“And witches,” my husband said under his breath. He threw the letter on the table. “It wasn’t the painting that baited him, but Diana. Maybe I should refuse his invitation.”
“That was a command, Uncle.” Gallowglass’s brow lowered.
“And Rudolf has Ashmole 782,” I said. “It’s not going to simply appear in front of the Three Ravens on Sporrengasse. We’re going to have to find it.”
“Are you calling us ravens, Auntie?” Gallowglass said with mock offense.
“I’m talking about the sign on the house, you great oaf.” Like every other residence on the street, ours had a symbol over the door rather than a house number. After the neighborhood caught fire in the middle of the century, the emperor’s grandfather had insisted on having some way to tell houses apart besides the popular sgraffito decorations scratched into the plaster.
Gallowglass grinned. “I knew very well what you were talking about. But I do love seeing you go all shiny like that when your glaem’s raised.”
I pulled my disguising spell around me with a harrumph, dimming my shininess to more acceptable, human levels.
“Besides,” Gallowglass continued. “Among my people it’s a great compliment to be likened to a raven. I’ll be Muninn, and Matthew we’ll call Huginn. Your name will be Göndul, Auntie. You’ll make a fine Valkyrie.”
“What is he talking about?” I asked Matthew blankly.
“Odin’s ravens. And his daughters.”
“Oh. Thank you, Gallowglass,” I said awkwardly. It couldn’t be a bad thing to be likened to a god’s daughter.
“Even if this book of Rudolf’s is Ashmole 782, we’re not sure it contains answers to our questions.” Our experience with the Voynich manuscript still worried Matthew.
“Historians never know if a text will provide answers. If it doesn’t, though, we’ll still have better questions as a result,” I replied.
“Point taken.” Matthew’s lips quirked. “As I can’t get in to see the emperor or his library without you, and you won’t leave Prague without the book, there is nothing for it. We’ll both go to the palace.”
“You’ve been hoist by your own petard, Uncle,” Gallowglass said cheerfully. He gave me a broad wink.
When compared to our visit to Richmond, the trip up the street to see the emperor seemed almost like popping next door to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor—though it required a more formal costume. The papal ambassador’s mistress was much my size, and her wardrobe had provided me with a suitably luxurious and circumspect garment for the wife of an English dignitary—or a de Clermont, she quickly added. I loved the style of clothing worn by well-heeled women in Prague: simple gowns with high necks, bell-shaped skirts, embroidered coats with hanging sleeves trimmed in fur. The small ruffs they wore served as another welcome barrier between the elements and me.
Matthew had happily abandoned his dreams of red hose in favor of his usual gray and black, accented with a deep green that was the most attractive color I had ever seen him wear. This afternoon it provided flashes of color peeking through the slashes on his bulbous britches and the lining peeking around the open collar of his jacket.
“You look splendid,” I said after inspecting him.
“And you look like a proper Bohemian aristocrat,” he replied, kissing me on the cheek.
“Can we go now?” Jack said, dancing with impatience. Someone had found him a suit of black-and-silver livery and put a cross and crescent moon on the sleeve.
“So we are going as de Clermonts, not as Roydons,” I said slowly.
“No. We are Matthew and Diana Roydon,” Matthew replied. “We’re just traveling with the de Clermont family servants.”
“That should confuse everybody,” I commented as we left the house.
“Exactly,” Matthew said with a smile.
Had we been going as ordinary citizens, we would have climbed the new palace steps, which clung to the ramparts and provided a safe way for pedestrians. Instead we wended our way up Sporrengasse on horseback as befitted a representative of the queen of England, which gave me a chance to fully take in the houses with their canted foundations, colorful sgraffito, and painted signs. We passed the house of the Red Lion, the Golden Star, the Swan, and the Two Suns. At the top of the hill, we took a sharp right into a neighborhood filled with the mansions of aristocrats and court appointees, called Hradčany.
It was not my first glimpse of the castle, for I’d seen it looming over its surroundings when we came into Prague and could look up to its ramparts from our windows. But this was the closest I’d yet been to it. The castle was even larger and more sprawling at close range than it had appeared at a distance, like an entirely separate city full of trade and industry. Ahead were the Gothic pinnacles of St. Vitus Cathedral, with round towers punctuating the walls. Though built for defense, the towers now housed workshops for the hundreds of artisans who made their home at Rudolf’s court.
The palace guard admitted us through the west gate and into an enclosed courtyard. After Pierre and Jack took charge of the horses, our armed escorts headed for a range of buildings tucked against the castle walls. They had been built relatively recently, and the stone was crisp-edged and gleaming. These looked like office buildings, but beyond them I could see high roofs and medieval stonework.
“What’s happened now?” I whispered to Matthew. “Why aren’t we going to the palace?”
“Because there’s nobody there of any importance,” said Gallowglass. He held the Voynich manuscript in his arms, safely wrapped in leather and bound with straps to keep the pages from warping in the cold weather.
“Rudolf found the old Royal Palace drafty and dark,” Matthew explained, helping me over the slick cobbles. “His new palace faces south and overlooks a private garden. Here he’s farther away from the cathedral—and the priests.”
The halls of the residence were busy, with people rushing to and fro shouting in German, Czech, Spanish, and Latin depending on which part of Rudolf’s empire they came from. The closer we got to the emperor, the more frenetic the activity became. We passed a room filled with people arguing over architectural drawings. Another room housed a lively debate about the merits of an elaborate gold-and-stone bowl fashioned to look like a seashell. Finally the guards left us in a comfortable salon with heavy chairs, a tiled stove that pumped out a significant amount of heat, and two men in deep conversation. They turned toward us.
“Good day, old friend,” a kindly man of around sixty said in English. He beamed at Matthew.
“Tadeáš.” Matthew gripped his arm warmly. “You are looking well.”
“And you are looking young.” The man’s eyes twinkled. His glance caused no tell-tale reaction on my skin. “And here is the woman everyone is talking about. I am Tadeáš Hájek.” The human bowed, and I curtsied in response.
A slender gentleman with an olive complexion and hair nearly as dark as Matthew’s strolled over to us. “Master Strada,” Matthew said with a bow. He was not as pleased to see this man as he was the first.
“Is she truly a witch?” Strada surveyed me with interest. “If so, my sister Katharina would like to meet her. She is with child, and the pregnancy troubles her.”
“Surely Tadeáš—the royal physician—is better suited to seeing after the birth of the emperor’s child,” Matthew said, “or have matters with your sister changed?”
“The emperor still treasures my sister,” Strada said frostily. “For that reason alone, her whims should be indulged.”
“Have you seen Joris? He has been talking about nothing but the triptych since His Majesty opened it,” Tadeáš asked, changing the subject.
“Not yet, no.” Matthew’s eyes went to the door. “Is the emperor in?”