Chapter 3: The First Lesson
"If it were customary to send maidens to school and teach them the same subjects as are taught to boys, they would learn just as fully and would understand the subtleties of all arts and sciences."- Christine de Pizan
Țepeș showed Lisa to her quarters. He escorted her down a long, silent hall until they reached a tall arched doorway. The hour was late, and while she did welcome a respite from all the discoveries she'd begun delving into with him that night, she regretted the evening had gone by so quickly. Țepeș, since her initial rebuke, had revealed himself to be a proper host, after all. He had brought her to a large dining room where she had her fill of roasted wild boar and red wine. She accosted him with questions throughout the meal on the different apparatuses she had seen and only noticed he had not partaken in any of the food laid out once she finished and glanced at his empty plate.
"I can at least help put these away," she offered, reaching for his dish. "As an apprentice, I should earn my keep, after all."
"Leave everything as is," he instructed her. "You aren't just an apprentice; you are my apprentice," he clarified. "Your time and energy will be spent elsewhere."
She released the edge of the plate uneasily; it struck her as odd that the dining room had been ready for them as if they had been expected. Yet, she hadn't seen a single servant announce his or her presence throughout the evening. She also noticed that each hallway, every stairway they took had been lit in anticipation of their visit.
The door opened into a large bedroom, its stone walls adorned with somber tapestries. A dark canopied bed, large and heavy, sat facing the wide hearth. A deep red coverlet lay beneath a heap of furs. Candles flickered and the hearth roared. The room was larger than her cottage back in Lupu, Lisa realized, as she caught Țepeș' gaze, ever watchful of her and her reactions.
"Is it to your liking?" He paced about, surveying the room.
"It is larger than any home I've ever had," she admitted. She wandered to the windows, popping open a latch and peering out into the crisp night. A brilliant waxing moon lit the landscape far below. She deliberately gazed toward the mountains, avoiding the valley, not wanting to see the impaled warriors.
"What's the nearest village?" she wondered. There were no signs of towns in any direction she searched.
He stepped up beside her; he appeared to be searching—probing his memory.
"Zerna?" he guessed uninterestedly.
"Never mind traveling the world—let's begin with leaving the castle grounds!" she teased him.
"And you would endeavor to be my guide?" He blinked slowly at her.
She grinned. "It'll be the blind leading the blind, in that case. I am not quite sure where I am."
He returned his impassive gaze to the night sky.
She leaned slightly forward. The thin wind blew icily against her fingers and cheeks. Standing there, beside him—she was acutely aware of Țepeș' imposing presence. He towered over her and she noted that the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. She glanced furtively at his elegant profile—she stared at the full lips beneath his mustache.
He is an interesting man, she decided. The next surreptitious look she attempted backfired, as she found Țepeș peering back at her, his eyes lighter in the glow of the firelight.
The flush coursing up her spine was not entirely unpleasant. It was, however, inappropriate and bothersome and she immediately stepped away from the window.
He found Lisa's presence soothing. He had enjoyed her company throughout the evening: she was witty, sharp… and surprising. He appreciated her inquisitiveness and how her need to understand, obtain a satisfactory answer superseded the traditional formalities between those of a different rank and gender. He was well aware he'd come under her scrutiny, sensing her probing gaze. Warmth rose enticingly from her skin along with a quickening heartbeat. When he caught her staring at him, she had averted her eyes, rapidly retreating into the room.
"I will take my leave now." He walked to the threshold. "Is there anything else?" he asked, turning away.
"No," she managed to reply. "And…good night," she added.
"Good night," he echoed.
Although he had not caught it, Lisa had smiled gently.
Țepeș was an unyielding and demanding taskmaster, Lisa realized after a few days.
She found the wonder she had initially been struck with become tempered by the enormity of the ambitious goal she had set for herself.
She had no complaints, however. She relished the challenge. If she ever felt her determination flagging, she simply imagined the pleasure of surprising Țepeș, of surpassing his expectations. He was still trying to gauge how quickly she learned and how much she could undertake.
On the first morning after her arrival, she had found a note slipped beneath her door. The succinct message informed her she would find food in the kitchen. He expected her to meet him in the laboratory for their first lesson at sundown.
She had ventured downstairs, unsure as to where to find this elusive kitchen he wrote of, disoriented by the many twists and turns of the castle.
"I need a spool of thread like Theseus, just to make my way around here," she huffed upon walking into a second dead-end.
She could find no servants, no other inhabitants whatsoever in the castle. The dining room from the previous night she managed to find by retracing her steps— but it sat empty: the long formal table sat bare, devoid of any trace of their presence the previous night—not even ash littered the hearth.
She didn't find the kitchen until much later— early in the afternoon. She expected to find some sign of activity—but all she discovered was another gloomy room: stony and cold and much older and unkempt than any of the other rooms she had glimpsed. The large fireplace loomed over the room undisturbed—an empty pot enmeshed in dusty cobwebs dejectedly tipped on its side at its center.
I suppose there must be another kitchen, she concluded. But the food Țepeș had promised her was there: a hearty loaf of bread, a tray of smoked meats, and some freshly picked berries. A goblet of mead sat before the serving plate. She fell upon the repast hungrily—the meals she had enjoyed there so far were more satisfying than any of the ones she had managed to scrape over the course of…a very long time.
Some of the doors she came across would not budge open and she wondered what mysteries hid behind them. She was glad to find the laboratory open—but, to her disappointment, none of the devices were operational. The cage of lightning stood abandoned, a stark tangle of metal and mesh. All the alembics had been cleared away and the apothecary's counter was laid bare.
She wandered to one of the many bookshelves in the room and perused the titles. Her fingers brushed over the spines of books bound in soft, weathered leather. Some titles she could not make out: they had been written in alphabets she recognized but could not read: Arabic and Hebrew. There were others, too, that swooped and curled gracefully or crossed in brisk, sharp strokes. Most, fortunately, were in Latin or Greek.
A lifetime and more, she thought. It's how long she would need to read all those books.
She stood before one of the shelves, her arms akimbo.
Well, then: I better get started.
But where to begin?
She predicted Țepeș would probably indicate which texts she should begin with, so she avoided titles that alluded to any scientific enterprises: no studies, no treatises, and nothing whatsoever containing the word "medica." She talked herself into dutifully shelving Avicenna's Canon, a hefty and beautifully illuminated manuscript. She consoled herself with the realization that it was likely she would consulting it regularly. She skipped the hagiographies, of which she was surprised to see several—in fact, Țepeș' library featured a large amount of religious texts. She found that peculiar.
Rustichello da Pisa—she recognized the name as if whispered to her from long ago. Il Milione-The Travels of Marco Polo: it was perfect, she thought, wresting it from its tight fit on the shelf.
I know someone who might benefit from reading this.
She imagined it might yet instill a certain wanderlust, a desire to explore the world from beyond the confines of a book's pages in her reclusive teacher. She cradled the tome in her arms along with a respectable history of Byzantium and a volume of traditional folktales. Perhaps, she thought with amusement, there will be something here about Țepeș and his castle.
Lisa could have whiled the rest of the day there, but the room was too cold. Although the lights in the laboratory glowed more warmly than the white ones emanating from the overhead fixtures in the main hall, they lacked the warmth of candles. The fireplace lay undisturbed and no wood or kindling had been stacked within sight. She chose instead to carry her pile of books up to her room.
The history of Byzantium had been yawn-inducing. Lisa flipped through the pages, unimpressed.
Too many dates and names.
Her eyelids grew heavier when she attempted to read the Rustichello book, her eyes skipping to the beginning of the page again and again as she curled cozily over her bed. She valiantly switched to the folktales, but had barely managed to crack the cover when she surrendered to sleep.
Lisa's cheek was still pressed over the first page of the book when she was abruptly jolted out of her slumber by a knock to the door. She raised her head, squinting in the direction of the disruptive knock.
"Yes?" she uttered sleepily.
"Lisa from Lupu, you are late for your first lesson—the lesson you braved coming here for and bargained for so dearly," he noted sarcastically. "Am I to believe you have had a change of heart and I am released from our agreement?"
She bolted out of the bed. Outside, night had fallen.
"I apologize—I will be down immediately."
She tossed her messy braid over her shoulder and searched the room hurriedly for her discarded cloak, finding it pooled on the floor between the windows and the bed. She draped it around herself carelessly and then wasted a few precious seconds teetering between rushing out and returning the books.
I'll return the history. I'll swap it for something else.
How sad, she scolded herself. I am assuming that after tonight, I will not be free to read for leisure for a while. I wasted precious time. She scooped up the tome. On an impulse, she also reached for the Rustichello.
Țepeș waited for her at the door, his large frame practically blocking her passage out.
"I hope this will be a one-time occurrence." He eyed her with cool disapproval.
He could not convey to her how disappointed he'd been to arise after the long day and find she was nowhere she should have been. He had suffered a restless sleep, all in anticipation of meeting her again, engaging with her.
"I hope so as well," was her insolent reply.
He walked ahead, but listened for her footsteps catching up to him.
"Did you spend a pleasant day?"
"Yes." She fell into step beside him.
"What did you do?"
They began to descend the staircase toward the main hall.
"Let me see…I spent the first part of the day involuntarily exploring your castle."
"Involuntarily?" he peered down at her. A stack of books was lodged between her arms, he noticed.
"Yes—involuntarily. All I really wanted was to find the kitchen."
"Ah."
"I found it, by the way. Thank you for the food and drink."
He tipped his head forward, politely.
"And then?"
"Then I found my way to the laboratory. It was still too early, so I choose a few titles to pass the time until we met again."
Her revelation gave him pleasure: perhaps she had anticipated their meeting, too.
"I see. And what did you choose?"
"A very dry tome on the history of Byzantium—really, it is merely a catalogue of dates and names."
"And what else?" he encouraged her.
"A collection of folktales…And I also chose a title for you!"
He turned to face her, his cloak swishing softly.
"For me? You are giving me a book I already own?" he teased.
"There is an old saying that states that it is not the gift, but the intention of the giver that matters," she countered.
"And what is this book?"
She plucked it off the top of her pile and handed it to him. He read the title and arched an eyebrow.
"For inspiration." She stared at the leather cover, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Someday you might be penning your own account of travels to faraway lands."
He smirked. "Do you know why it is called Il Milione—The Million? It is in honor of the million lies Polo tells. In that case, I wouldn't have to leave my domain at all."
"Perhaps you are right," she conceded. Many of the tales were farfetched, difficult to accept as the complete truth. If not outrightly lying, she would argue Polo and Rustichello had greatly embellished the truth. "But I always thought the title was a veiled reference to the Polo family's use of the surname "Emilione" to distinguish their clan from the other Polos in Venice," she argued.
The smirk eased into a smile. No, she would not presume the worst of others, would she?
"You 'always thought'? And how does a girl of peasant stock become so well-read, Lisa from Lupu, to 'always think' such thoughts?" he asked, simultaneously provoking and admiring her.
"My father was a smith—and a widower. As a girl, I was barred from learning the family trade. I was sent off to a convent to work."
"Ah. And how is it that despite being sent to a nunnery, you emerge as a doctor and not an ordained sister?" he puzzled.
She grinned.
"I didn't become a healer until much later, but you could say the sisters initiated me." She paused. "They taught me the forbidden arts," she revealed in a whisper.
"Is that so?" his eyes narrowed.
"Yes: reading, writing, Latin and Greek, some arithmetic…"
"Corrupted your very soul." He raised his eyebrows.
"Ruined me for marriage, at least; that is certain."
"Marriage to a simpleton, perhaps," he remarked slyly. "Not to a thinking man."
That alluring flush he had provoked in her before surfaced over her once more.
There. He took pleasure in flustering her.
"A thinking man," she mused, quickly recovering. "I have heard of those…Ah, yes! In the book of folklore," she retaliated.
At that, he conceded defeat and laughed heartily.