measure of the place. Prague, she thought, in the thirtieth year of Emperor Rudolf the Second—is that what Etzel had said? What did she know about the seventeenth century? Not much. Nothing, really. Didn’t Shakespeare live in the 1600s? Or was it Queen Elizabeth? She couldn’t remember.
If she had ever once in her life given the realities of life in seventeenth-century Bohemia a fleeting thought—and she most certainly had not—she would have pictured a world of superstition and suffering where obscenely rich and powerful aristocrats oppressed the miserable mass of grimy peasants whose lives were nasty, brutish, and short. Yet the folk she observed bustling around her, while admittedly grimy and short, seemed a fairly happy lot—judging solely from the air of amiable bonhomie permeating the Old Town square. Everywhere she looked, people were smiling, laughing, greeting one another with formal handshakes and kisses. Uniformly dressed in dull browns and drab greens—long knee-length cloaks and breeches for men, and short bodices with long, full skirts for the women—they nevertheless seemed prosperous enough.
It was the ladies who caught her attention, and from what she could see from her seat in the wagon, long hair was definitely in fashion—piled high and extravagantly curled or braided. Nearly everyone wore some sort of head covering; a scant handful of women covered their elaborate locks with fine, lace-trimmed hats; simple linen caps were in abundance, as were scarves. While their skirts might have been plain, their shawls were not; whether fringed, tasselled, square-cut, rounded, fine-woven, or knitted—all were as vivid and bright as possible: crimsons, yellows, blues, and greens, in any and all combinations. In fact, both men and women wore shawls. And children, of which there were many, were dressed exactly as their elders: adults in miniature.
The market crowd occupied her complete attention so that when the great clock in the city hall tower struck for the second time since her arrival in the square, she stirred and realized sitting so long in the wagon had made her cold. She rubbed her arms and blew into her cupped hands. Where had Etzel got to?
As if in answer to her thought, she heard a piping call and turned to see her companion, his arms laden with cloth-wrapped packages, bowling toward her through the throng, a small tribe of ragged foundlings around him. “Wilhelmina!” he called as he came to the wagon. “Our luck is good!”
He began handing up packages to her, which she took and stowed behind the wagon seat. The children were clamouring in a language Mina did not understand. What did they speak in Prague? Czech? Slovak?
“There is only one bakery on the square,” he announced, “and it is very small.” He passed her another package. “This one is for you.”
“For me?” Wilhelmina savoured an unexpected delight. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
She pulled one of the strings and unwrapped the parcel to reveal several small glazed cakes with chopped nuts and tiny seeds. “Honey cakes!” she cooed. “How sweet of you.”
He beamed. Taking another package, he handed it to the nearest and tallest of the ragamuffins around him. “Share with your brothers and sisters,” he instructed firmly in German, which the children seemed to understand.
The young lad opened the bag and distributed little white biscuits to his noisy comrades, who were now leaping up and down to receive their treats. The bag was soon empty, and Etzel shooed his entourage away, telling them to be good, attend Mass, obey their parents, and come back tomorrow.
“These are lecker !” exclaimed Mina, dusting off another of her grandmother’s words. She held out one of the cakes to him.
“I am glad you like them,” he said, biting into the little pastry. “This is a good place,” he observed, chewing thoughtfully. “I like it here.”
“What should we do now?” Mina wondered.
“We will
If she had ever once in her life given the realities of life in seventeenth-century Bohemia a fleeting thought—and she most certainly had not—she would have pictured a world of superstition and suffering where obscenely rich and powerful aristocrats oppressed the miserable mass of grimy peasants whose lives were nasty, brutish, and short. Yet the folk she observed bustling around her, while admittedly grimy and short, seemed a fairly happy lot—judging solely from the air of amiable bonhomie permeating the Old Town square. Everywhere she looked, people were smiling, laughing, greeting one another with formal handshakes and kisses. Uniformly dressed in dull browns and drab greens—long knee-length cloaks and breeches for men, and short bodices with long, full skirts for the women—they nevertheless seemed prosperous enough.
It was the ladies who caught her attention, and from what she could see from her seat in the wagon, long hair was definitely in fashion—piled high and extravagantly curled or braided. Nearly everyone wore some sort of head covering; a scant handful of women covered their elaborate locks with fine, lace-trimmed hats; simple linen caps were in abundance, as were scarves. While their skirts might have been plain, their shawls were not; whether fringed, tasselled, square-cut, rounded, fine-woven, or knitted—all were as vivid and bright as possible: crimsons, yellows, blues, and greens, in any and all combinations. In fact, both men and women wore shawls. And children, of which there were many, were dressed exactly as their elders: adults in miniature.
The market crowd occupied her complete attention so that when the great clock in the city hall tower struck for the second time since her arrival in the square, she stirred and realized sitting so long in the wagon had made her cold. She rubbed her arms and blew into her cupped hands. Where had Etzel got to?
As if in answer to her thought, she heard a piping call and turned to see her companion, his arms laden with cloth-wrapped packages, bowling toward her through the throng, a small tribe of ragged foundlings around him. “Wilhelmina!” he called as he came to the wagon. “Our luck is good!”
He began handing up packages to her, which she took and stowed behind the wagon seat. The children were clamouring in a language Mina did not understand. What did they speak in Prague? Czech? Slovak?
“There is only one bakery on the square,” he announced, “and it is very small.” He passed her another package. “This one is for you.”
“For me?” Wilhelmina savoured an unexpected delight. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
She pulled one of the strings and unwrapped the parcel to reveal several small glazed cakes with chopped nuts and tiny seeds. “Honey cakes!” she cooed. “How sweet of you.”
He beamed. Taking another package, he handed it to the nearest and tallest of the ragamuffins around him. “Share with your brothers and sisters,” he instructed firmly in German, which the children seemed to understand.
The young lad opened the bag and distributed little white biscuits to his noisy comrades, who were now leaping up and down to receive their treats. The bag was soon empty, and Etzel shooed his entourage away, telling them to be good, attend Mass, obey their parents, and come back tomorrow.
“These are lecker !” exclaimed Mina, dusting off another of her grandmother’s words. She held out one of the cakes to him.
“I am glad you like them,” he said, biting into the little pastry. “This is a good place,” he observed, chewing thoughtfully. “I like it here.”
“What should we do now?” Mina wondered.
“We will
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