by S. A. Swann
What have I done?
The confusion and fear in her parents’ eyes confused and frightened her. Worse was the sudden unfocused guilt that consumed her.
For the first time in years, she was too keenly aware of the fact that she was a bastard child. Her father’s blood ran in her veins, but not his wife’s. Did Hanna hate her for that?
Maria followed them to the doorway, and every labored breath her father took made her shudder and left her feeling as weak as if she were the one who couldn’t breathe.
She stood in the doorway, suddenly a stranger in her own house.
Hanna and Maria’s older brother, Władysław, eased her father back into his bed; the covers were still thrust aside, as if he had sprung from his sickbed in a delirium. Her two younger brothers stepped back. The youngest, Wojciech, cried silently, while Piotr, her middle brother, held his shoulders.
Near where Maria hung back, next to the doorway, a young man tried uncomfortably to stay out of the way. Maria recognized the curly hair and the patches of stubble on his chin that had yet to make a beard. He was one of the younger sons from a neighboring farm, and he held his hat in his hand, crushing the brim in his nervousness.
“Shall I fetch a doctor—” he began.
Maria’s stepmother didn’t even glance at the boy. “And a priest. Move!”
The boy ran for the door before Maria could collect herself to remember his name. As he shoved his way by her he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how he’d react.”
He didn’t even look back to see Maria’s bewildered expression as he untied his horse and mounted to gallop the two miles back to Gròd Narew.
“Maria,” her stepmother called, “fetch your father some water.”
“Yes!” She scrambled to bring it. Her father had stopped struggling and lay still on the bed. When Maria reached his side, his eyes showed no rage or fear, only resignation. Something made her look to her stepmother for approval before raising the cup to her father’s lips. Maria couldn’t help thinking that her stepmother’s approving nod was tentative, as if some unforgiven transgression still weighed against her bastard stepdaughter.
Her father took only a few sips, then shook his head. Maria removed the cup, and he looked up at her. As she bent over him, the cross fell free of her chemise and dangled down from her neck.
He stared at it, then up at her. Then he reached with an unsteady hand and pressed it back up, against her chest.
“I didn’t take it off, Papa.”
He nodded as if he finally believed her, and let his hand fall to his side. “Karl,” Maria’s stepmother said. “Hang on. We’ve sent for the doctor.”
He looked up at his wife and very slightly shook his head: no.
“It’s not time. Please, it’s not your time.”
He took his wife’s hand and sucked in a ragged breath. “Keep her safe.”
In the end, it was the priest they needed, not the doctor.
V
For Maria, the next few days passed in a haze. Even though the months of illness should have prepared her for it, she had somehow never expected her father to die. But worse than the loss, which was a sucking wound in her soul, was the sense that somehow it was her fault. For some reason she had prompted his last fatal exertion, and she didn’t know why.
Now every look from her stepmother or her brothers seemed to carry a cold accusation. Several times after her father was buried she had been tempted to ask if they blamed her, if this was truly her fault, but each time the fear had stopped her. What would she do if they confirmed it? What could she do?
What if the only reason she could still live in her home was because she eased the burden on the farm by serving in Gròd Narew? It was an unbearable thought that, with his death, she had somehow unknowingly pushed the rest of her family away as well.
So she avoided the question by waking early and doing her few chores on the farm before anyone else was up. A happy side effect was that she arrived at Gròd Narew before dawn, and before Lukasz and his fellow stable hands were out with the horses.
And, while two more Germans died over the next three days, her German, Josef, hung on to his life. At first, returning to care for him after her father’s death, she’d resented his survival. Why did he still live while her father had died?
The flash of irrational fury at him was frightening in its intensity. The shame and horror it left in its wake proved much more persistent. Paradoxically, in the days before he regained consciousness, she treated him much more tenderly—knowing that, had she the means, she could have easily killed him for the sin of surviving her father.
On the fourth day of caring for him, while she washed his chest with cold water to help temper his fever, he spoke to her.
“Who are you?” he said, blinking against the evening light.
She froze. Again, the act of his speech fundamentally changed the nature of what she had been doing. Moments ago, she had been cooling the flesh of an invalid, and suddenly she was caressing a young man’s naked chest. This was no delirium, though; his eyes had opened and looked upon her with puzzlement and loss.
She stared deep into those eyes and felt, instinctively, that he somehow shared her grief. He had suffered a loss just as deep, and as—
“Who are you?” he repeated, shattering her reverie. She pulled her hands from his skin, silently chiding herself for feeling embarrassment. This was no different from caring for her invalid father.
It shouldn’t be any different.
But this man wasn’t her father.
“I am Maria.” She spoke slowly, her stepmother’s German uncomfortable in her mouth.
He blinked and stared at her as if she had spoken gibberish. Probably can’t understand my speech, she thought.
Then he looked away from her to glance about the room. “Where am I?”
“Gród Narew, under the protection of the Wojewoda Bolesław.”
“Bolesław?” he repeated. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “That is not a Prussian name.”
“You are in the Duchy of Masovia.”
He nodded, wincing as he started to sit up.
“Don’t. You’re badly injured.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down. His skin was warm but no longer feverish, and while he had broad shoulders and a warrior’s build, his wounds had left him little strength to resist her.
He stared up at her and muttered, “My brother knights?”
“They’re here,” she told him. “But you need to rest.”
He nodded, and in his eyes she saw the weight of his efforts. Fatigue drew on every muscle of his face.
“What happened to you?” she asked him.
But his eyes had already closed and sleep had claimed him before the question left her lips. She let her hands fall off his shoulders and stared down at his sleeping face. It had a different character now than when he’d been unconscious from his wounds and infection. His color was better, and there was a new sense of a person behind the sleeping mask.
“I prayed for you, Josef,” she whispered, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek. “Now I think God has seen fit to answer.”
Though he still slept, she heard him softly whisper, “Sarah …”
She pulled her hand away and took a step back, suddenly feeling an intruder on something very private.
I am only a servant here, she thought with a wash of shame, pulling the bedding quickly around him and leaving him to sleep.
Josef jerked awake, naked and drenched with sweat.
Where am I?
The disorientation crashed over him in heavy, suffocating waves. He gasped for breath, staring at the dark room around him. He tried to move and pain radiated from his gut, locking every muscle in his body.
His hands clenched into fists, but instead of digging into forest loam, they balled inside linens damp with his own sweat. His heart raced because his mind immediately latched onto the thought of burial shrouds, images of the dead and dying a
t Nürnberg …
I’m not in Nürnberg, or Prussia, he thought, as his mind forced some form of order on his thoughts. I’m in Masovia.
For several moments he didn’t remember why he knew that. But it helped calm his fears, even when the memories returned. The battle was over, and Brother Heinrich and his Wolfjägers had sought refuge in a Polish fortress.
Gród Narew, his mind volunteered, along with the dreamlike memory of the woman who had spoken to him.
His breathing and pulse calmed as the sense of nightmare receded, leaving him with the reality of a single sickbed in a narrow room with a long window open to the cool night air. And, as long as he stayed still, the wound in his belly proved only a dull ache.
He gave a short prayer of thanksgiving. Then he said ten Pater Nosters for the dead. He had seen enough to know that some of Heinrich’s convent hadn’t survived. When he was finished, he added one more prayer.
He prayed that they had killed the thing.
But long after his prayers had faded, he still lay upon a narrow bed in a dark room. He didn’t know how long sleep had claimed him, just that it had been long enough that it was loath to return. For hours he lay, alone and awake, and the emptiness of the dark room began to eat at him.
He had not slept alone since he had joined the Order. He hadn’t taken his final vows, but in all respects he was expected to live the life of a warrior monk of the Teutonic Knights of the Hospital of St. Mary in Jerusalem. That meant doing everything in common with his brothers, and sleeping with them in rooms that were always lit against the concealment of sin.
Why would they separate him from the others?
Perhaps God wanted to test his commitment to the Order. Or, perhaps, the lord of this place—the woman, Maria, had given him the aggressively Slavic name Wojewoda Bolesław, though he thought “Wojewoda” might be a title, not a name—perhaps Wojewoda Bolesław wished to prevent Heinrich’s men from congregating or conspiring. Relations between the Teutonic State in Prussia and the Poles had never run particularly smooth, swinging between suspicion and open war ever since the German Order had been invited in to subjugate the pagans in Prussia, a hundred and fifty years ago—invited by the then Duke of Masovia.
Ever since, the Poles had consistently tried to renege on the promises of land and support they had given for the suppression of the pagan threat on their border.
Josef rubbed his eyes. Whatever the intent was of either God or Wojewoda Bolesław, being alone in the dark with his thoughts and the ache of his wounds made him very uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than even being alone in a place that inspired a reaction somewhere between suspicion and hostility should warrant.
He was uncomfortable because of the woman.
The more he remembered, the more uneasy he became. Especially when he recalled her washing his chest. He thought of her face looking down at him, framed by raven hair, her eyes filled with such concern. He remembered the touch of her hands on his shoulders—a strength and gentleness that drew his soul unlike anything since he had abandoned his old home, his old life.
It wasn’t proper. Even before he had joined the Order, being alone with a woman like that …
Like what?
He was bound by the Order’s tenets. Obedience, poverty, chastity. Even if he was too injured to act on such thoughts, God still was testing him. Much like the brothers of the Order, who made a point of clearly showing the probationers all the duties and privations of the Order, always with the implicit question, “Do you really want this?”
No man joined the Order in ignorance. Every man who took the final vows knew what he sacrificed, of the world and of his own will. Of those who had entered with him, only a third remained, and perhaps only a quarter would end up taking final vows. Even now, Josef could say to his Komtur that he did not have the vocation, and he would walk free with the Order’s blessing.
It was a test. If he wished to serve God in the Order, he would serve Him in the world, not in a monastery. It would be the height of arrogance, and cowardice, if he tried to insist that he serve only where he was free of any temptation. How could he be a knight of the Order, how could he face the monstrosities Heinrich hunted, if he couldn’t face his own human impulses?
If he could resist a lupine demon tearing at his gut, he could resist the temptation of one young woman.
When Maria came in the following morning, she found Josef awake. He was tangled in the sheets, groaning, one arm thrust off the side of the bed. She dropped the bowl of porridge onto the stool by the door and ran to his side.
“Are you all right?” she said, grabbing his arm and trying to ease him back into bed. When she realized she hadn’t spoken his tongue, she repeated herself in the best German she could muster.
“Please, help,” he said. His cheeks burned red with fever, and she thought she might be seeing the end of him.
Panic stole most of the German she knew, but after a few stuttered syllables she spat out, “Doctor?” She didn’t even know why she was asking him. He was in obvious distress. Once he was back on the bed, she ran to the door so she could fetch help. She stopped only when he cried after her, “No!”
She turned around and saw him pointing to a small stand where a chamber pot sat. “I couldn’t reach,” he said.
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, her words slipping into Polish. She drew the stand and the chamber pot closer to the bed, then picked the pot up and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, and she realized that the flush on his cheeks was embarrassment, not fever.
“I’ll give you …” She fumbled to find the word for “privacy.” “I’ll be outside. Call me when you’re done.”
She stepped outside the door, shutting it just short of the latch catching. Then she breathed slowly, collecting her thoughts. Josef would recover; she was certain of it now. And she almost shuddered with relief.
He also insisted on eating without assistance, even though it appeared to tax his strength. In between spoonfuls, he asked again, “Where am I?”
She repeated that he was in the Duchy of Masovia, but he stopped her.
“No, you told me that. This room, where is it?”
“Oh. These are normally quarters for the stable hands.”
He glanced at the window. “That explains the smell of horses.” He took another spoonful of porridge. “Doesn’t the Wojewoda Bolesław keep rooms for guests? Surely, this close to his borders, the Duke Siemowit III will often send troops to be quartered.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or perhaps such troops are already here?”
Maria looked at him and decided no good could come from directly answering that question. “The lord of the house decided that it would be more appropriate to house his honored guests in their own rooms.”
“I wonder if the word ‘honored’ in your language translates into ‘troublesome.’”
She smiled and said, “You’ve not been particularly troublesome to me.” The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them.
He set down his bowl. “And who are you, Maria—one of the ladies of Wojewoda Bolesław’s household?”
She was suddenly reminded that this wasn’t some peasant she was talking to. Josef was a member of a holy order of knights. They were separated not only by vows, but by station. She couldn’t speak to him as if he were the stable hand who normally quartered here—though she felt a sudden surge of loss at the thought. “Sir, I am only a servant. I labor for the Wojewoda Bolesław on behalf of my family.”
He must have noticed the sudden sadness in her face, because he responded, “No shame in that.”
“If I implied otherwise, sir, I misspoke.” She stepped over to take the empty bowl, clamping down on her traitorous emotions, and said, “If there is nothing else you require, I have other duties to attend to.”
“Just leave an empty pot within reach,” he said, smiling weakly. “I feel I need rest more than anything else.”
She placed a clean chamber pot nea
rby, and a bell should he find himself in distress before she returned with supper. Then she withdrew as quickly as she dared.
VI
She felt uncomfortable returning to him. When he’d been an unconscious invalid, she’d had no thoughts about their relative status. He had just been a wounded man she had been giving aid to. Even if she had stared at his sleeping profile, or been too aware of his warrior’s build as she ran a damp rag across his chest, his arms, or his legs—
In the end, it only had been herself. The focus of her idle attention could have just as easily been a statue, a painting, or a particularly well-crafted piece of furniture.
But Josef was awake now, and she could no longer pretend that her thoughts concerned only herself. This was a real person she had been lavishing her attention upon. A person who would normally never have cause to speak more than a dozen words to her.
Worst of all, a wakeful Josef did nothing to discourage her wayward thoughts. If anything, his quiet endurance of his pain and the gentle tone he took with her—despite their difference in station—made her all the more aware of what her idle musings implied. It made them more explicit, and all the more impossible.
But it was still her duty, and she couldn’t abandon it now. Though to be truly honest, she wondered if she continued because she didn’t have the position to refuse any duty she was given or because she didn’t have the heart to.
She finally told herself that she tended to Josef because the last thing she would want to do was displease her masters at Gród Narew. Her service here provided her with a refuge from the guilt that had shrouded her home since her father’s death. If Gród Narew cast her out, she didn’t think she could bear living in that house and facing her family’s unspoken blame.
So she did her best to bring him his meals and check his wounds without saying anything too familiar.