn spoon, too,” Rudolf said, his eyes lingering on my lips now, “for additional surety.”

“Will this cup and spoon be among the specimens we see tonight in your cabinet of wonders, Your Majesty?” Pistorius asked. The air between me and the other witch came to sudden, crackling life. Threads surrounding the physician-priest exploded in violent red and orange hues, warning me of the danger. Then he smiled. I do not trust you, witch , he whispered into my mind. Nor does your would-be lover, Emperor Rudolf .

The wild boar that I was chewing—a delicious dish flavored with rosemary and black pepper that, according to the emperor, was supposed to heat the blood—turned to dust in my mouth. Instead of its achieving its desired effect, my blood ran cold.

“Is something wrong?” Gallowglass murmured, bending low over my shoulder. He handed me a shawl, which I hadn’t asked for and didn’t know he was carrying.

“Pistorius has been invited upstairs to see the book,” I said, turning my head toward him and speaking in rapid English to reduce the risk of being understood. Gallowglass smelled of sea salt and mint, a bracing and reassuring combination. My nerves steadied.

“Leave it to me,” he replied, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “By the way, you’re a bit shiny, Auntie. It would be best if no one saw stars tonight.”

Having delivered his warning shot across the bow, Pistorius turned the conversation to other topics and engaged Dr. Hájek in a lively debate about the medical benefits of theriac. Rudolf divided his time between sneaking melancholic looks at me and glaring at Matthew. The closer we got to seeing Ashmole 782, the less appetite I had, so I made small talk with the noblewoman next to me. It was only after five more courses—including a parade of gilded peacocks and a tableau of roast pork and suckling pigs— that the banquet finally concluded.

“You look pale,” Matthew said, whisking me away from the table.

“Pistorius suspects me.” The man reminded me of Peter Knox and Champier, and for similar reasons. “Intellectual thug” was the perfect description for both of them. “Gallowglass said he would take care of it.”

“No wonder Pierre followed on his heels, then.”

“What is Pierre going to do?”

“Make sure Pistorius gets out of here alive,” Matthew said cheerfully. “Left to his own devices, Gallowglass would strangle the man and throw him into the Stag’s Moat for the lions’ midnight snack. My nephew is almost as protective of you as I am.”

Rudolf’s invited guests accompanied him to his inner sanctum: the private gallery where Matthew and I viewed the Bosch altarpiece. Ottavio Strada met us there to guide us through the collection and answer our questions.

When we entered the room, Matthew’s altarpiece still sat in the center of the green-covered table. Rudolf had scattered other objects around it for our viewing pleasure. While the guests oohed and aahed over Bosch’s work, I scanned the room. There were some stunning cups made out of semiprecious stones, an enameled chain of office, a long horn reputedly from a unicorn, some statuary, and a carved Seychelles nut—a nice mix of the expensive, the medicinal, and the exotic. But no alchemical manuscript.